The House of Elendil [LOTR/Game of Thrones Crossover]

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI (Part 1)
Chapter XVI (Part 2)

Appendix


Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien.
Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!

Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come
In this place I will abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world
-Elendil, Lord of the Numenorean Realm-in-Exile of Gondor, 30 A.L.

Chapter I
King's Landing
The hall of the Red Keep of King's Landing was filled with the heavy scent of burning incense as the Silent Sisters prepared the body of Jon Arryn for his state burial. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, the man who had raised King Robert Baratheon from childhood, the man who had started Robert's Rebellion and fought with courage and skill. The King's closest friend and chief advisor. All that, all laid low by a fever.

'The world is cruel sometimes', thought King Robert, looking over the burial preparations from a balcony above the hall. He was not a good King, he knew that himself. He needed a good Hand to keep the Kingdom running, for Robert knew he was a warrior, not a statesman. Robert took a long drink from his almost ever-present goblet of wine.

"A great tragedy, Your Grace. I understand that Lord Arryn was close to you" said a smooth, diplomatic voice from behind Robert. The King glanced over his shoulder to see Lord Varys, his Master of Whisperers, approaching.

"How is it that you do that?" the King asked, and took another sip of wine.

"Do what, Your Grace?" replied Varys.

"Walk around without making a single noise at all" said Robert.

"It is a talent I have honed, Your Grace, and a rather useful one considering my... position on your Council" Varys said.

"Aye, I suppose it would be that." Robert paused as he stared down hard at the body of Jon Arryn.

"I couldn't spare him, Varys, anymore than I could spare a million gold dragons or ten thousand knights or my own left nut. I will need a new Hand now, and who can I trust?" he said at last. The King rubbed his brow, closing his eyes hard. Maybe it was just the headache that the smell of burning incense gave him, but he was beginning to wish that he had never taken the bloody Throne in the first place.

"I believe Your Grace already knows the answer to that question" Varys replied in his smooth, soft voice.

"You would be right. Lord Eddard Stark. Ned, my old friend. A good man, an honourable man, if a little severe. He was a good comrade" the King said, smiling a little at the memory of his old friend from the North.

"Yes, no man could doubt Lord Stark's courage or loyalty but, if I might speak plainly Your Grace, I wonder: Would he be a good Hand?" said Varys

"Oh? And who can I trust that would be a better one?" Again, there was a long pause between the two. Robert glanced up from Jon Arryn's body towards Lord Varys. It looked as if the Master of Whisperers was very carefully considering his next words. All was silence, except for a quiet conversation going on across the hall. Robert looked and saw that it was his Queen talking to her twin brother. 'Those two always seem to be around each other, isn't Jaime Lannister supposed to be the Kingsguard, not the Queen's?' Robert mused to himself.

"Your Grace, what do you know of the Dunedain?" Varys said at last. Robert gave a start at Varys' words, almost spitting up his mouthful of wine.

"The Dunedain!? The Numenoreans!? Those self-righteous High Men?" Robert said, scorn in his tone.

"Yes, Your Grace, the Numenoreans. What do you know of them?" replied Varys.

"Only what everybody knows: They're all wise and strong and honourable, taller than anybody, can build anything, outfight anyone, see into the minds of lesser men. Masters of horses, unrivaled archers, and great sailors too, and apparently they live for-bloody-ever. Do you know that the Lord Elendil that landed here during the rule of Aegon the Conqueror is still alive and still ruling his people? There's something unnatural about that!" Robert spat, beginning to rave, before calming himself with another sip of wine. His sentiments were not rare in the Seven Kingdoms, many felt inferior to the Dunedain, many felt threatened. Maybe the whole Kingdom did.

"Some would say so, yes. Your Grace, have you ever visited Annúminas?" Varys asked.

"I've heard of it. 'The White City of Elendil', 'The Jewel of the North', blah blah blah. Full of naught but Numenoreans, jabbering on in that 'Queenya' of theirs, basking in how great they all are. I hear they don't even have brothels in Annúminas, what sort of city doesn't have brothels!?" snapped the King.

"Your Grace, if I may be so bold to ask: What do you think of the Numenoreans? Really?" asked the Master of Whisperers.

"I think they're a bunch of self-righteous twats who think they're better than us, just because they're all seven feet tall and nearly immortal. They don't worship our Gods, and they don't speak our language unless they're speaking to us. No, they've got their own flowery little language. And that accent of theirs, ugh, always makes it sound like they're talking down to us," said King Robert bitterly. Varys nodded in understanding.

"Wholly understandable objections, Your Grace, but are they not the best of allies? Is there not a reason Elendil is called 'Kingmaker'?"

"Oh aye, they're fierce as direwolves in battle, on land or on the sea. Let me tell you something, Varys: These Numenoreans like to act like they're the noblest men in all the world, but if you wrong them, they cast all that nobility aside and they come after you like an angry bear. Just look at what they did to the Greyjoys" King Robert said with a rueful shake of his head.

"Yes, a very unfortunate business that was, Your Grace, though it must be said that Elendil served your purposes in that war" Varys replied

"Maybe, I still think the White Fleet only sailed because Elendil had been wronged, not because the Greyjoys were rebels. And that wasn't war, that was an extermination" said Robert.

"Perhaps. Your Grace, if I may be so bold, I would suggest that you visit Annuminas in the wake of Lord Arryn's tragic passing"

"Visit the White City? For what, Varys? To make Elendil Kingmaker my Hand? I will not." Robert said, with a tone of finality. He drained his goblet, and then thrust it towards his page Lancel Lannister, who stood to the side of King Robert and Lord Varys. Immediately, the nervous golden-haired young Lannister quickly refilled the goblet with dark red wine for his King.

"Elendil the Tall, Elendil the Longlived, Elendil the Faithful, Elendil Kingmaker. Elendil, Elendil, Elendil! Ever since I was a boy I've heard that name, heard the stories told about him. We all did, stories about their wisdom and great feats of arms. By the Gods I am sick to death of hearing about fucking Elendil and his fucking Numenoreans!" King Robert swore, and then took another deep drink of wine.

"Your Grace, perhaps there is one Numenorean that would be acceptable to you" Lord Varys said silkily.

"Eh? And who would that be, my Master of Whisperers?"

"Isildur Elendilion"

Shafts of golden light streamed through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep, while King Robert regarded the harsh grey Iron Throne that had become the scourge of his life since he had been crowned King. 'Isildur as Hand of the King? Now there is an idea,' Robert thought. He remembered Isildur at the Battle of the Trident, cutting through the Dornish ranks like a scythe through a field of wheat. There was some strange power in Isildur, for no matter how badly a battle went, wherever the tall Numenorean lord stood, no foe could withstand him, and the hearts of his allies were gladdened wherever he went, and his enemies quailed and fled before him. And of all the lords that came to join Robert's Rebellion, Isildur was one of the most wise and clever of all of them. He could've been King if he had wanted to be.

"Of all the Numenoreans, he's the only one who seems a normal man like the rest of us. He's the only one I like. And he fought for me, alone of all his kin. Aye, Lord Varys, he could be a great Hand. But, still, I want my friend Ned by my side. We were meant to rule together, Ned and I" said the King.

"Perhaps there is a way, Your Grace, to have both Lord Isildur and Lord Stark by your side. The other night, Your Grace, you mentioned something" Varys began, but was cut off.

"The other night I was drunk, Lord Varys" King Robert said with a chuckle.

"Yes, quite, Your Grace, but your words were still wise. You said that the Kingdoms' great weakness was that every great house has its own army, that there is no Royal Army for you to call upon, only your own Baratheon bannermen. If I may be so bold as to propose something, Your Grace: You could create a Royal Army, and bring Lord Stark here to train it and command it, as the Marshal of your Army." Lord Varys continued. Suddenly, the idea that had been hatched in drunken revelry seemed plausible, even desirable. Despite himself, King Robert smiled and clapped Varys on the back.

"I can see why the Mad King kept you around, Varys" King Robert laughed. "Aye, a noble proposal. And I will see it done! Isildur shall be my Hand and Eddard my Marshal. Send ravens with messages to Winterfell and Annúminas. I shall ride north!" the King finished, and then he drained his goblet once more and tossed it to Lancel, who clumsily caught it and almost dropped it.

The fat King strode off down the corridors, and Varys watched him go with a calm, complacent look on his face. The eunuch looked down again to the hall, where the Silent Sisters have finished the last rites, and an honour guard of Goldcloaks was bearing Jon Arryn to the carriage that would take him on his final journey, back to the Vale that was his home, to be buried in the land that give him birth. Varys spotted the Queen and the Kingslayer, still talking in low tones on the opposite side of the hall. 'There is something about those two Lannisters', Varys thought, 'I shall have to have my little birds take a little peek at them'

"Ah, all for the Realm" Varys sighed softly to himself, and then turned and walked away noiselessly.

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The lands of the North were bleak and grey, but they had a certain rugged beauty to them. Or so thought Tyrion Lannister as he rode along the Kingsroad, part of the vast entourage of the King. The land was rough and hardy, much like its native people, and trees were few and far between as the long line of mounted men wound its way down the Road. The whole land seemed stony and hard and cold, as icy winds blew down from the blue peaks of the mountains to the north of the Road. Yet, despite all that, Tyrion found himself compelled by the landscape. All of the southern lands of Westeros had been conquered and cultivated by men, and were dotted with farms and towns and bridges and the myriad other little additions of civilization, so that true wilderness was a rarity south of the Neck. However, here in the North, Tyrion truly felt that he was in a wild and untamed land.

Despite that, however, the Kingsroad here was not the mere dirt track that it was in most parts of the North, for the Road had been remade with the art of the Numenoreans, and it was broad, paved with rectangular slabs of the North's native stone, and marked with milestones along the side. There was a regular stream of travellers along with the King's company on the Road, Andals mostly, merchants and farmers on their way from or to Annúminas. Of all the travelling groups on the Road that day, the Royal Procession was the largest. At the front of the column were the heralds, bearing fluttering standards with the crowned stag sigil of House Baratheon, and behind that was the golden lion on red of House Lannister, Tyrion's own House, but more importantly the House of Cersei Lannister, the Queen and Tyrion's sister. All about the column were mounted men-at-arms in Lannister red or Baratheon yellow, but around the King himself rode men in white, the famed Kingsguard. One of the Kingsguards rode beside Tyrion.

"I continue to be marveled by the ingenuity of these Dunedain," said Tyrion to Jaime Lannister, his brother, the Kingsguard and the Kingslayer.

"Is that so?" said Jaime.

"Quite so. Aegon the Conqueror gave them the bleakest, most barren land in the Kingdoms, and out of it they carve great cities and roads better than anything else in Westeros. It really is quite remarkable" Tyrion replied.

"It's a road" Jaime stated, unimpressed by the workmanship.

"It's an incredible road, especially for so far north. Inns placed almost exactly a day's journey apart from each other, markers for every mile, maps and itineraries at the major junctions, even service stations to repair carts, carriages or replace horseshoes. Why, you remember yesterday, when our sister's carriage broke a wheel and there was a wheelwright's station not too far away to repair it. And their relay posts for mounted messengers is really quite a sensible idea. I tell you, if we let the Numenoreans redo the whole Kingsroad, travel in the Kingdoms would be quite easier" explained the Dwarf.

"I suppose you're right. Though, you know what I have noticed" said Jaime.

"And what would that be? That all the people working at those inns and service stations and relay stables are all Westerosi and we haven't seen a single Numenorean since we crossed the border into the Realm-in-Exile two days ago?" said Tyrion

"Indeed, it is rather strange as we are in the Numenorean Realm"

"Many Westerosi live under the lordship of the Dunedain. As for the Dunedain themselves, I hear they prefer to live in their many towns and cities by the coast. They are very attached to the sea, the Numenoreans are. We are inland right now, thus we see mostly the Northerners who dwelt here before the Dunedain came across the sea." said Tyrion, retrieving a skin of wine from his saddlebag and taking a drink before offering some to his brother, who declined. They were near to Annúminas now

"Tall ships and tall lords, three times three
What brought they from the foundered land, over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones, and one white tree" Tyrion said softly to himself as the column began to ride up the final hill of their journey.

"What was that?" Jaime asked with a raised eyebrow, however Tyrion did not answer him, for at that moment did they come to the crest of the hill and their breath was taken away.

Before them lay Annúminas, the White City of Elendil and the gleaming Jewel of the North. Constructed all of white stone, it seemed to glisten like a pearl in the noonday sun. The townlands that surrounded the city were rich, even so far north, and they were well-irrigated from canals that led to the River Evendim, and the fields were tilled and there were many orchards rich with fruit. The fields were golden with wheat, and there were many herds of cattle. From their vantage point on the hill, they could see the Haven of Annúminas, with its great wharfs and shipyards, where countless ships were harboured, the famed White Fleet of the Dunedain. They saw dromunds and mighty galleys of many oars with swan or eagle figureheads, and amongst the sleek warships were merchantmen of great draught, bearing the trade wealth of the Seven Kingdoms into the greatest port of the North.

It was the city itself though, that caught and kept Tyrion's eyes. For such was the nature of Annúminas that it had been carved into a hill, so that the city's centre was raised above its edges, and all was constructed of the same white stone. The King's column rode through the farmlands and approached the mighty Gates of Dawn, wrought all of steel, which stood where the Kingsroad entered the city from the east. Tyrion now gazed upon one of the city's famous features: The Walls of Anarion. A great layer of fortifications that surrounded the city in a mighty circuit running from the shores of the sea to the west and the banks of the swift Evendim to the north. Around it all was a deep moat, fed by the waters of the sea, and at the Gate it was crossed by a strong stone causeway. The Outer Wall was of great height and thickness, rising over thirty feet, and it was black and smooth and hard, built by the art and power of the Numenoreans, and it was dotted with many strong towers, and the banners of the Dunedain fluttered in the wind atop the wall, and there was the glitter of arms and armour atop the battlements. The Gates of Dawn were guarded by a strong gatehouse at the end of the causeway across the moat, and the shod hooves of the King's procession echoed in the tunnel as the huge steel gates opened, and King Robert Baratheon entered his city.

They passed through a courtyard between the two walls, and then came to the second of the Gates of Dawn, set in the Inner Wall, which rose even taller than the Outer Wall, so that an archer on the Inner Wall could fire at foes who assailed the Outer Wall. And then, as they emerged from the darkness of the gatehouse into the sunlight, they were met with the blowing of trumpets and the cheering of thousands of voices. The main street of the city was lined with cheering men and women and children, and they bowed as the King himself passed them by. No longer was the procession surrounded by fellow Westerosi, now did Tyrion truly see Numenoreans for the first time. Tall, they were, even the women were over six feet and most of the men seven feet or more, with dark hair and grey eyes, and their voices were fair as they cheered and sang aloud at the coming of their King. Soldiers of the Realm-in-Exile lined the streets as well, and they had tall helms adorned with the wings of seabirds, and they carried long spears with kite shields and wore mail of black steel rings. On each soldier's chest was a surcoat of black, with a white tree sigil, and above the tree were seven silver stars.

It felt to Tyrion that he was trying to look everywhere at once, but it seemed as if Annúminas was too full of wonder to be real. The mansions were tall and stately, and even the smallest and meanest of houses in the city seemed homely and fair. Songs were sung by the joyous people, and music was played. At one corner, two young girls even ran up and gave flowers to King Robert, who was taken off-guard by the gesture, but seemed touched despite the fact. As they rode further into the centre of the city, the buildings grew grander and even more beautiful, and even Jaime looked impressed as they approached the Walls of Isildur, which ran through the centre of the city and rose even higher than the Walls of Anarion. For Annúminas was not just a fair city, but also a strong citadel, and it seemed unlikely to Tyrion that any foe of the Dunedain could seize it by force of arms if any remained within to defend the Walls.

At long last did they come to the Citadel of the House Elendil, at the very top of the City's hill, where the Tower of Elendil stood, tall and shapely like a spike of silver and pearl above the White City. At the gate, they dismounted, for no horses were allowed within the Citadel, and the Gates were guarded by men in the sombre, proud garb of the Guards of the Citadel. Passing beneath the shadow of the Citadel Gate, King Robert and his entourage came at length to a courtyard at the foot of the Tower, and in its centre was a fountain, beside which stood a white tree in full blossom, healthy and beautiful. All around the courtyard were the Citadel Guards, and they were on their knees before the King.

Standing before the fountain were three men, clad in finery of black and silver. The man in the centre was the tallest that Tyrion had ever seen, and though he had an ageless look about him, the glint in his grey eyes reflected his ancient age and wisdom. As King Robert came to stand before them, the three dropped down to their knees and bowed their heads before the King of the Eight Kingdoms.

"Rise" King Robert said, gesturing upwards with his hand, and Elendil, Lord of the Realm-in-Exile, stood up, nearly two full feet taller than his King. Elendil the Tall was a powerfully built man, with broad shoulders and a short dark beard flecked with grey to match the long hair upon his head.

"Welcome, Your Grace, to Annúminas. The Dunedain greet you, and Iluvatar smiles upon your visit. We were surprised to receive your raven from King's Landing, as no King has come to visit our fair City since the days of Tar-Aegon" Elendil said, his voice deep.

"It is my pleasure and honour then to be the first King to visit your magnificent city, Elendil" Robert said. 'Unusually diplomatic for him. Perhaps he's been practicing' thought Tyrion as he watched Robert extend a hand towards Elendil. However, Elendil did not shake Robert's hand in the Andal fashion, instead he clasped the King's forearm in the traditional Numenorean greeting, bowing his head as he did so.

King Robert turned to the left of Elendil, and was greeted by Anarion, shorter than his father and fairer-haired, with a pleasant, wise face, and he clasped forearms with him in the same fashion as he had with Elendil. He then turned right and was greeted by a very old friend.

"Isildur, my old friend you... look the same as always" Robert said with a chuckle as he looked up at the tall Dunedan. Isildur, who had the dark hair of his father and was almost as tall, broke out in a smile and embraced Robert. Tyrion had to bite back a chuckle at the amusing spectacle of Robert Baratheon, King of the Eight Kingdoms, embracing a man like Isildur, who was so tall that Robert's head only came up to Isildur's chest.

"And you, my friend, have gotten fat in your old age" Isildur responded.

"Fat? Is that how you speak to your King!?" Robert said with sudden seriousness and intensity, and all was quiet and tense in the courtyard for a moment. Then the tenseness was broken as the King and the Lord of Minas Ithil broke out in peals of laughter, Isildur's great booming laugh echoing about the courtyard.

"Come, Your Grace, you must be weary. There shall be a feast and you shall join us in great merriment tonight, to celebrate your visit." Elendil said, as the three Lords of the Dunedain turned and walked towards the door of the Citadel, King Robert and his court following, and Tyrion Lannister feeling smaller than usual amongst the tall Numenoreans.

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Everything the Dunedain built was magnificent, Tyrion realized as he sat at the head table in the feasting hall of the Citadel of Annúminas. The hall was no exception, with a high domed ceiling, great black stone pillars and stained glass windows depicting images from the history of Westeros and Numenor.

The 'great merriment' Elendil had spoken of, on the other hand, had no materialized. Though the Dunedain seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, the feast seemed, so far, a very low-key affair. The wine was excellent, Tyrion admitted, but it was served by sombre footmen in black tunics, not by saucy wenches with full bosoms, as he was used too. The food too was exquisite, though they had not yet come to the main course of the feast yet.

"What this feast is lacking is entertainment" Tyrion said aloud after a sip of wine.

"My Lord Tyrion, you do not enjoy song?" said the Numenorean lord who sat to Tyrion's left. He struggled for a moment to put a name to the face, but finally recalled it from the numerous introductions earlier in the evening: Meneldil, eldest son of Anarion, who shared his father's fair hair and kindly features.

"No, Lord Meneldil, I rather enjoy song, but I like a song with a tune you can whistle too, something a bit... happier than this. This is very beautiful, but it sounds like a funeral lament. And I would prefer a song in a language I can understand" Tyrion replied.

"Alas, I understand your complaint, for all our songs have been sad since the fall of our homeland, and all of them are in the tongue of Elves, we do not make songs in the tongue of the Andals, and the effect and rhythm of this song would be lost if we sung it in your tongue" Meneldil answered.

"What is the song about, if you would be kind enough to translate the tale?" Tyrion asked.

"It would be my pleasure. The minstrel sings of Luthien Tinuviel, an immortal Elf-maiden, and how she fell in love with-"

"Beren, a mortal man" Tyrion said softly, cutting off Meneldil. The Dunedan was confused for a moment, before he broke out in a wide smile.

"It appears we have a scholar of the old lore amongst us!" Meneldil laughed, and Tyrion smiled at him.

"I have read what little I could find that had been translated from your language. Alas, the history of the Dunedain is a rather niche field of knowledge in the south" Tyrion replied.

"Ah, then if you are interested, I shall have my personal copyists translate several volumes of our history into your tongue, to be mailed to you for your own study" said Meneldil with a smile. Tyrion was flabbergasted: No scholar in all of the Kingdoms outside of the Realm-in-Exile had ever had a chance to study the whole history of the Numenoreans.

"I am... honoured, my Lord Meneldil" he said, to which the kindly Dunadan only smiled.

"Ah, the main course, you shall want to watch this" Meneldil said then, as the doors at the end of the hall were flung open with a chorus of trumpets.

Split between two poles, and carried by six straining men, came a whole roast ox, steaming and hot from the fires, and the six men laid it upon a flat board in the wide, open space in the centre of the hall, where all the guests could see it. One of the men who had born the ox into the hall unsheathed a sword from his side, and a murmur ran through the crowd of guests, as King Robert watched the man closely. With a flourish, the servant slashed into the ox and split it's belly open. Sausages spilled out like entrails, and there were many hot, steaming onions and herbs stuffed in the animal as well. Two men then rushed to the split belly and pulled out a whole sheep, roasted inside the ox. With another swing of the sword, this sheep's own belly was split, and the servants pulled out a roasted pig. The swordsman turned to the guests with a knowing wink and a sigh of mock exasperation, and then swung his blade again, and out of the pig came a cooked kid goat and many baked apples stuffing the empty spaces around it. Again and again the sword swung, and out of each animal came a smaller one, a fat goose, a chicken, and finally a partridge.

Then when the whole mouth-watering meal was laid out, the six servants sprang to work with knives, and soon every single guest was tucking into a favoured joint or slice from a favoured animal. There was fresh, warm bread and heaps of vegetables, fruit both fresh and dried, roasted fish, and the wine flowed from fountains. The musicians, at a word from Meneldil, launched into a merry tune and soon the hall was filled with laughter and the sounds of merry-making.

It was that night that Tyrion Lannister realized that, like everything else in the Numenorean Realm, their hospitality was magnificent.
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The white stone of Annúminas almost seemed to gleam dully in the pale light of moon and stars as Isildur stood, overlooking his father's city from a balcony of the Tower. The skies were clear, and the stars shone brightly in the darkness alongside a slender crescent moon to match Isildur's own heraldry. A cool breeze was blowing in from the sea, through Isildur's dark hair, as the tall Dunedain lord sighed and drained his goblet of wine. Down the hall, Isildur still heard the sounds of merrymaking from the feast, but for once Isildur was in no mood for revelry. For one very near and dear to the Lord of Minas Ithil was absent, and his absence was sorely felt. Leaning upon the stone railing, Isildur began to hum a soft tune to himself.

"Ah, there you are my old friend" said a familiar voice, less slurred than Isildur would've expected at this time of the evening. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Robert Baratheon standing in the doorway.

"My king," Isildur said, quickly turning and dropping to a knee.

"Oh come off it Isildur, you High Men have always been too damn formal" Robert said with a chuckle as he walked out to join Isildur by the railing, a jug of wine in one hand and a goblet in the other. Refilling Isildur's goblet, they clinked their cups together and then drank deeply of the rich Numenorean wine.

"You have something important to tell me Robert" Isildur said as he lowered his goblet, regarding the King with his seemingly ageless grey eyes, eyes which seemed to reflect long years far beyond the age of Isildur's appearance.

"Gods, you know I hate it when you do that to me!" Robert said, swearing under his breath.

"It's all in the eyes Your Grace; you Andals always give it away with your eyes. But I must be very careful around your people, for I could leave many of them broken in mind and spirit if I am not careful. Do not worry, my friend, the very fact that you are standing here today means I have never done that to you" Isildur said with a gentle smile.

"You seem a bit off Isildur, speak your mind. You know I was your friend before I was your King" said Robert. For a long moment, Isildur was silent, staring at the stars, contemplation in his grey Numenorean eyes.

"It is my youngest son, Valandil. He has left, gone into the East, to the Free Cities, struck with wanderlust" Isildur spoke at last.

"I always told you that you should've just taken him all about the Kingdoms and made the Nine. Get all that young stupidity out of his head, make him into a man" Robert replied with a laugh and another slug of his wine.

"Valar Above, not everything can be solved with fornication Robert. Besides, Valandil is old enough to make his own decisions. He can travel where and when he pleases, but his brothers and I… He is dearly missed" Isildur answered, exasperated at first.

"Fornication? You mean fucking? Gods, you Dunedain are too bloody grave. No wonder you always got along so well with the Starks. Come on Isil, you know those Riverlands girls would go mad to have a Dunedain princeling like your son between their legs. Hells, I'm surprised you never took a whore to your tent during the War"

"Because I, unlike all your southern lords, am an honourable man" said Isildur, rolling his eyes, then continued: "I know you didn't come all the way out here to feast and reminisce on old times. You can speak plainly with me Robert, I am not my father. What do you need to ask me?"

Again, all was silence on the balcony, broken only by the sounds of the feast from within the hall. Now it was Robert who stared out at the stars, deep thought clear on his bearded face. He turned and looked up at his tall Numenorean friend.

"Jon Arryn is dead" he said at last, darkly.

"And you want me to be the new Hand?" Isildur answered, clearly perceiving Robert's intentions.

"Aye, that I do. I need you Isildur. I'm not fond of you damned Dunedain, but you are cannier and wiser than any in the Kingdoms, and you are the only one of the Dunedain that I can stand and I know I can trust." said the King. Immediately, Isildur dropped to his knee again, bowing his head and placing a closed fist on his chest.

"You honour me, Your Grace" Isildur said. Robert laughed again, and drained the wine from his goblet in one long swig.

"Gods' sake Isildur, it's not an honour. I'm trying to get you to run my kingdom for me while I eat, drink and whore my way into an early grave" Robert said with a great booming laugh, and as Isildur stood up again he soon joined in and the unlikely pair stood there and laughed together.

"There's only two people in this kingdom I can truly trust: You and Ned Stark. When I leave this city tomorrow, you're coming with me Isildur, to Winterfell. We need to talk Ned into coming south with us" said Robert as his laughter died.

"Ned will not come, he is settled and happy. He fought your battles, made you King, let him grow old in the bliss of his marriage bed" Isildur replied, pouring himself more wine from the jug.

"That's a damn shame because he will have to come. I am the King after all" Robert answered with a laugh.

"If I may ask, Your Grace, why do you need both Ned and I, if I am to be Hand?" Isildur asked.

"I have realized something Isildur. Maybe I realized it when I was drunk, or maybe that eunuch Varys just told me, but I realized it still. This kingdom is too divided, all these damn noble houses and their private armies. I want to build something new, something to unite Westeros. I want to be remembered as more than the drunken Usurper" said Robert with a rare seriousness for him.

"Maybe drink less then?" Isildur replied drolly.

"Is that how you speak to your King!?" said Robert, in mock outrage. A long moment passed before he burst into laughter, and Isildur's great booming laughter joined him.

"No, no, I don't think I'll be able to do that old friend, but I will be remembered as more than the brute who killed the damned Targaryen prince. I need something to unite the land, to secure the Throne for my heirs, to defend the land from civil war or foreign invasion" Robert continued.

"You mean to create a royal host? A King's Host?" Isildur said, again perceiving the King's mind.

"Aye, that I do. Ned must command it, and you must be my Hand. It was the three of us that struck the Targaryens down, we were meant to rule together Isildur" Robert said, speaking with surprising sincerity.

"You do me a great honour Robert, I only hope I can repay you as your Hand" Isildur answered, and he topped up both of their cups with the wine, and together they drained their goblets in toast.

"Now come on Isildur, I think they must be noticing that their King and Isildur Moonlord have been absent so long" said Robert, clapping his friend on the back as the curious pair turned away from the railing and the short King of Eight Kingdoms and the tall Lord of Minas Ithil walked off the balcony and returned to the warmth and festivity of the feast.

Neither of them noticed the dark shadow that passed across the pale silver crescent of the moon.

_____________________________________________________________________________

In the small hours of the morning, with the noise and the revelry of the feast having died away, the Tower of Elendil seemed unnaturally quiet as Isildur walked the long stone corridors. A pleasant breeze blew in through the arrow slits on the left wall of the hallway. Behind him, the Great Hall was filled with the sounds of snoring men as the numerous guards and servants who had come north with King Robert slept upon the rush-covered floor. The King himself and his family had been led to their own private bedchambers, though; Isildur remembered with a smile, Robert had seemed a little disappointed to be going to bed without a whore on both arms.

As he walked, deep in thought, Isildur heard soft music, the sounds of the strings of a lute being strummed by a skilled and experienced hand, and a fair and clear voice singing. It was coming from the open door of the Tower's library, at the end of the corridor. Isildur smiled, that could only be one person. Quietly, he pushed the oaken door open further, and looked into the room.

The Tower Library was much smaller than the Great Library of Meneldil that Isildur's nephew had constructed for the city, and a much more cozy and personal place for Elendil and his sons. It was a circular room, with a fireplace set opposite the doorway, and stuffed and cushioned chairs near the fireplace, wooden desks and tables, and book shelves ringing the room. There was a ladder that led up to a second level, a mere walkway around the walls which supported more book shelves, for Elendil and his sons had always been voracious readers and over the centuries they had accumulated many favourite books from across the Kingdoms in this place.

In one of the chairs by the fireplace sat Anarion, a lute in his hands, the music of the stringed instrument blending with the music of his voice into a single, soft melodious song.

"You were always more the musician than I" Isildur said as he walked into the room. Anarion stopped his playing, looking up at his older brother with a smile and stood up to greet him.

"Not that it ever won much favour from Father. Ah, let us not speak of that, how are you my dear brother?" Anarion said as he embraced Isildur.

"Much troubles my mind. Anarion, I must ask for your counsel" Isildur replied. Anarion looked at him strangely as they released each other.

"You've never asked for my counsel before, Isildur, and you have always kept your own. Pray tell, what troubles you?" Anarion said.

They sat down by the fire and Isildur was silent for a long moment, eyes closed and his hands clasped together before his face in thought. When he finally reopened them, he spoke

"Jon Arryn has died. Tar-Robert wishes for me to become his new Hand"

"This was bound to happen sooner or later, Isildur, you are noble and wise. The King has made a good choice" Anarion said "What then is troubling to you?"

"What good am I in that pit of snakes down in King's Landing? They're vicious backstabbers down there; they've always been like that for as long as we have dwelled in this land" answered Isildur. "And after the things that the Troll did to Rhaegar's wife and children… I don't know if I can serve in such a place"

"All the more reason for you to go to King's Landing. As Hand to Tar-Robert, you can bring the Troll to justice. What Ser Gregor did was monstrous, befitting the name we give him, and he must pay. I know the King is not fond of our people, he'd only ask if he truly trusted and needed you"

"I cannot help but feel ill at ease taking up such an office, brother. King's Landing is full of plots and intrigues, and the last time we dealt with such things, we lost our home…" Isildur said, staring hard at the hearth, the light of the fire reflected in his grey eyes.

"That was the Enemy, and no one's fault but his!" Anarion said immediately, his face stern.

"Yes and his ruin pulled our homeland and so many of our countrymen down with it. Oh, forgive me brother, I am melancholy tonight. I do not relish this task that Robert has appointed to me" said Isildur.

"That much is clear, but the honour is great, and Tar-Robert is a friend who clearly feels that his need is great" Anarion replied.

"What is the King's need?" said another voice. They looked to the door to see their father, Elendil, entering the library.

"Father, Robert has asked me to become the new Hand of the King" explained Isildur. His father's face was unreadable as he stood by a bookshelf, and chose himself a favoured book, before pulling up a chair next to Anarion, and sitting with the book open in his large hands. There was a moment of long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, and eventually the idle strumming of Anarion's lute.

"Has there been any word from Valandil?" Elendil asked at last.

"He was in Braavos when he wrote us the last letter. We have had no word since then, nearly two months now. Nothing…" Isildur answered.

"You are worried for him?"

"Of course I am; he's my youngest son. He's only in his eighties, and never been so far from home before" Elendil looked up from his book at his eldest son and he smiled.

"I remember a certain member of our house who stole his way into the Royal Palace back home when he was in his mere teens,"

"Well, that was a different time, a different place. And I had a good reason!" Isildur stammered, scratching the back of his head as his brother and father chuckled at the memory.

"You're always the same: Rushing off, headfirst into danger, never a thought of failure or defeat in your mind. It's been that way since we were boys" Anarion said.

"Let me share a secret of fatherhood with you two: No matter how old your children get, some things always stay the same. How fare your families these days? Tell me of all my grandchildren" Elendil said, smiling through his short beard.

"Miriel is pregnant again, she and her husband are very happy; they hope it'll be a little girl. You know Indis and Almarien, no man is ever good enough for them, and I'm beginning to despair that they'll ever find husbands" Anarion laughed, and his father and brother laughed with him. "As for Meneldil: He was happy to come with me to visit you, father, last I saw him he was discussing some point of lore with that little man who came with the King's retinue" Isildur spoke next:

"Almiel is also pregnant, Ciryon is so excited, he hopes for a third son. Elendur is beginning to speak of moving to Drauglad, the citadel of Minas Ithil is becoming crowded with all of the children about. He says he should like to enlist Meneldil in helping him enlarge it to accommodate his family and to further guard our northern frontier. Aratan has yet to find a woman; his chief pastime has always been in the practice of arms, the hunt and the sailing of ships from our havens" Elendil smiled at his two sons, fatherly love warm in his glinting grey eyes, the eyes shared by all of his house.

He set down his book and stood up from his chair and walked to the heart, staring into the blazing fire, deep in thought.

"Family comes first, that was what my father said to me, and his father said to him, and all of our line going back to Earendil himself, and I have tried to pass it on to you as best I can" He said at last. Isildur and Anarion exchanged glances.

"If you were to turn the King down to stay with your family, I think he would understand. It would be an honourable reason. But, like all the kings of this land, he takes what he wants, and he wants you. I know the distrust and distaste that Tar-Robert must feel for we Dunedain, Valar Above, I have seen that from every great king and mighty lord of Westeros except the Starks. I know that if he is asking one of us to be Hand, he must feel that his need is great. I have tried to be a shield for our people against the scheming and plotting in the rest of the Kingdom, especially of those Lannisters, but I fear we cannot be isolated forever, and more than that I fear that you becoming Hand would drag us into the feuding"

"Father, he is my friend, and he is the King" Isildur said.

"You are noble, my son, and it is a noble thing to wish to help your friend. You have always been a man to take your own counsel and to chart your own course, but all I ask is that you consider my words, and consider the effect that taking up the station of Hand could have on your family and your people. We are the only Dunedain left in all the world, we must protect ourselves, and keep the Faith" Elendil said, turning away from the fire and regarding each of his sons in turn.

"That may not be true" Anarion said darkly. Elendil and Isildur stared at him hard, their expressions demanding him to explain.

"Word has reached my ears of a growing power in far Essos. It could just be rumours, but it could also be whispers of a nameless fear. Always it seems that the dark and terrible things of the world creep up out of the east. There have been rumours of black ships raiding amongst the Free Cities, raiding merchant ships and coastal villages, killing the men and carrying off the women and children as slaves. They are tall men, with grey eyes, and the rumours say they are sailors without equal, and that they take their slaves to a hidden haven, far to the east of Slaver's Bay." He said. There was a dark hard gleam in Elendil's eyes.

"But what worries me father, what keeps me up at night, is this: They sail in black ships with black sails, and their sails bear a single badge: A lidless red eye, with a cat's pupil, wreathed in flames"

"He was destroyed. Undone and overthrown in the wreck of Numenor" Isildur said, clenching his fists.

"Is it even possible to kill one such as him?" Anarion replied.

"If he has followed us even here, I will travel to the East to slay him myself and find out. And if he rises again, I shall slay him again, and again, and as many times as I must until the Enemy learns to stay dead" Isildur said through gritted teeth.

"Calm yourself my son; your valour is not needed yet. We must be prudent, for we do not have the answers yet. If we act with too much haste, we may panic the Andals, and panic and fear lead to foolish action and much regret. Anarion, have you told anyone else of this?" spoke Elendil.

"No Father, I have kept it to myself until know"

"This is good. We must keep this to ourselves, let our people enjoy these golden days of peace, for they may be our last. Dark have been my dreams of late, and I had vainly hoped that all of the Black Numenoreans had been sunk with our home. If these are indeed the servants of the Enemy and the worshippers of the Dark Power, they will come for us as certainly as winter follows fall" Elendil said, his face ashen. In one moment, the two sons saw their father in a new light: The ageless Elendil seemed transformed before them into an old man, full of weariness. Yet that belied that wisdom in his eyes and the strength still left in his mighty limbs.

"What would you have us do, my Lord?" Isildur asked as both and Anarion stood. The three stood close together, and Elendil put one hand on the shoulders of each of his sons.

"Isildur, you must go to King's Landing and take up the office of Hand. Take a palantir with you, secret and safe, so that we may speak across all the miles between here and King's Landing. You must begin to prepare the Kingdoms for this, if these are truly our ancient enemies. Tell no one of this, I have no doubt that certain nobles would seek to profit from this threat somehow. The lust for power is deep amongst some of the Andals, and many of them are short-sighted fools because of it. Take Aratan and Ohtar with you, in a place like King's Landing it is best to have comrades at your side. Do everything you can to prepare, and avoid the scheming as best you can. If these are the Black Numenoreans and the houses of this land cannot put aside their differences, great ruin will come upon us all"

"And me, Father?" Anarion asked.

"Your skills as a builder have only grown over the years, my son. Begin an inspection of our borders, and start enforcing the most vital of the defenses, especially at our havens here and at you and your brother's cities. Your son-in-law Earnur, and his son Earendur, I have seen the great ships they build. Give them as many resources as you can and have them build many more ships of war. Increase our production of weapons and raise as many more companies of men-at-arms as you can without arising suspicion or panic. And start storing food for sieges at our principal strongholds. Isildur must prepare the whole of Westeros, you Anarion must prepare our own Realm. All of us have some part to play in this, great or small" answered the Lord of the Dunedain.

"There is a dark storm coming, I can feel it" Anarion said. Elendil drew both his sons together into an embrace, and the family held each other there for a long moment. When they broke apart, there was a dark hard gleam in Isildur's eyes to match his father's. He spoke then, resolute and determined:

"They took our home from us once, they shall not have it again"

____________________________________________

The sun rose early over Annúminas the next morning, golden light bouncing off white stone to give the city the gleaming and glowing appearance. The people of the city rose with the sun, soon filling the streets with the sounds of the hustle and bustle of the busiest port in northern Westeros. The sun reflected off the white stone gave the city a stifling heat not often found so far north, and the streets were filled with the clatter of carts' wheels on the cobblestones, the laughter of children and the exasperated shouts of their mothers and nurses, the harking calls of storekeepers, musicians, actors, scribes, fishwives, bakers, cooks and merchants and traders of every description, and the ever-present background noise of thousands of people talking and laughing together. They were the sounds of the happy and industrious citizens of a vibrant city starting another day.

Out in the havens, the air was filled not with the sounds of a city, but the sounds of seabirds, and the splashing of oars. The great dromonds of the White Fleet were ever coming and going from their berths in the havens of Annúminas, their banks of oars propelling them swiftly through the harbour before they could get out of the bay to the open sea where the skilled Numenorean sailors could set their square-rigged sails, for the White Fleet was ever –vigilant and ever in the exercise and training of its sailors. Amongst the warships came cogs and longships and merchant vessels of every size and shape, trade and wealth flowing freely between the Realm-in-Exile and the other Seven Kingdoms.

All this Isildur watched from a high balcony of the Tower of Elendil, and he smiled at his people's happiness and prosperity. Then he turned away from the railing and walked into the keep with long, purposeful strides. As he turned a corner in the corridor towards the great hall, he found Anarion, his fair-haired younger brother already on the way to break his fast in the hall.

"Ah, good morning brother," Anarion said as his dark-haired older brother fell into step beside him.

"And good morning to you Anarion, how fared your sleep?" Isildur replied

"Well enough. I have almost everything prepared for the gift-giving and the King's departure. The artisans had to work all night, but they have prepared some very fine things. Have you packed for the journey to King's Landing?" said Anarion

"Yes I have, nursemaid" Isildur said wryly "I don't believe anything could be left behind on Ohtar's watch," he added.

"Too true, I have never known him to be a lazy squire!" Anarion replied, and then added: "I am having some trouble selecting a parting gift for Lord Tyrion"

"A book surely? The little Lannister is quite an avid reader I am told," Isildur suggested.

"Alas, Meneldil has already promised Lord Tyrion several volumes of our people's history, translated for his benefit. He's got his entire team of scribes working on it already, in addition to just about every other scribe in the tower!" Anarion ranted, eliciting a laugh from Isildur.

"Like father, like son," the older brother said, clapping Anarion on the back as the two of them turned a corner and, opening a heavy oak door, came into the great hall.

Isildur cast his eyes around the hall that he and his family had built together. Rays of golden light streamed into the great hall from stained glass windows set in deep alcoves along both sides of the hall. Monolithic black pillars rose to support a high vaulted roof, painted with great frescoes of scenes from the history of the Dunedain: The discovery of Numenor, the prayers on Meneltarma, Numenorean mariners charting the world, Elendil and his nine ships escaping the Downfall, the landing on Westeros, the construction of Annúminas, the pledging of allegiance to Aegon the Conqueror, Elendil slaying the dragon Vaelion. Between the mighty pillars were fine marble statues depicting every King of Numenor and Lord of Andunie that had kept the faith in all of the long history of the Dunedain. At the westernmost end of the hall was a raised dais with three stone thrones upon it, one in the centre raised above the others. One of the thrones had a sun carved into the back, and the other had a crescent moon, while the central throne was decorated with a carving of a single many-rayed star. The floor was a polished white, inlaid with patterns traced in gold. There were no tapestries or woven things in the Hall of Annúminas, and the only things of wood were the long tables were presently sat King Robert, his family and many of his men, eating a morning meal.

"The usual if you please," Isildur said to a footman, who saluted in the Dunedain fashion with clasped hand on chest and head bowed before turning to his errand.

Isildur and Anarion walked down the line of long tables, past the numerous Baratheon men-at-arms who had come north with the King. Isildur eyed some of their guests, for he knew that many Lannister soldiers were accompanying the Royal retinue as well. They came to the head table, where the Royal Family sat.

"Good morning Your Grace, I hope you passed the night comfortably," Isildur said as he sat down.

"Seven Hells Isildur! Doesn't your family ever wear anything other than black and silver?" the King replied in an exasperated voice as he swept a critical eye over the brothers. Isildur exchanged a look with Anarion.

"They are favoured colours Your Grace, without a doubt," Anarion said. The footman returned with plates of food for Isildur and Anarion. Their plates were heaped with bread, pastries, cheese, fillets of fish, rashers of bacon and fried eggs. Then Isildur and Anarion both turned and faced west, towards the head of the hall, and bowed their heads and were silent for a moment, while members of the Royal Family exchanged confused glances at the unfamiliar custom. Without a word, the two Numenorean lords turned back to their food and began to eat.

"I saw you and your people do that at the feast last night, I must ask: Why do you do that?" asked Queen Cersei Lannister. Isildur quirked an eyebrow at the Queen's question, he hadn't expected a Lannister of all people to be curious about Dunedain customs.

"It is in memory of our homeland, Your Grace," Anarion said quietly after swallowing a mouthful of food.

The point passed, and conversation returned to the high table. Isildur was quiet as he ate; speaking little and observing much about the family that he would soon live alongside in the Red Keep. He was a lord of the Dunedain-in-Exile, and he could see much that a lesser man would miss. Isildur noted that the looks between the King and Queen were cold and unloving, and he also noted that seemed good-natured in Isildur's estimation. However, there was something in the eyes of Prince Joffrey, the eldest, which Isildur did not like.

"I hear you are to join us in King's Landing," said a voice which drew Isildur out of his reverie. He looked across the table to see a blond, handsome man with flashing green eyes, in the white armour of the Kingsguard. 'This could be none other than Jaime Lannister' Isildur thought.

"That we are, it is my honour to travel to King's Landing to become the Hand," Isildur replied.

"I'm sure we shall have a tournament in your honour after we return, it will be good to have you on the field, the competition has been becoming stale lately," Jaime said.

"I'm not a tourney fighter," stated Isildur.

"Too good to dirty your hands with the lesser mortals?" Jaime said, his voice almost snide.

"I'm not a tourney fighter because Numenorean knights train to kill, not to knock their friends off horses," Isildur answered.

"Well said," Jaime replied with a wolfish grin.

When all the men had broken their fast, preparations began for the departure. Ohtar, Isildur's energetic and burly squire, was everywhere, overseeing the shoeing and tacking of horses, the packing of provisions, clothing and gear, and the preparation of carts and wains.

Aratan, Isildur's third son, was energetic too, lending his expert eye to the selection and equipping of the fifty Numenorean men-at-arms that would accompany their Lord Isildur to the south. Weapons and armour were to be packed as well, wrapped in oiled cloth and stored in weatherproofed barrels and bags to prevent their rusting. They chose swords and daggers for themselves, and long lances for use from horseback. Each man took a steelbow as well, for every Numenorean took pride and joy in the practice of archery, and none ever wished to depart without his people's ancestral weapon. Every member of Isildur's personal guard was given a hauberk of black steel rings, and black surcoats with the silver tree, moon and stars that was Isildur's personal sigil, and kite shields emblazoned with the same device were provided. And each took a helm, high-crested and decorated with the wings of seabirds. The Baratheon and Lannister men that accompanied the King looked with jealousy to the fineness and beauty of the Numenorean arms that Isildur's men would carry.

As the long procession finally drew ready to depart, Elendil met with the King and the Royal Family, the Kingsguard, and Isildur himself in the Great Hall. Elendil and Anarion stood, in fine black robes, with silver circlets upon their brows, before them all. Isildur, on the other hand, had discarded his fineries for the simpler clothes he preferred to travel in, and he noted that most of the company had done the same.

"Your Grace, my King, honourable Tar-Robert, First of Your Name, you have honoured us with your presence and your visit to our fair city. Annúminas shall always stand ready to welcome you, Your Grace," Elendil said, with a courtly flourish and a bow to the King.

"Elendil, Lord of the Dunedain, your hospitality was magnificent, and your son has done me a great service by agreeing to become my Hand. He is a true friend, and the friendship of the Dunedain shall not be forgotten," Robert replied courteously. 'He's not too bad at this courtly stuff when he tries at it. Too bad he rarely tries' Isildur thought.

"Nor shall Your Grace's favour be forgotten amongst the Dunedain. May my son serve you with honour, and may he be returned here safely when his duty is done" Elendil said.

"In our homeland in ancient times, the Elves bequeathed to us a tradition: When a guest departs from our halls, he must leave with a gift from his hosts. To that end, we have prepared gifts for you, Your Grace, your family and your followers," Anarion said. As he spoke, servants in black came forward from the end of the hall, carrying the gifts. The first one approached Robert and knelt before the King, holding before him a black scabbard with a small stag sigil inlaid in silver near the throat. More servants came forth and presented each member of the Kingsguard with a similar scabbard in white.

"To you and your Kingsguard, Your Grace, we present Dunedain scabbards. No blade drawn from these scabbards shall ever blunt or break or fail in the heat of battle," Elendil said. Ser Barristan Selmy looked at Elendil with some skepticism of this claim, but took the beautiful scabbard anyways.

Next the footman bowed to the members of the royal family and presented each with a gift. To the Queen they gave a necklace adorned with precious stones, Prince Joffrey received a wide belt of gold, Princess Myrcella a beautifully made doll with dark hair and grey eyes, and to Prince Tommen they gave a short, curving dagger which he looked at with some trepidation, while his elder brother gazed at it with jealousy in his eyes.

"Tyrion Lannister," Anarion said to the dwarf, who stood by the side of the hall watching the ceremony with some interest.

"Yes my Lord Anarion?" Tyrion said, standing up from leaning against a pillar.

"We have a gift for you as well," Anarion said with a kindly smile.

"Surely not my Lord, your son Lord Meneldil has already promised me a magnificent gift," Tyrion replied.

"That is true, but it shall not be ready for many months, and you leave today. Perhaps your stature will prevent you from ever becoming a great warrior, but nonetheless every man must be ready to defend themselves at some point in their lives. Therefore take this, a short sword from our Armouries, it is light and will suit you well," Anarion said, and gestured forward with his hand. A servant came and presented Tyrion with the weapon, in a black sheath not dissimilar, though less ornate, than the one the King now carried. He drew out the sword; the blade had a gentle leaf-shape to it, and was inlaid with flowing characters in red and silver. The whole weapon felt marvellously light and well-balanced, and it was short enough for a man of Tyrion's stature.

"You are right my lord: I will never be a great warrior. To speak plainly, this would be better used in the hands of another, but I shall bear it with pride nonetheless," Tyrion said with a grateful bow.

A footman came to Elendil then and handed him something long, wrapped in cloth. He held it with a certain fondness and a smile on his face and walked over to his son Isildur who stood next to the King. He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a sheathed sword, with the sword belt wrapped around the scabbard. The sword was long, with a steel crossbar, the hilt was wrapped in leather which was inlaid with narrow lines of silver and gold, and the pommel was engraved with elvish runes. Isildur's eyes widened, he recognized that hilt, and he recognized the sword.

"Narsil," Isildur said reverently. Elendil held it out towards his son.

"Take it Isildur," Elendil said. Isildur's eyes widened in shock.

"No, father, I cannot take this. It is the Sword of the Lord of the Dunedain, it is yours by right," Isildur said, shaking his head,

"And you are my heir, and it is mine to give to my heir when I wish. Bear it with you with honour, may it always defend the Realm," Elendil replied, and held it out further towards Isildur.

"Thank you father, there is no gift that could equal this," Isildur said. He unbuckled his belt and removed his own sword from his side, wrapping the belt around it and handing it to Ohtar, who stood behind his lord. Then he took Narsil and secured the belt around his waist. Narsil was a little longer than his own blade, and felt unfamiliar at his side, but Elendil smiled to see his son wearing the sword. However, Isildur did not miss the bitter look on Anarion's face as he saw his older brother already carrying Narsil.

With each man and woman having received their gift, great or small, the King's company turned and filed from the Great Hall, footsteps clattering on the marble floors. Together they came to the courtyard with its fountain and the White Tree standing beside, and all their horses waiting for them with servants holding the reins. As the King mounted, the whole company mounted in unison, but Isildur remained standing beside Fleetfoot, his huge black gelding, while his father and brother stood near to him.

"You're the best man I know," Anarion said to him, the bitterness was gone now from his face and sincerity was plain in his tone.

"Do your duty Isildur, and then come home safely, that is all I ask my son" Elendil said. Isildur embraced them each in turn, and then swung up into the saddle of his horse.

"Farewell to all of you! May the blessings of Eru Illuvatar and all the Valar be with you, and may the good wishes of Dunedain and Andals and the First Men and all people of the Eight Kingdom follow you on the Road" Elendil cried in a voice loud and clear enough so that the whole procession could hear him, and he raised his hand in farewell. Robert swung his arm forward, and riders spurred their horses onwards, while there was a cracking of whips as the drivers of carts and the Queen's carriage sprung their vehicles into motion.

Raising his hand to his father and brother one last time, Isildur set the spurs to Fleetfoot and trotted forward, beneath the Citadel Gate, and onto the road that would take them east, out of Annúminas and onto the Kingsroad. With a great clattering of hooves on cobbles, and the groaning of wains, and the sounds of wooden wheels on the road, the King's great company departed from the Tower of Elendil. Elendil himself stood there, beneath the White Tree, and watched them leave, and after they were gone he stood there in thought for a long moment. Then he sighed, and turned, and walked back into his hall.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter II
Pentos

It was midday in Pentos, with a cool breeze coming off the bay, and the sky full of white clouds when Valandil came to stand before the gatehouse of the manse of Illyrio Mopatis. His grey Numenorean eyes scanned his surroundings. The walls of the manse were twelve feet tall, surmounted by iron spikes. On the air, he could smell the tell-tale scents of a well-kept and extensive garden. Valandil cast his gaze to the skies and observed the position of the sun, by his estimation it was a half an hour past noon. His companion was late. Late by half an hour to be precise, and even though he was the son of a great lord who rarely had had to work for anything in his life, Valandil knew that it was unseemly to show up late on the first day of employment. Impatiently, he drummed his fingers on the leather-wrapped hilt of the finely-made bastard sword that was sheathed at his side and shifted his shoulders under the weight of the pack and the gear he carried on his back.

"Are you intending to move in? A comfortable house no doubt, but perhaps a little rich for your blood my friend" said a familiar voice. Valandil turned his head to see Ser Jorah Mormont approaching from down the road, leading a horse by the bridle, and dressed in the finest tunic and cloak he could muster. Not particularly fine, in Valandil's estimation, but he wouldn't expect more from a fellow sellsword.

"The good Magister Illyrio is hiring us to protect his wards, is he not? I must be prepared to travel where they do. You told me that our employment begins today Jorah" Valandil answered.

"Aye, that is does Dúnadan, but today is the wedding, and I know Numenoreans love your gray cloaks and green longcoats, but it isn't very festive Strider" Ser Jorah replied. Valandil smiled softly.

"Have I ever seemed very festive to you?" he said, and they both chuckled.

Together, Jorah and Valandil passed beneath the gatehouse into the manse itself. They found themselves in a broad, tidy courtyard with a pool of water in the centre. Atop a plinth in the pool was a statue of painted marble, depicting a youthful man, lithe and strong, with golden hair and a blade in hand, poised to duel an unseen adversary. Hedges and grassy lawns lined either side of the paved courtyard, and a long stairway at the end of it led up to the main house of the manse.

"I don't think you'll get much use of that steel-bow out in the Dothraki Sea" Jorah remarked, eying the tube of waxed weatherproof canvas containing the steel-bow slung across Valandil's back.

"There isn't another bow to match it in all of the Free Cities, Ser Jorah, and you know that. It's a little piece of my homeland, and that burden I shall gladly bear" said Valandil

As they stopped at the bottom of the staircase, a man came down to greet them. He was tall, though not nearly as tall as Valandil, and quite fat, even obese, with heavy jowls and rotund cheeks. His hair and beard were a striking yellow, and his beard was forked. There was a glitter of gold and silver rings on his fingers, and the man wore long robes of rich quality.

"Ah, it is good to see you again Ser Jorah, and this is the companion you promised?" said the man.

"That he is Magister. In Braavos, I saw him cleave a man from shoulder to hip, and I have traveled with him and know him to be stalwart and honourable. You would be hard-pressed to find a better bodyguard for the Targaryens" Jorah answered. 'Ah, so this is Illyrio Mopatis. Fatter than I expected' thought Valandil.

"I trust your word Ser Jorah. What is your name, Ser?" Illyrio said, looking Valandil up and down, eying the sword at his hip and the canvas bag on his back.

"Strider, just Strider" Valandil said softly.

"Strider… Curious accent you have, I can't seem to place it. Where are you from Strider?" Illyrio asked.

"Many places" Valandil replied.

"I see. The Dothraki will be here soon, and I see you have no horse Strider. I shall have one of my servants bring you one from my stables; consider it your first payment. I trust Ser Jorah's word that you will prove to be worth it" Illyrio said, turning away from the two mercenaries and striding back up the stairs into the manse.

"Making friends already Dúnadan?" Jorah said.

"Ser Jorah, my friend, I would ask that you keep my background to yourself. There is much superstition about my people here in the East, and I doubt that the Dothraki will prove much different" Valandil said, looking at Jorah pointedly.

"Very well my friend, but I can't exactly conceal the fact that you're over seven feet tall, gray eyed, dark haired and carry a bloody steel-bow. It's hard to hide a Numenorean" replied the shorter man.

Soon enough, one of Illyrio's stable hands brought a bay horse for Valandil. He could see that the animal was well built as the boy led it towards him, large enough even for Valandil, but from the wildness in the eye and the flaring of the nostrils and the jerking movement of the head, he could also see that it was a spirited and wild animal. 'Of course Illyrio would only part with a useless horse for a first payment' Valandil thought, examining the horse with a critical eye as it was led. Its movement was good, and the animal had a good bend in the knees, with thick and powerful legs. The horse's head was bony, with wide nostrils that lent it a fierce aspect but, Valandil noted, would make the horse breathe easier in times of great exertion. Physically, the horse was quite fine, but in its wildness and the indignant, angered noises it made as it was led towards him, Valandil could see that Illyrio was using him as an excuse to get rid of this animal.

"My apologies Ser, but the Magister told me to give you this one" said the stable boy with an apologetic look.

"What is his name?" Valandil asked.

"We call him Velo" the boy replied.

Valandil walked towards Velo, talking the reins from the boy and gently pulling Velo's head down so that he could stroke the animal's nose, and he spoke to the horse with soft words in the Elven tongue, and gradually Velo was calmed, and lowered his head. It was clear there was no great affection from the horse for the men around him, but he did not shy nor fuss when Valandil took the saddle from the stable hand and placed it upon Velo and set to securing the harness and the girth, and placing the gear from his pack into the saddlebags.

"You know if you keep doing things like that, you're going to make hiding your heritage very hard" Jorah said.

"Too true, I shall have to restrain myself" Valandil laughed.

There was a great clatter of hooves on cobblestones as a conroi of riders came thundering up the road and through the gatehouse of the manse, stopping in the courtyard before the fountain. They were large people, with swarthy skin of a copper colour, and dark eyes to match their dark hair. Their chests were bare, exposing powerful muscles, deeply tanned by the sun, and none of them wore armour, instead only vests and breeches all of horsehair and leather. At the forefront of the group, upon a snorting reddish stallion, sat a large and powerfully built man, with long moustaches and a long braid of black hair that reached his thighs, decorated with small bells.

"That's Khal Drogo. They say he has is the most feared khal in the whole Dothraki Sea" Jorah said out of the side of his mouth, leaning towards Valandil.

"Why are they here now?" Valandil replied.

"To take the Targaryen girl to her wedding to the Khal. They believe that any important event in a man's life must take place beneath the open sky, so the wedding will most likely be outside of the city at the horde's encampment" said Jorah.

The doors of the mansion were opened once again, and Valandil glanced over his shoulder to see Illyrio coming down the steps, leading two others: A young man and woman, both with white-blond hair and the violet eyes of House Targaryen, dressed in fine clothes. They were led down the stairs towards the Dothraki, and Valandil could see the Khal's eyes fixed on the girl. She was delicate and petite, quite beautiful even in Valandil's estimation, but appeared timid, scared even.

"She's frightened" he whispered to Jorah

"Who can blame her?" the Andal replied.

More horses were brought out from Illyrio's stables, and the Magister and the two Targaryens mounted. At a nod from Illyrio, Jorah and Valandil swung up into the saddles of their horses, and fell into position behind the Targaryens.

"Your Grace, these are the bodyguards I promised you, to safeguard you and your sister until you sit upon your Throne again. This is Ser Jorah and his companion Strider" Illyrio said to the young man sitting on the horse next to him.

"You have my thanks Illyrio, and your loyalty will not be forgotten when I come into my throne, and neither shall yours Ser Jorah and Ser… Strider was it?" said the young man. 'This must be Viserys' thought Valandil.

"Just Strider shall suffice, Your Grace" Valandil said. Viserys looked at the Numenorean strangely, with furrowed eyebrows, and internally Valandil cursed his accent.

There was no time for further introductions though, as there was a word from the Khal, and his riders reined their horses around and set off at a canter again. Nudging Velo into movement, Valandil followed behind Illyrio and the Targaryens, and within moments the whole cavalcade had left the manse, turning east at the road and swiftly heading towards the plains outside of Pentos.

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The Dothraki were savage. Valandil had heard tales of their almost animalistic brutality before, but nothing compared to the reality. As a boy, his father and older brothers had told him tales of the wicked men of the East that served in the legions of the Black Enemy, and though the Dothraki carried no sign or sigil of the Enemy, there was no doubt in Valandil's heart that they were similar to the Easterlings in spirit if not in mind.

Along the coast of the sea some miles from Pentos, beneath a brilliantly blue sky, tens of thousands of Dothraki had gathered for the marriage of their Khal to the pale young Targaryen girl. Valandil sat upon the raised platform that the Dothraki had erected for Drogo and his guests, sitting near to Jorah, beneath Drogo and Daenerys, the bloodriders and the other, more honoured guests. The thumping of the tribal drums resonated in Valandil's gut, and a cold bile rose in the back of his throat as he watched the "celebrations" below him.

Women gyrated and danced as if possessed by wights, and the men bent them over and took them as a stallion takes a mare, like animals. The air was rent with the moans of women and the shouts of men, with screams and shrieks and grunting. They copulated like beasts, with neither love nor care, out in the open, before thousands of eyes. Their sense of sin or shame appeared to be non-existent.

A sudden commotion amongst the dancing drew Valandil's attention. One of the Dothraki men had interrupted another by hauling him off the woman in the middle of their copulation and replacing him behind the woman. A wave of eagerness seemed to run through the crowd as they shifted closer to the scene. The insulted man, enraged at being interrupted in the moment, rose from the ground and struck a terrific blow to his opponent's face, knocking him back into the dust. With a savage snarl, the other man rose from the dirt and tackled his foe, smashing into his stomach with a shoulder which would have driven the air right out of him. Entangled, the two men fell to the dirt onto a cooking fire, hot coals hissing as they burnt bare skin and the two combatants rolled from the flames. The excitement in the crowd became palpable as the two Dothraki rose to their feet, and one of them smashed his fist down onto the jaw of the other, knocking him down to his knees. Roaring a bestial warcry, the man swept out his Dothraki scimitar and swung it upwards for his enemy's belly. Valandil shifted forward in his chair, but felt a strong grip on his forearm.

"No," whispered Jorah from his own seat beside Valandil.

Both men had now unsheathed their swords, the wickedly curved blades glimmering as they turned and slashed in the air, each man seeking a quick killing blow. Unburdened by any armour, the lean Dothraki leapt and bound, circling each other like fairground acrobats, each movement swift and deadly. The razor edges of their scimitars glinted in the bright sun, as savage battlecries erupted from the throats of the two combatants. Valandil glanced upwards to the Khal, but saw only an eager glint in Drogo's eyes as the great Dothraki warlord sat forward in his seat, watching the fight intently. Biting back his desire to speak, Valandil turned his eyes back to the two fighting men.

One of the Dothraki brought a vicious two-handed slash down from a high guard towards his opponent, but the other man swiftly moved back, the scimitar whooshing in air as it passed him. Quickly, the miss was turned around and the edge came hurting back up, but again the fleet enemy avoided it. Valandil's breath caught in his throat, the Dothraki man had over-extended himself from the upward cut, and his enemy saw it just as Valandil did. Seizing his chance, the scimitar did its butcher's work as it came slashing straight into the other man's stomach. With a great cry, the victor dragged the edge of his sword out across his stricken foe's belly, spilling coils of bloody, pink-purplish intestines onto the dusty ground. Seizing his fallen foe's braid, the victor cut it off with a flourish of scimitar, and then tossed it to the foot of the dais where Khal Drogo and Daenerys sat. The loser was still twitching and convulsing on the ground as the other man seized another Dothraki woman.

"Savage beasts," Valandil muttered as Jorah released his grip.

"It is the Dothraki custom. They consider a wedding without three or four deaths to be a boring affair," Jorah replied.

"But why?"

Jorah could offer only a shrug: "It is their way".

Valandil carefully watched as the constant stream of dignitaries from magisters and nobles in Pentos and the other Free Cities made their way before the Khal and Daenerys atop the dais, each offering a different wedding gift. The couple were offered large chests of gold and silver, bridles and saddles richly embroidered and decorated with precious stones, ceremonial armour and robes inlaid with gold, decorated pottery, one magister even brought a whole box of snakes which hissed fiercely yet did not bite him as he handled them before the eyes of Khal Drogo.

"Come on, it's our turn" Jorah said, collecting a stack of leatherbound books from where they sat beside him.

Swallowing a nervous lump in his throat, Valandil stood together with Jorah, and under the watchful eyes of the Khal's bloodriders, they walked to the front of the platform, and in unison the two of them bowed their heads respectfully. Valandil could feel the steady gaze of Drogo boring into him. Valandil cursed the fact that he was easily a foot taller than everyone else present at the wedding, including Drogo himself, and the Khal was a powerfully built man. Raising his head once again, Valandil met the Khal's gaze, and found Drogo giving him a look that was not quite suspicion, but more than average curiosity either.

Jorah and Drogo exchanged a few words in the Dothraki tongue, the only ones of which Valandil understood were "Jorah" and "Andal". Then Jorah began to step forward, up across the platform, and Valandil followed a few steps behind.

"A small gift for the new Khaleesi" Jorah said earnestly, as he bowed his head again and offered the stack of books to the Targaryen girl. Tentatively, she reached out with tiny, pale hands and took them.

"Songs and histories from the Eight Kingdoms, even a few from the Dunedain Realm," Jorah explained as she took them.

"Thank you ser" Daenerys said, her voice quiet and soft amongst the loud revelry of the wedding party. "Are you two from my country?"

"Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. I served your father for many years, Gods be good, I hope to always serve the rightful King," Jorah said, as he looked towards Viserys and nodded.

"And you, ser?" Daenerys said to Valandil.

"Strider, my lady, of the North," Valandil replied with a bow.

"Thank you as well Ser Strider," said the Targaryen girl with a shy smile. Valandil felt Jorah tap him on the shoulder, their time was up. Bowing once again, the two men backed up, down the dais, to their own seats. No sooner than they had sat down, Valandil saw Illyrio was already up, gesturing for his servants to bring up a large, heavy, locked wooden chest. Two burly, bare chested men carried the chest, and they set it down before Daenerys, who looked at it curiously. At a nod from the Magister, the servants opened it up, and Valandil was grateful for his great height which gave him a clear view of the contents.

The chest was filled with fine, soft sand, and sitting upon the sand were three large, oval objects, one in a jet black, one a creamy-tan and the last a deep forest green. They were the shape of eggs, but not any egg Valandil had ever seen, for they were not smooth, but rather their shells were covered in lizard-like scales. Daenerys' eyes were wide with wonder as Valandil watched her gently pick up the green egg and hold it before her, examining it with an entranced fascination.

"Dragon's eggs, Daenerys" Illyrio explained with a smirk "From the Shadowlands beyond Asshai. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful"

At that moment, as Daenerys set the egg back down on its soft bed of sand, the Khal stood up. Immediately the drumming stopped, and the singing ceased, and the dancing and lovemaking below the dais stopped in place, and all was silence. For a moment, all Valandil could hear were the sounds of the sea, and waves crashing against the rocky shore. Then, stretching his neck, Drogo stepped down the dais and began to walk briskly and purposefully through the crowd, without even a glance backwards at his bride as she followed him more slowly, more hesitantly.

Jorah rose from his seat, and Valandil followed his lead as Daenerys passed them by. All the Dothraki were silent as they closed around Daenerys as she walked, thousands of eyes boring into her. A full head taller than anyone else, Valandil watched her from above the rest of the crowd as she followed her new husband. Her head was held high, yet there was an unmistakable sense of shyness and fear in her step. Her pale blonde hair stood out like an island of gold amongst the sea of brown and black Dothraki hair. With slow steps, she walked to where the crowd had parted, and Drogo stood waiting by his own gift: A tall, demure mare of the purest white, a magnificent animal with a shapely face and strong limbs, yet Valandil could tell by how quietly it stood that it was calm and kind in temperament and very well-trained. Nothing but the finest mount for a Dothraki khaleesi. Drogo stood silently, holding the reins of the mare, as Daenerys approached him. The great Khal appeared like a mountain of deeply tanned muscle before the petite girl in front of him, and he held out the reins towards her. Following Jorah, Valandil moved to the front of the gathered crowd.

"She's beautiful" Daenerys spoke at last, stroking the mare's nose. She turned to look over her shoulder at Valandil and Jorah.

"Ser Jorah, I don't know the word for 'thank you' in Dothraki,"

"There is no way to say 'thank you' in Dothraki" Jorah replied.

Drogo released the reins, and he seized Daenerys and lifted her up into the saddle with ease, as if she was just a child. One of his bloodriders brought up Drogo's own horse, and the Khal swung up into the saddle with the practiced ease of a man who had spent most of his life on horseback. Valandil observed the Khal: He was unrefined, but skilled, lacking the formal grace of a Westerosi or Dunedain horseman, but clearly in absolute control of both himself and his horse.

Out of the corner of his eye, Valandil noticed Viserys approach Daenerys. She looked down at her brother.
"Make him… Happy" Viserys said with a small smirk. Drogo set the spurs to his horse, and first at a walk, then a trot, then gathering into a canter, the newly married Khal and Khaleesi rode away towards the sun as it sunk towards the horizon.

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"'Make him happy'" Valandil spat, not for the first time, as he sat near a crackling fire in the Dothraki camp. Across from him sat Jorah, sipping from a wineskin. He had changed out of his formal tunic into more comfortable travelling clothes, and Magister Illyrio had been good enough to have their belongings taken from their inn in Pentos out to the Dothraki encampment. Jorah shook his head as Valandil fumed.

"Try to look at it from his perspective Dúnadan, Viserys believes he is the Blood of the Dragon, the rightful King of Westeros, and his only tool to help him reclaim his throne is his name and his sister. The Targaryen name doesn't go very far these days, so he must use his sister. Unfortunate though that is, she seems a sweet girl," Jorah said.

"She can't be much older than eighteen or nineteen years. For her own flesh and blood to use her in such a way. I hope the rule of this Viserys shall be worth it. I pray he is a rightful king in action rather than just the rightful king in word and law." Valandil replied with a shake of his own head, and then accepted the wineskin from Jorah and took a long drink. He looked all around him. The encampment of Drogo's horde stretched in all directions for as far as even his Numenorean eyes could see.

"I hear it is the largest khalasar in the whole Dothraki Sea. Forty thousand warriors or more, and many thousands of women, children and slaves" Jorah explained, noticing Valandil's look.

"Do you think it shall follow the Targaryen boy across the Narrow Sea?" asked Valandil. Jorah shrugged as he took the wineskin back from his Numenorean companion.

"Depends. Depends on when Dothraki omens favour war, and how patient Viserys is. He has given the Khal a great gift with Daenerys, and he shall get a gift in return in the Khal's good time. If he understands that, and waits, then yes, eventually they will cross… The first Dothraki khalasar in history to cross the sea" answered Ser Jorah. Valandil grimaced; he had heard many tales of the Dothraki ferocity in battle and their skill on horseback with whip, sword and bow. Yet they seemed to him to be raiders, not conquerors.

"And do you think it will be enough against Tar-Robert?" he said.

"No," Jorah replied immediately "Against a canny old warrior like Robert Baratheon, with all of Westeros including your people on his side, no it won't be enough. The Targaryens need to build up alliances in Westeros to reclaim the throne. This union with the Dothraki is a start, but it is not enough by itself. Do you think this boy will be equal to the task?" Now it was Valandil's turn to shrug.

"We shall see" There was a long moment of comfortable silence as the two sellswords sat in thought, the fire crackling merrily. In the gloom outside of their little circle of light, they could see the shapes of many Dothraki moving about the camp, the night fast growing darker and darker, while a pale half-moon rose in the sky above them, accompanied by many bright, shining stars.

"How do you know so much about the Dothraki Jorah?" Valandil asked at last.

"I've been in this sellsword's business for a lot longer than you my friend, I've been to a lot of places amongst many people before I met you in Braavos, and I have spent time with the Dothraki before, sometimes as their enemy, sometimes as their prisoner, other times as their friend," Jorah said with a smile. "How did a Dúnadan get into the life of a sellsword anyways? Your people are a rarity east of the Narrow Sea"

"I came east to travel, to see the world, I confess I had a thirst for adventure, and I needed a way to make a living while I traveled and the life of a sellsword offered me that and a way to whet my wanderlust… Though, truth be told Jorah, I do not relish the killing, but one does what one can with the gifts you are given" replied Valandil, staring hard into the fire.

"To be as good with bow and blade as you are, and yet take no pleasure in it, is the mark of a true warrior my friend," Jorah said with a nod towards the Numenorean. Valandil could only give a rueful chuckle.

"And yet Tar-Robert, a man who by all the stories loves to fight and kill, sits on the Iron Throne and I sit here in the muck of a Dothraki camp with an old man from Bear Island" he said with a grin.

"Old man? I think you're the old man here! I may be old, but I know a thing or two about these Dothraki that you don't, and I might just able to keep you alive" Jorah shot back with a good natured laugh.

"Actually Jorah, I was hoping that you could teach me the Dothraki language, and their ways while we travel with them. They are a savage people, but I need to understand them if I am to protect the Targaryens amongst them" Valandil asked, scratching the back of his head.

"Of course my friend, if you are willing to learn from an old man from Bear Island" Jorah laughed.

"Your first lesson" he continued "Is that you will have to find a better moniker than 'Strider'"

"Why? It suits me rather admirably" Valandil said, stretching out his long legs to warm his feet by the fire.

"That may be true, but amongst the khalasar, only the slaves walk. You never told me your true name Strider, and I never asked, it is your own business what name you travel under, but 'Strider' is not a wise name to use if you want the respect of the Dothraki," Jorah explained. Valandil mused over this, and sat a while in thought, staring into the fire, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering tongues of flame. He reached up on his chest and removed a small silver brooch which had fastened his cloak around his shoulders, holding it in his hands as he examined it. It was small, but finely wrought in silver, made in the shape of an eagle, wings outstretched, with an eight-rayed star engraved on the eagle's chest. He handled with his fingers for a while, his face deep in thought, and then looked up at Jorah.

"Dúnadan will suffice," he said at last, replacing the brooch on his cloak "But if you think a different name is necessary, then call me Thorongil"

"Thorongil it is" Jorah agreed "But between you and I, I liked Strider better" . Valandil smiled and laughed.

His smile died immediately as they heard a woman's screams, distant but not far off, shrill and full of terror. Valandil sprang to his feet, his hand closed around the hilt of his sword, every sense in his body on alert. For a long moment all was silence except for the sounds of the khalasar, the crackling of fires, and laughter and sounds of Dothraki speech. It seemed they had little care for the sounds of a woman's screaming. Then the scream came again, louder, more fearful.

"Thorongil…" Jorah said in a steady, calm tone of voice, but Valandil did not heed him, for he was already off, long legs striding purposefully as he headed swiftly towards the direction of the screams. Valandil shouldered his way past many Dothraki, an easy task with his size, and headed towards the eastern edge of the encampment. The screams grew in intensity and duration, before suddenly cutting off. Valandil felt a cold sweat rise on the back of his neck, and he increased to a jog. There were innumerable Dothraki tents and yurts, some larger, some smaller, but they all appeared identical to Valandil's eyes, and the Dothraki did not seem to make camp with any kind of order or organization.

Now running, Valandil listened for any more screams, but they seem to have stopped, and finally he reached the eastern edge of the camp. Before him stretched a wide expanse of hilly plains covered in long grass, devoid of any building or person, lit only by the pale moonlight. Valandil stood there, heart pounding in his chest, and felt despair. Then, suddenly, one more scream came from away to his left, much closer now than any of the ones he had before, and he tore off towards it.

The sounds were coming from behind one of the larger of the tents, on the edge of the camp. Moving softly and silently up to the wall of the tent, Valandil silently crept up around it, one hand on the hilt of his sword. From behind the tent, he could hear the sounds of struggling, labored breathing, and the harsh laughter of several men. Finally, he came around to the back of the tent.

Before him were four men, Dothraki warriors by their long braids, three standing with cruel smiles on their faces, the four on the ground. Beneath the fourth one, Valandil could see the struggling legs of a young woman. With one hand, the Dothraki man was holding both of the girl's wrists against the ground, above her head, while with the other he was fumbling with his riding breeches. His braid was long, coming down to halfway down his back.

Valandil watched for only a split second before he decided what he must do. Covering the distance between himself and the Dothraki in four swift strides, he seized the Dothraki on top of the woman by his braid with both hands and hauled him off, sweeping his legs out from under him as he pulled. The man cried out in shock at the sudden surprise and pain, landing heavily on his back, and Valandil kicked him hard in the ribs as he lay there.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the side of his head as he felt the fist of another Dothraki punch him in the side of the jaw. He staggered back a few steps and looked up to find himself facing the second of the rapists. Cranking his arm back, Valandil punched him straight and hard, knocking the man backwards a few paces. With wrath in his eyes, the Dothraki looked up at Valandil, blood seeping from his nose, and he charged forward, leading with his shoulder. He was aiming for a tackle, but Valandil seized the man's forearms in a strong wrestler's grip, receiving the impact on his chest and stepping back to avoid losing his footing. He could tell that this Dothraki was an experienced wrestler, as he slipped from Valandil's grip and went for his leading leg with both arms. Shifting and turning his whole body to the side, Valandil used his leading leg and hooked it around the Dothraki's rear leg, at the same time he seized his enemy behind the neck, and using his leg and arm together, gave a great hooking throw which sent the Dothraki sprawling to the ground hard. Immediately Valandil was above him, hammering down into his face with hard punches.

Glancing over his shoulder, Valandil spotted one of the Dothraki seizing his scimitar from where he had left it by the side of the tent. Scrambling, he hauled out his own sword as the Dothraki came charging at him, scimitar raised. Throwing up a guard, Valandil blocked the opening blow and felt shockwaves of force travel through his blade and into his hands and arms. The Dothraki didn't hesitate, following his first stroke with more and more quick, vicious, slashing blows, the speed and ferocity of his assault forcing Valandil to back up, avoiding several of the slashes, and blocking the ones he couldn't with the flat of his blade. Locking their blades together in a bind, Valandil pushed the Dothraki back hard, moving his enemy back several feet, and then he dropped his sword into a low guard, the hilt down near his waist. The Dothraki was breathing hard, but he wasted no time and charged again, striking for the left side of Valandil's body. Raising his guard, Valandil took the blow and stepped forward, pushing the scimitar up as he did. He released one of his hands from his hilt and wrapped his free arm around the hilt and hands of the Dothraki, holding the scimitar in a viselike grip under his arm, with he cocked his sword arm back, pommel forward. For a moment the Dothraki struggled but could not free his sword, and then he looked at Valandil, their faces close together, and drove his head forward into Valandil's nose. His head was knocked back, a sharp pain in his nose from the blow, but he did not release the Dothraki's arms. Gritting his teeth, Valandil smashed the hard pommel of his sword down into the Dothraki face. Once, twice, three times he hammered his foe, until he felt the man go limp, and finally he released him, the body slumping onto the ground, unconscious.

Valandil stood, panting heavily, looking around him. One of the Dothraki was doubled up around his ribs, another lay on the ground, hands on his face, blood seeping between his fingers, the last one slumped at Valandil's feet. The girl they had been attacking lay before him, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes, dress torn and shoulders bare, her chest heaving as she breathed heavily.

'Where's the fourth one?' Valandil thought coldly. He felt his heart skip a beat as he heard the sound of a bow being drawn behind him. His heart pounded in his chest as he closed his eyes and waited for the shot, but it did not come. Then he heard the sound of steel sliding against leather, and Jorah's voice speaking in Dothraki. Slowly, Valandil turned around to see Jorah Mormont standing next to the Dothraki man, sword in hand, the edge of his sword held against the man's throat.

"See to the girl, this one isn't going anywhere" Jorah said, tapping his sword against the Dothraki warrior's chin.

"Are you hurt?" Valandil said gently, sheathing his sword as he approached the girl.

"N-n-no my lord," she said quickly, scrambling to her feet. Before he could say another word, the girl pushed past him, ran past Jorah, and was gone.

"What do we do with him?" Jorah said, tapping the Dothraki with his sword again.

"Let him go. Tell him that if he knows what is best for him, he will never do this again," Valandil said, glaring hard at the Dothraki. Jorah said a few words in their tongue, pushing the razor edge of his blade hard against the man's throat to make his point clear. The man nodded quickly, and then left in a great hurry, leaving his three companions still lying on the ground.

Jorah sighed and sheathed his sword. He walked over to Valandil and looked around at the three dispatched Dothraki.

"A noble thing you did for that girl, Thorongil" Jorah said.

"It was the only thing to do" Valandil replied.

"Come on, I think it's time to retire. The khalasar breaks camp earlier, you'll need your rest" Jorah answered, clapping Valandil on the shoulder as the two turned and walked back into the camp.

_______________________________________________

Dawn came early, golden light streaming over the eastern hills, and the clear skies promised a fine day. Valandil rose before most of the khalasar and watched the sunrise, already fully dressed with his grey Dunedain cloaked wrapped around him against the morning chill. His pipe was in his hand, a wreath of smoke around his head as he puffed on it pensively. Behind him stood Velo, his bridle tied to a stake on the ground, snorting impatiently and pawing at the ground, already fully loaded to travel with all of Valandil's belongings, including his most precious: His steelbow.

"Good morning, a fine day it looks to be" Valandil heard Jorah say behind him, followed by a yawn.

"Care for a little galenas? I have a spare pipe in my pack you could use," offered Valandil.

"Thank you, but no. Curious habit of your people, smoking," Jorah replied with a smile, now standing beside his friend. Valandil could see that he too was dressed, and he was standing next to his horse, fully packed.

"My people? It was the Andals who first put galenas in a pipe to smoke and called it 'westmanweed'. We only grew it for its sweet scent before we came to Westeros" Valandil said, smiling with his pipe still in his mouth before blowing out a ring of smoke.

"Truly? I suppose you would know, a Dúnadan never forgets" Jorah replied.

The whole vast encampment was broken down remarkably quickly for how chaotic the Dothraki seemed. Tents and huts were broken down and packed away, fires extinguished, food packed in saddlebags, carts provided for the old, the young and the sickly, and women with children. Finally, when all was packed, the whole khalasar, tens of thousands of warriors, women, children and slaves, assembled into a vast column. The carts were brought to the centre of the column, where they would be the most protected on the march. Behind and in front of the carts were vast long columns of mounted warriors, and walking slaves carrying the khalasar's burdens, with more riders deployed to screen the flanks and to scout in front of the column.

Valandil found himself near the front of the column, behind the Targaryens and Jorah, with the Khal and his bloodriders at the very front. Drogo shouted a few words in the Dothraki tongue, and then the entire vast horde of Dothraki began to move. Valandil reined his horse around, and took one last look at the sea, across which was his home and his family. Then he set the spurs to Velo and followed the horde, riding away into the east.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter III
Winterfell

From the roof of a tall tower, the young Bran Stark watched the horizon. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and on the distant green moorlands Bran could see the winding line of the Kingsroad. Then, far in the distance, moving shapes appeared, still blurry and unclear. They drew closer, and as Bran narrowed his eyes he could make them out; mounted men, horse drawn carriages and great wains, and many fluttering banners. As the column drew closer, his young eyes made out the sigil that flew upon the foremost standards: The black crowned stag upon the yellow field of House Baratheon. The shapes became men as the company approached Winterfell, proceeding at a brisk trot along the Kingsroad that wound like a snake across the rocky moorlands that surrounded the castle. Behind the royal banner came a strong cavalry of armed men on horseback, then the carriages and wains surrounded by the men-at-arms on foot.

The boy's face lit up with excitement, and he straightened up from his spot behind a merlon of the parapet. Turning around, he ran nimbly across the roof, balancing perfectly, before dropping off the opposite edge and hanging by his fingertips. Bran deftly lowered himself from his perch to another jutting rock of the tower's walls, and then down by the sill of an arrow slit, using his feet and hands equally to support himself. He dropped down onto the battlements of the curtain wall, and hopped from merlon to merlon before jumping down onto the walkway of the wall. Running to the next tower, he jumped off and hung from the edge, his foot reaching down for the stone he knew was there to support him. From protruding stone to stone of the tower's wall, Bran climbed down towards the thatched roof of the stables.

"Brandon!" cried a stern voice he knew only too well. Bran glanced over his shoulder to see his mother, standing with the robed Maester Luwin behind her, and his direwolf sitting on the ground staring at him.

"I saw the King! He's got hundreds of people!" Bran said as he climbed further down.

"How many times do I have to tell you? No climbing!" Catelyn Stark scolded her son.

"But he's coming right now, down our road!" Bran exclaimed, and he scurried across the roof and dropped down to climb from a wooden beam to the ground. As he landed agilely on the ground, he turned around to find his mother leaning towards him, looking stern.

"I want you to promise me: No more climbing!" she said. The young Stark looked at his feet.

"I promise," he said at last.

"Do you know what?" Cat said as she straightened up.

"What?" Bran asked.

"You always look at your feet before you lie," answered Cat. Bran was unable to contain a smile.

"Now go, run to your father, and tell him the King is close," she ordered. Bran nodded and ran off towards the keep, the direwolf pup following close behind.

The great column of the King's procession rode up the central road of the winter town that led to the castle of Winterfell itself. Everywhere one looked there was movement and colour as the King's retainers and his court arrived, everywhere there was the pageantry and splendour of a royal entry. All the smallfolk of Winterfell had turned out, lining the sides of the road as the company rode up to the eastern gate of Winterfell.

The column was led by the Baratheon knights and bannermen in the yellow of their King's house, the royal stag sigil emblazoned on the pennants which fluttered in the northern breeze. Amongst them were the Kingsguard themselves in their distinctive white cloaks and elaborate white enamelled scale armour. There were whispers amongst the smallfolk as they saw the dozens upon dozens of Lannister soldiers that rode alongside the Baratheon men-at-arms and the Kingsguard, and that the Lannister lion flew alongside the royal stag on the flags and pennants of the King's retinue. The whispers disappeared as they saw the colours of a third house amongst the company, and there was an awed silence broken only by the sounds of shod hooves on cobblestones as the smallfolk watched fifty Numenorean knights ride past.

They were tall, and prouder than any of the others in the King's company, for they seemed more akin to noble lords than to knights. The Dunedain wore long hauberks of black steel rings, with black surcoats upon their chests with the silver tree and seven silver stars that stood for the Dunedain Realm. Each man wore a tall helm that glimmered in the sun, and the close-fitting cheek guards were wrought to resemble the wings of seabirds, and the crests of their helms too were decorated with wings. They bore at the head of their column a long banner, black as the night, and upon it was the tree and stars, but above the tree and the stars was a silver crescent moon sigil. At the head of the Numenorean knights, beneath their banner, rode a man taller than the rest, and greater in bearing than all of his kin.

In the courtyard of Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark stood and waited for his King's arrival. Beside him stood his family, and all around him all the servants and retainers of Winterfell stood, waiting to greet their King. Soldiers and stable boys, blacksmiths, fletchers, carpenters, cooks, pages, squires, all stood together, close packed around their lord, as the portcullis opened with a great creak to admit the King's company.

The mounted Baratheon bannermen were first to enter, proudly wearing the yellow and black colours of their King's house and their distinctive helms with stag antlers wrought of bronze affixed upon them. Upon snorting mounts they trotted into the courtyard, and then as one dismounted and led their horses to the side and fell into formation next to the gate. Behind them came the Lannister men and some of the Kingsguard. Amongst the Lannister men-at-arms was a youthful boy, fair of hair and complexion, dressed in the finest of clothes, and handsome but with a grin that was more smirk than smile. Behind the golden-haired boy rode a towering man in dark armour, his helmet shaped like the head of a snarling dog, a massive sword slung across his back. A carriage followed the Lannister bannermen into the courtyard, its sides covered with images of lions and stags.

"Where's the imp?" Eddard heard the voice of his younger daughter, Arya, say.

"Would you please shut up?" Sansa, the older daughter, answered.

Finally, last of all and surrounded by his Kingsguard, came the man himself: King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name.

'Gods, is that really him?' Eddard thought immediately. Robert was hardly recognizable to him, having gained a massive paunch and a thick black beard. As the King entered, Eddard dropped to his knee, and the entire courtyard of people dropped to kneel before their King in unison. Eddard glanced up from his kneeling position to see that Robert could not even dismount his horse by himself, as one of Winterfell's grooms ran a mounting block up to the King's side to help him off his horse.

Robert strode across the wide space of the courtyard, a hand set on the pommel of the sword that hung at his side, his cloak flaring out behind him making the King appear even larger than he already was. Wordlessly, he stopped before the kneeling Ned. He flicked his fingers upwards, and Eddard stood up, his family and all the people of Winterfell standing with him. There was a long moment of silence as King Robert Baratheon looked at Lord Eddard Stark.

"You got fat," he said at last. Ned couldn't help the incredulous look on his face as he looked down at the King's gut, and then back up at him as if to say 'I got fat!?'. Immediately Robert broke out into peals of laughter, and the two old friends embraced warmly as they laughed.

"Cat!" Robert said as he turned to Ned's wife and hugged her in turn.

"Your Grace," Catelyn replied with a smile. The King ruffled the hair of young Rickon Stark, and then turned back to Ned.

"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?" Robert demanded with a good-natured grin.

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace, Winterfell is yours" Ned replied.

"It's good to see you again Ned, we have much to discuss with you," Robert said.

"We?" answered Ned. He had never known Robert to use the royal 'we'. As he spoke, there was another clatter of shod hooves on cobblestones. Looking over Robert's shoulder, Ned saw a cavalcade of tall men in black surcoats upon tall horses ride into the courtyard, reining their mounts in to bring them to a disciplined stop, forming a solid block of armoured men on horseback in the centre of the courtyard. The leader, tallest of them all, dismounted swiftly and tore off his tall, winged helmet to expose a head of dark hair, and fair, familiar features.

"Isildur!" exclaimed Ned.

"Eddard! Been too long!" Isildur said with a wide smile as he strode over to the Lord of the North and the two threw their arms around each other. When they released each other, still wearing the grins of old friends who had been long separated, Ned saw the Queen standing quietly behind the tall Numenorean lord, an unreadable expression on her face. Coldly, she extended a hand towards Ned.

"My Queen," Ned said, and kissed her hand.

"My Queen," Cat echoed with a curtsy.

"Ned, where's your crypt? I wish to pay my respects," Robert said. Ned was opening his mouth to answer when Cersei interrupted.

"You've been riding for a month, my love, surely the dead can wait?" she said.

"Ned, Isildur," King Robert said, ignoring his wife's protest. Exchanging glances, Eddard and Isildur followed their king away from the courtyard and down into the cool, damp corridors of Winterfell.

Beneath the Keep was the Crypts of Winterfell, a long, chill room lined by paired pillars and the sepulchres of all the Starks going back to the ancient Kings of the North. Between the pairs of pillars sat graven images of Stark lords in stone, iron swords in hand and snarling direwolves at their feet. Robert, Ned and Isildur walked in silence down the halls of the crypt, no noise save for the sounds of their boots against the stone floors. 'They bury their dead much in the same fashion as us' thought Isildur. The oppressive silence and stillness of the ancient halls of dead kings and lords seemed to steal the joy from their hearts.

"Tell me about Jon Arryn," Ned broke the silence at last.

"One minute he was fine, the next… Burned right through him, whatever it was. I loved that man," Robert answered, his tone bleak.

"We all did," Isildur answered.

"He never had to teach Ned anything, but do you remember me as a young man? All I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls, he told me what was what," Robert said with a rueful chuckle. Isildur and Eddard shot incredulous looks at their King.

"Don't look at me like that; it's not my fault I didn't listen," Robert said. Suddenly, he stopped and turned towards Ned.

"Listen Ned, I'm not the kind to beat around the bush, so I'm going to say this straight: I need you. The Kingdom needs you, down at King's Landing, not up here where you're no damn use to anyone. Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you Marshal of the King's Hosts," he said, his tone becoming very serious. With a confused look, Ned dropped his knee again.

"I am not worthy of the honour, Your Grace," Ned replied. Isildur looked at Robert, and the jolly gleam in the King's eyes had returned.

"I'm not trying to honour you, I'm trying to get you to build me an army while Isildur runs my Kingdom and I eat, drink and fuck to my heart's content. Hells, Ned, stand up," the fat King answered, tapping Eddard on the shoulder.

"The King's Host?" Ned said in an interrogating voice as he rose.

"Aye, the King's Host, Ned. A new army, not for any lord or rich man, but for the whole Realm, to defend all and protect all of the Kingdoms, not just serve one lord, and you will be the Marshal of my Host, to train it and lead it for me," Robert explained while the three of them resumed their walk down the crypt.

"My own son Aratan has come with me to help you build this host Ned, and he has brought with him Dunedain sergeants-at-arms to train your recruits," Isildur added.

"I am honoured Your Grace, and thank you Lord Isildur, but who exactly are you planning on using this Host on?" Ned asked pressingly. A dark look passed across Robert's face and he turned away from Ned. They had come at last to their destination, Robert stood with his back to his two friends, staring at the statue that he had come down there to see. From a pouch upon his belt, he drew forth a long feather, and placed it gently, almost lovingly in the outstretched stone hand.

"Some in the Kingdoms still call Robert 'Usurper'… And there are those across the Narrow Sea…" Isildur said, Robert still silent. Ned's eyes widened, and he looked from Isildur to Robert and then back again.

"By the Gods, you would build an army out of fear? Fear of what?" Ned asked, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight beneath furrowed brows.

"The Host shall preserve the King's Peace… I will not be remembered as the drunken Usurper, I will be remembered as the man who defended the Realm," Robert said, still turned away from his friends.

"From what, Robert? From what? Or is it from who?" Ned pressed, his voice hard. There was another long moment of oppressive silence.

"Did you have to bury her in a place like this?" Robert spoke at last. Ned seemed taken aback.

"She was his sister," Isildur said.

"She belongs here," Eddard replied.

"She belonged with me," Robert spoke again, his voice now hard and full of anger. Again the silence fell upon them.

"In my dreams I kill him every night. Sometimes I crush his breastplate with the hammer, sometimes I run him through, sometimes I kill him with my bare hands, choking the life out of him or drowning him in that blood-filled river," said Robert, his shoulders hunched beneath his cloak and his head hanging.

"You do not need a King's Host, Your Grace, the Targaryens are gone," Ned replied.

"Not all of them. Not yet," the King replied.

____________________________________________________________

The sun was sinking low in the sky when Isildur found Ned on the battlements of the western wall, above the godswood. His northern friend was leaning against the parapet, looking out as the sun set, a brilliant display of red and yellow light like a great funeral pyre, lighting up the woods and moorlands surrounding Winterfell with gold. Isildur could see, even as he came up the stairs to the battlement, that his friend was deep in thought.

"You ought to be in the great hall, our feast will be starting soon, and you're a guest of honour" Eddard said. Isildur smiled at him as he came to stand beside him, leaning back against the parapet.

"I thought that my old friend would need my counsel more than his family needs my company right now" replied Isildur. Eddard was silent, the light of the sunset falling upon his drawn, pensive face.

"The Iron Throne has changed him…" said Ned finally.

"It changes people. Such is the nature of kingship" answered Isildur. Eddard only shook his head.

"Why does he want to build an army now? What's got him frightened?" he mused. Isildur could only shrug.

"He took the Throne by rebellion, perhaps he wants to avoid his dynasty suffering the same fate as the Targaryens, perhaps he wishes to give the Realm a stronger defense against foreign invasion, perhaps he wishes to reduce the power of the nobles and stop the squabbling and backstabbing that has plagued this kingdom. I can see much in the minds and hearts of men, but I leave Robert's thoughts to himself. You'll have to take this up with him. You should be proud Ned, it is a great honour to be appointed the first Marshal" said Isildur.

"Aye, it is that. I must congratulate you Isildur, on your appointment as Hand. Robert couldn't have made a better choice" replied Ned, with a smile and a lighter tone in his voice. Isildur returned the smile as he turned around and looked out on the countryside around Winterfell. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, a brilliant ball of red flame. Out in the distance, Isildur could see a few farmers working in a field of golden wheat next to a small thatched-roof cottage, with a thin plume of smoke rising merrily from its chimney. Birds sang their evening songs, and somewhere a dog was barking. Behind them, Isildur heard the growing sounds of the feast beginning in the hall.

"I do love these long northern evenings. We never had sunsets like these where I come from," Isildur said with a sigh.

"You ever miss it?" Ned asked. Isildur was silent, very silent, as he stood with closed eyes, and Ned looked up at his friend and saw only an unreadable face.

"Yes… Every day. But I have a new home now" Isildur said with a weak smile

"Aye, you are of the North as much as I am. And I will miss it when I'm down there in that rat's nest they call a capital" said Ned.

"You're the lucky one Ned; you'll get to spend most of your time in the field, training your recruits. I'm the one who will have to deal with matters of the Realm," chuckled Isildur.

"I daresay you'll hate it as much as Robert does," Ned replied. "But you'll do it well. You do everything well"

"Well that's not entirely true my friend" Isildur smirked. "My brother tells me my calligraphy is horrible. I'm not much of a poet. And you know I can't dance worth a shit"

"Worst thing about the rebellion ending: I'll never get to see you dance like that again!" Ned laughed.

"If the Valar are merciful" Isildur chuckled.

"Come on Isildur; let's go drink the King's health and forget our worries for a while." Ned said with a broad smile.
The two of them turned away from the battlement and walked down the steps.

The western wall stood above the godswood, and Ned led Isildur along a beaten dirt path that ran towards the inner courtyard. The godswood lay in a tranquil silence as the light and darkness mixed in the twilight, the only sound was a subdued twittering of a few birds and the rustling of the wind in the leaves. Isildur had always loved the godswoods of the northmen, for trees and growing things had always been close to his heart, and though none of the weirwoods or Westerosi trees could equal, in his eyes, Nimloth the Fair or the White Tree that grew in Annuminas, the trees of the godswood were still beautiful.

The path turned towards the southern side of Winterfell, and they exited the godswood through a small wooden gate near to the Hunter's Gate along the western wall of Winterfell, and proceeded to wide main courtyard of Winterfell. The windows of the great hall were lit from within by firelight; there was the sound of many merry voices, of much laughter, the singing of songs and much good cheer. Isildur smiled as the great oaken door of the great hall were opened before him, and a wave of heat hit his face.

Before them, eight long rows of trestle tables stretched, four to either side of the central aisle, at which sat hundreds of people. Upon each table were plates heaped with mutton, roast pork, beef, goose, fish, vegetables, dried fruits, fresh loaves of bread, and whole wheels of cheese. Ale, mead and wine flowed in each person's goblet. Merry tunes were being played by troupes of musicians with tabor, pipe and lute, and many voices joined them in merry songs. The whole hall was candlelit, and great roaring fires poured heat from the hearths. Isildur smiled as he saw his own men seated amongst the northmen, smiling and talking amongst them, and his son Aratan and squire Ohtar seated next to Rodrick Cassel, laughing heartily at some joke or remark of his.

Isildur was seated at the high table alongside the Royal Family and the Starks, and they ate and talked about many things, and sung many songs late into the night. The food was very good, and the wine was even better. As the evening wore on however, Isildur noticed something: Jon was not seated amongst them. He looked down either side of the high table, and up and down the rest of the hall, and could not see him.

"Where is Jon?" Isildur said quietly, nudging Eddard beside him. Eddard subtly jerked his head towards Catelyn, and immediately Isildur understood. He spotted Eddard's brother Benjen, dressed all in the black of the Night's Watch, entering the hall, and Eddard got up to go greet him. Quietly, Isildur rose from the table and excused himself. As he walked out of the hall, he passed by King Robert, a buxom serving wench sitting on his lap, and Isildur glanced over his shoulder to see the Queen with a cold, dispassionate look on her face.

Outside in the courtyard, the night air was cool and crisp, the moon was shining and the sky was full of bright stars. Isildur breathed deeply of the cool air, and then looked across the yard. He heard the sounds of a blade ringing against wood, and he saw who he was looking for. Jon was standing by the training yard next to the armoury, across the courtyard from the great hall. He had a sword in hand, glimmering in the moonlight as he struck rapid winding blows against a man-shaped pell before him, and he was panting from the exertion.

"What are you doing out here Jon Stark?" Isildur called out as he crossed the courtyard. Jon stopped his practice and turned around slowly sword still in hand. His eyes widened as he spotted Isildur, and Jon bowed hastily.

"I'm sorry, my Lord Isildur, I did not see you," Jon said.

"Jon, you've known me since you were a boy, you can just call me 'Isildur'" Isildur laughed "Now tell me, why are you out here when the feast is indoors?" A grimace came across Jon's face.

"Lady Stark does not wish to insult the Royal Family by seating a bastard amongst them" he said bitterly.

"What? But you are of the House of Stark" Isildur replied.

"No, Lord Isildur, I'm not a Stark" Jon scoffed. At this, Isildur only gave Jon a hard look, ageless grey eyes meeting Jon's own.

"Jon, tell me, who is your father?" Isildur asked.

"Lord Eddard Stark" Jon answered

"Aye, and you live in Winterfell, the ancestral home of the Starks?" Isildur pressed.

"I do" Jon said uncertainly, not seeing the point of Isildur's questions.

"Aye, and you have been raised alongside Robb Stark and Brandon Stark and Rickon Stark, and Arya and Sansa too, and Eddard considers you his son. In my eyes, young Jon, you are as much a Stark as any of them"

"Thank you, Lord Isildur…" Jon said with a small smile.

"Now come on Jon Stark, you're coming inside. I'm a guest, and the Hand of the King, and you will be my guest." Isildur said with a merry laugh, clapping Jon on the back.

"Thank you milord, but no. I really must be practicing" Jon said bashfully, pointing at the pell with his sword.

"Practicing for what?" asked the tall Dunedain lord.

"I want to go north with my Uncle Benjen and join the Night's Watch" Jon said, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Ah, there is much honour in serving on the Wall. You may meet my nephew Anardil at Castle Black, he departed from Minas Anor before I left Annúminas, heading for the Wall as you are" Isildur replied with a warm smile. "But you're still coming inside to join the feast. You don't have to sit at the high table if you don't want, but I'm the Hand of the King and I won't have my friend's son out here slicing up a pell when there is food, drink and song for him to partake in"

"Are you sure that won't offend the King? Or Lady Stark?" Jon replied uncertainly, scratching the back of his head.

"Trust me lad, the King won't notice, and tell Lady Stark that she can take it up with me if she feels offended" Isildur insisted. He took the sword from Jon's reluctant hands and hung it up on the rack

Finally, Jon relented and nodded, and Isildur led him back into the great hall, still filled with the sounds of happy revelry, and he seated him beside Aratan, who welcomed the boy heartily and poured Jon a cup of ale. Isildur smiled as he patted Jon on the shoulder, and then started back towards the high table. However, even as he returned, he did not miss the glowering look that Catelyn shot him as he came to sit again.

The feast lasted much longer into the night, full of good food, good drink, and much laughter, and Isildur had his fill of all three. The night was full of music and song, Westerosi songs, different from his people's, but a welcome change. Many happy hours later, sometime after midnight, Isildur found sitting next to a small, warm, bright fire in one of the great hall's hearths, with all the Stark children gathered around him, young Rickon Stark almost dozing as he leaned against one of Isildur's great arms. The hall was empty except for them, the rest of the feasters having retired already. Catelyn walked towards them, hands on her hips, a warm smile on her face and all trace of her previous animosity gone as she looked upon her children.

"Come on children, time for bed" she said warmly.

"But I want to hear one of Uncle Isildur's stories!" Rickon protested, looking up at his mother with big, pleading eyes.

"Just one Mother, please" said Bran.

"Gods be good, it's like Robb is a child all over again" Cat said, rolling her eyes with a good natured smile.

"Mother, it's not my fault that Lord Isildur always brought the best tales whenever he visited" Robb laughed. Isildur looked around at all the Starks seated around him, smiling widely.

"I am so very fond of all you wonderful Starks, but Rickon, you know I'm not your real uncle right?" Isildur said, leaning down towards the young boy.

"But you feel like an uncle" Rickon said innocently. Isildur felt himself overcome with affection for all of his friends in the Stark family as he looked around at them.

"What story would you like to hear tonight?" he asked.

"The tale of Beren and Luthien! That's my favourite one" Sansa said immediately.

"No, that one's boring!" Arya protested "Tell us about Feanor and the Silmarils"

"No, I want to hear about Turin Turambar!" piped up Bran. Isildur could only laugh as the children bickered about the choice of story.

"I will tell you a tale that you have never heard before" he said mysteriously, firelight glinting in his grey eyes. At this, all the children quieted down, and Robb sat down from where he had been standing, shifting closer to Isildur as he did. Isildur looked around at all of them, and then up at Catelyn, who sighed happily and nodded her assent, and then Isildur began to speak, his voice deep and melodious.

"I will tell you the tale of Fingolfin, proudest and most valiant of the Elf-kings of the Elder Days. It is a fair and sad tale, full of heroism and great deeds, as are all tales of that ancient world. Even the Elves do not sing of it, for their sorrow is too great, but we, the Dunedain, keep its memory alive. " Isildur began, and he continued:
"You have heard much of this tale already. In ancient times, thousands of years ago, all the Elves dwelled in Eldamar, which we call Elvenhome, in the blessed realm of Valinor in the Uttermost West, living alongside the holy Valar themselves, who taught them many great things, great arts and magic. This was in very ancient days, even before my own people had set foot on our homeland of Numenor, before men had come into the world at all. Fingolfin was the son of Finwe by his second wife, and he was the half-brother of Feanor himself."

"When the Black Enemy came into Eldamar, murdering the Two Trees and stealing the Silmarils, and killing Finwe in the process, Fingolfin joined with Feanor in the rebellion against the Valar, and Fingolfin's people were the largest group of the Noldor to join with Feanor against Morgoth, the Dark Lord of Angband. He thought it unwise, and Feanor foolish, but Fingolfin was noble, and would not abandon his people to Feanor's leadership."
"Feanor, however, was treacherous to his half-brother, and after stealing ships and slaughtering many of the Teleri Elves, the greatest mariners of all the Elves, he abandoned Fingolfin, leaving him behind in Valinor while Feanor crossed the sea to Middle-earth, all his thought bent on reclaiming the Silmarils from the accursed thief who had stolen them from him But Fingolfin was not interested in the Silmarils, he sought to avenge his father's murder at the hands of the Black Enemy, but Feanor had taken all the ships and the Teleri, enraged at Feanor's kinslaying, would not build any for Fingolfin. To avenge his father, Fingolfin had to take the host of his people and go north, across the only way to Middle-earth: The Helcaraxe, the Grinding Ice"

"Hell-car-ax? What's that Uncle Isildur?" Rickon said, struggling with the unfamiliar syllables.

"It's a land far, far to the north, and in those days the sun had not yet risen over the world, and there was no light in the world but the stars. The Helcaraxe is the Grinding Ice, hundreds and hundreds of miles of broken, shifting, grinding, crushing ice sheets, devoid of all life and warmth. There, at the northern end of the world, there is nothing but ice, and vast fogs, and deathly cold mists, and the seas there are filled with the clashing hills of ice and the grinding of ice deep-sunken. Fingolfin led his people across the Helcaraxe, with nothing to show the way but starlight. Now elves are hardier and stronger than men, and they do not take ill as we do, but even they are not immune to the cold of that long night. Some died as they walked, the cold freezing even the blood in their veins. Others just laid down in the snow to go to sleep, easing themselves into the embrace of death. But for those that survived, their valour and hardiness grew with the hardship, for they were a mighty people, the elder undying children of the One Himself. The fires in their hearts would not be quenched, not even by the Helcaraxe. At great length, after many hardships and much misery, they crossed the Grinding Ice and came into Midde-earth. There, it was they, the Elves, who beheld the beauty of the first rising moon, and the glory of the first dawn of the first day, in those ancient days when the world was young,"

For a long time, Isildur sat in silence, the Stark children could only look at him, and in that moment it seemed to them that his glinting grey eyes were wells of deep memory, reflecting ages long past. For a moment, they were fully aware that this man, Isildur, son of Elendil, had lived in the time of Aegon the Conqueror, had beheld Balerion the Black Dread, had been born and grown to manhood in legendary Westernesse itself. He seemed to them to be more akin to one of the hewn stone images of ancient kings in their crypt, yet more kingly, more powerful, more beautiful, far greater in majesty and authority. At first appearances he was no older than their own father; his face was clean shaven and there was no grey in his dark hair, they could all feel that Isildur was old, a part of an older, and more fey world than their own.

"What happened after that?" Bran said at last. Then Isildur began to tell the story again:

"Fingolfin took his people south into Beleriand, and there he learned that his brother Feanor had fought a great battle against a mighty army of orcs, and slain many balrogs, the fire-demons of the Elder Days, before himself having been overthrown in the combat. Maedhros, eldest of the Sons of Feanor, had been proclaimed High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, but at Fingolfin's coming, he surrendered the kingship to Fingolfin, for having been Feanor's brother, Fingolfin's claim was stronger, and thus he was made High King."

"Now united after many years of estrangement between the Houses of Fingolfin and Feanor, the Noldor finally had the strength and leadership to threaten the Black Enemy himself and so the Dark Lord unleashed a great army of orcs from the depths of Angband upon the Noldor. Tens of thousands of orcs, they covered the land like a great black tide of insects, scurrying, snarling, vicious, sallying forth to burn the fledgling realms of the elves. The mountains spewed fire at the Dark Lord's command, and through the Enemy's foul devices, the skies grew dark at the coming of his host, and even the earth itself trembled at the marching feet of the orcs. But Fingolfin led the Noldor, and they met the orc-host on the great fields of Ard-galen, there they fought a mighty battle, and the elves held the mastery, for they were in the youth of their kind, and they were fell-handed and brave. The ground ran black with orc blood, and the orcs turned away at the valour of Fingolfin's coming and the cold death he rained upon them with his icy sword Ringil. They pursued the orcs even to the gates of Angband itself, and destroyed them all. After, under Fingolfin's leadership, they laid siege to Angband, and for four hundred years, until Fingolfin's kingship, the realms of the elves in Beleriand knew peace"

"But, you said that his story is sad…" Arya interrupted.

"He hasn't finished the story yet!" Bran snapped, and Isildur laughed.

"You have to let your uncle finish his tale before you start asking questions" he said with a merry glint in his eye.
"The Black Enemy was imprisoned, but he was not dormant for those four centuries. In the depths of his dark fortress, he was breeding a new weapon, more cunning and more terrible than orc or wight or balrog: Dragons"

"Dragons?" said Rickon, wonder in his tone.

"Yes Rickon, dragons, and not the beasts of the Targaryen kings from your stories, the Black Enemy created a great wyrm: Glaurung, the Father of Dragons. He was vast, wingless, a reptilian beast of great ferocity and terrible cunning. It was Glaurung who would bring all the misfortunes upon Turin Turambar, whose story you already know. When Glaurung was nearly fully grown, the Black Enemy sent forth fire that flowed like rivers out from the gates of Angband, setting alight all the plains of Ard-galen where Fingolfin had won his great victory four hundred years earlier, and amongst the fires came Glaurung himself, spewing yet more fire from his mighty jaws, and in his wake came thousands of orcs and wights and balrogs and other foul beasts of Morgoth's legions, and a desperate battle was joined amongst the burning fields. Though many great deeds were done, the elves could not stand before the coming of the dragon, they were beaten and scattered, and the siege of Angband was broken"

"When Fingolfin learned of the sudden attack, and of the great loss amongst his people, he was overcome by despair and a madness of rage. Filled with wrath and despair he armed himself. He donned his panoply, his tall helm, his silvered steel hauberk, his broad blue shield, and his long spear, and his sword Ringil, which glittered like ice. Then he mounted Rochallor, his great horse, and rode for Angband, passing over the burnt, ashen plains of Ard-galen like a tempest in the dust. All that beheld him fled in amazement, for such was his wrath that he seemed like Orome the Hunter had come into Middle-earth again, and his eyes shone like the eyes of a Vala. He came to the great dark gates of Angband, blowing his battle horn, and he smote upon the gates and cried out:

'Come forth! Come forth Morgoth, craven lord of slaves! Come forth and face justice!'

And Morgoth came"

"It's getting late children…" Catelyn interrupted.

"But mother, it's just getting to the best part!" Bran answered. Rolling her eyes, Catelyn nodded for Isildur to continue, and again the tall Dúnadan lord began to tell the tale:

"The sound of Morgoth's feet was like thunder underground. The brazen gate of Angband was flung open, smoking like the mouth of a volcano, and hither came Morgoth, the Black Enemy, the Dark Lord, in armour of black steel, with a great shield of sable without blazon, and in his hand he carried Grond, the hammer of the underworld. Atop his brow was set an iron crown, with the three Silmarils glimmering upon it, and he stood above Fingolfin like a tower stands above a man. Then the Enemy hurled Grond aloft, and brought it crashing down like a bolt of thunder, but nimbly Fingolfin sprang away, like lightning shoots from out of a dark cloud, and he cast his spear, but it was turned aside by the black shield of Morgoth. The crash of Grond left a smoking pit in the ground, and again Morgoth held it up and brought it down , again and again Morgoth tried to smite the Elf-king, each time rending a pit in the ground, and each time Fingolfin sprang away, his icy sword Ringil now in hand. Seven times did Fingolfin rend his foul Enemy with that glittering blade, and seven times did Morgoth cry out in pain, and seven times did the armies of Angband cry out in dismay as they beheld the duel between Elf-king and Dark Lord. Then at last Fingolfin grew weary, and Morgoth bore down his shield upon him. Thrice was he crushed to his knees, thrice did he rise again with his broken shield and stricken helm. However, the ground was rent from Grond's blows, and Fingolfin fell backwards into a pit, so Morgoth stomped down on him with his left foot and set his full weight upon him, feeling like a fallen hill on Fingolfin's throat. Yet with the last of his strength, Fingolfin gave one last stroke, hewing Morgoth's foot with Ringil, wounding the Dark Lord deeply, smoking black blood gushing forth. Then, wounded and enraged, Morgoth seized Fingolfin's body in his massive hands and broke it, and made to throw it to his wolves, but Thorondor, King of all Eagles, came rushing down from the sky as swift as the wind, stooping upon Morgoth's face and marring it with his talons. He seized Fingolfin's broken body in his great claws, and bore him away. Thus passed Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, bravest and most valiant of the Elven kings. Forever after, Morgoth would bear the scars of the duel, and the Black Enemy always walked with limp from where Ringil hewed his foot"

The Starks were quiet all around him, and Isildur stared hard into the fire, stretching out his long legs before him.

"What happened to the Elves after that?" Arya asked.

"The kingship passed to Fingon, Fingolfin's eldest son, who bore the crown until his death in battle, whereupon Turgon, lord of the hidden city of Gondolin, became High King of the Noldor. And that story too I shall tell you..." Isildur said, and then glanced up at Catelyn, who stood with hands on her hips. "Another night" he added with a merry twinkle in his eyes. Immediately there were protests from all the younger Starks.

"Enough! Robb, Sansa, take them to bed would you?" Catelyn said in exasperation.

"Of course mother, come on you lot!" laughed Robb, gathering up his younger siblings and leading them off, up the stairs to their chambers.

"Thank you for the story Uncle Isildur" Rickon said, and Isildur smiled at him and ruffled his hair before pushing him off towards the group of his siblings. Isildur looked at Catelyn, who stood with arms crossed, shaking her head ruefully.

"You always fill their heads with such unbelievable tales" Cat said with a sigh.

"The best stories are always the ones that really happened" Isildur replied as he stood up, towering over the smaller woman. Again Catelyn shook her head.

"You truly believe that such things happened?" she said.

"Cat, I truly know that such things happened. A Dúnadan never forgets" answered Isildur "Thank you for your hospitality tonight, sleep well Lady Stark" he added, and then he bowed with a flourish, and smiled, and turned and walked out of the hall, the sounds of his boots on the stones echoing around him.

__________________________________________________________

The next morning, dawn crept up above the moorlands, bright and yellow, full of promise of a fine day. Isildur stood by the window of his room, on one of the upper floors of the keep, looking out upon the courtyard. He was already dressed in a fine, but simple, tunic of black and grey. In his hand he held a wooden pipe, blowing smoke from his mouth as he puffed on it, the scent of galenas filling his room as he smoked. Far beneath him, in the courtyard, a company of Stark men at arms were drilling with spear and shield, practicing coming together into the tight packed ranks of a shield wall, and moving and wheeling with shields locked together and spears presented, their razor-sharp tips glinting in the morning sun. Amongst them was Aratan, easily spotted by his great height amongst the northmen, correcting a man's stance here or his grip there, offering advice in between the sergeant-at-arms' barked commands to the company.

After Isildur had broken his fast in the great hall, dining lightly on bread, fruit and cheese with the younger Starks and members of the Royal Family, who were full of questions about his stories, he walked out of the hall only to be met by Ohtar. Ohtar was scratching at an old battle scar that ran along his cheek; in his hand he carried a long-bladed boar spear.

"Milord, will you be accompanying His Grace Tar-Robert on his boar hunt today?" Ohtar asked.

"Boar hunt? What? I thought we were to depart today?" Isildur said, confused.

"Aye milord, but Tar-Robert expressed the wish to, and I quote: 'Kill the fuck out of something' this morning, and so he and Lord Stark have decided to go on a boar hunt. Tar-Robert wishes to know if you will accompany him on the hunt. I took the liberty of finding a good boar spear for you, milord" Ohtar said, extending the spear's haft towards Isildur, but Isildur pushed it away.

"You're free to join the hunt if you so choose, but I am not in the mood for killing today," replied Isildur, walking past his squire.

"It seems, milord, Tar-Robert is always in the mood for killing" his squire said, following his lord a few paces behind him.

"Where is Robert? I must speak to him" Isildur asked.

"Over by the Hunter's Gate I believe milord" said Ohtar.

Ohtar was correct. Near to the Hunter's Gate, Isildur found his king, with Ned nearby, and a strong company, two score of hunters with spears in hand. Dogs they had too, a large number of strong mastiffs and hounds, tails all a wagging, eagerly barking amongst themselves. In the morning light, to his credit and Isildur's amazement, Robert did not look nearly as hung over as expected. 'Perhaps he's developing an immunity?' Isildur thought drily.

"You as good with a spear as you used to be?" Isildur heard Robert say to Ned as he approached.

"No, but I'm still better than you" Eddard replied, and they both laughed.

"Ah, there's my Hand. If you're done with your smoking and whatever other shit your people do in the morning, grab a spear Isildur, we're going hunting" Robert said, with a happy glint in his eyes, smiling through his black beard.

"Forgive me Your Grace, but should we not be departing for King's Landing today? We have many leagues to travel, and surely the affairs of the Realm-"

"To hell with the affairs of the Realm, I want to kill something!" Robert cut him off.

"And I don't mean to stop you!" Isildur laughed "But forgive me Your Grace, I fear that I haven't the heart for hunting today. Though I think my squire shall join you". He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw Ohtar, standing head and shoulders above the other hunters, pulling on a pair of leather gloves.

"Aye milord. If it pleases you, Your Grace, I would join in your hunt today" Ohtar said, bowing as he did.

"Fine then. If Isildur doesn't want to kill anything today, I may as well kill something with his squire. Seven Hells, between you and Eddard, King's Landing will have a surplus of grim. I'll have to work on that! Come on boys let's go kill some boar!" And with that, Robert set the spurs to his horse and galloped out of the Hunter's Gate. Eddard walked his horse past Isildur, giving his friend a knowing look, and then spurred his horse into a canter and followed his King. They were followed by the trotting spearmen on foot and by the pack of dogs, all barking as they ran.

Turning back and walking towards the main courtyard, Isildur smiled as he saw that Aratan had now fully taken over the drilling of the Stark soldiers. Aratan had them spread out across the yard, swords in hand; mirroring Aratan's movements as he led them through repeated sword drills. Aratan smoothly transitioned between cuts, thrusts and guards, and the men-at-arms drilling with him struggled to match the fluidity and speed of his blade glinting in the sun. Some did better and some did worse, yet Isildur could clearly see that the Stark soldiers all knew what they were doing. 'Sir Rodrick has always been a good trainer' Isildur thought, though he noticed that Rodrick was not amongst the drilling soldiers this morning. 'Probably away on the hunt' he mused as he turned away from the training grounds and headed towards the godswood.

Beneath the thick canopy of the godswood, the sounds of the castle seemed muted, dulled and distant. Golden rays of sunlight streamed through the dense, dark foliage as Isildur walked beneath their boughs, humming softly as he walked amongst the close confines of the wood. Hard ironwoods and ancient oaks grew thick in this godswood, and tangled roots jutted out through the dark soil. A breeze rustled the leaves and pines of the wood, yet he did not feel it down amongst the tree trunks. There was a dark, silent tranquility in the godswood this day. Isildur found himself drawn to the weirwood heart-tree in the centre of the godswood. It stood, silent and implacable, with its boughs drooping over a cold, dark pool of black water. He walked around the edges of the pool and stood by the weirdwood, running a hand along its bone-white trunk, staring into the sap-filled red eyes of the weirwood's long, drawn, melancholy face. Isildur had always felt a kinship to the weirwoods. The whole godswood of Winterfell felt old, but the weirwood heart-tree felt ancient, full of deep memory. Brandon the Builder had raised this castle around this tree; this tree had stood when Isildur had come ashore with his father and brother to set foot for the first time on Westeros. Isildur had lived for many more years than any man not of Numenorean lineage could hope, yet he felt young standing next to the weirwood. When he was young, elves would often come to his grandfather's household, always secretively, to speak with his father and grandfather and hold many counsels late into the night. He would hear them speak and sing, and Isildur had always marveled at how ageless and yet how old they seemed. Standing next to a weirwood felt like standing next to an elf.

Isildur heard barking, two sharp, high-pitched barks. It was too close, and too early in the day, for it to be the returning hunting dogs. It sounded like the barking of one of the Starks' direwolf pups. Isildur looked around for the source of the sound. Then, looking up above the tops of the trees, he saw an old, crumbling tower that brooded above the northern end of the godswood, and upon one of its walls he saw the brown shape of a child climbing. It could only be Bran, he was a better climber than Arya and Rickon was too young for climbing still. With a light heart, Isildur set off in the direction of the old tower, once again humming to himself. As he lost sight of the old tower within the darkness of the wood's dense canopy, his mind turned to other things. He wondered how close Anardil was to the Wall by now, how Elendur was ruling Ithilien in his absence. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his future. He had not seen King's Landing since the Rebellion, seventeen years ago. It seemed that every time he rode away to the south had been in times of upheaval, war and loss. And now he was to be Hand of the King, the first Dunedain Hand in the three centuries since their nine ships had landed.

'Illuvatar grant me the strength, Valar grant me the wisdom' Isildur thought pensively. He came out of the trees into a small clearing where the canopy gave way to a window of clear blue sky. He was still some distance from the tower, but he could see Bran climbing on it more clearly now. The clever little boy had gotten all the way up to the top, and seemed to be standing at a window, peering inside.

But then Isildur's heart stopped, and Bran was falling through the air, plummeting towards the ground.

"BRAN!" Isildur cried out, and he took off at a run towards the tower. Branches of the surrounding trees whipped in his face and eyes painfully, but he pushed through them as he ran, heart pounding rapidly in his chest, a cold sweat rising on the back of his neck.

Within moments he burst through the trees to the clearing at the foot of the tower. Bran's direwolf pup was close nearby, whining and licking Bran's face insistently. The boy lay motionless, flat on his back on the cold, hard ground, bloodied and bruised, his legs splayed at an unnatural angle beneath him. Isildur sprinted, covering the last few yards to Bran's side in a few long strides, and skidded down onto his knees next to the boy.

"Oh no, please no, please not the boy" Isildur muttered, checking Bran for signs of life.

He sighed with deep relief as he found a pulse on Bran's throat, faint but steady. His breathing was light and ragged though. As he had been taught, Isildur checked the boy over for obvious injuries, and found none except for the severely broken bones in his legs. Swallowing a growing lump in his throat, Isildur scooped Bran's small body up in his arms carefully, then started back towards the courtyard, jogging as fast as he dared, trying not jar Bran's body too much.

Isildur burst through the wooden door near to the Hunter's Gate, and broke into a run across the courtyard, the ground sailing underneath him as long strides carried him towards the great hall.

"Aratan! Aratan!" he yelled out as he ran. His son was in the yard, still training with the soldiers. Turning around towards his father, Aratan's face paled when he saw Bran cradled in Isildur's arms.

"Get the Maester! And bring me athelas and my healer's bag!" Isildur barked out, now quickly jogging up the stairs to the door of the great hall.

"Aye!" Aratan yelled, running off towards the carts, "Send for Lord and Lady Stark!" he roared.

Gasps and screams of shock and surprise filled the air as Isildur carried Bran into the great hall.

The hour was late when Isildur finally left Bran's room, followed by Maester Luwin. The sweet and pungent aroma of athelas followed them as the Maester closed the door softly. Out in the hallway, the Starks were all clustered around Catelyn, faces downcast and grim. Ned's arm was around Catelyn, and her eyes were red and puffy from much crying. She stood up from where she had been sitting, her family rising with her. All eyes were on Isildur, the same question plain on each person's face.

"I believe the most dangerous time has passed… We are very lucky that Lord Isildur was in the godswood when Bran fell" Maester Luwin said gently. There was a deep, collective sigh of relief from all the Starks.

"Is-is he awake? Is he okay?" Cat asked anxiously.

"What about his legs?" Ned asked, deep concern in his eyes.

"I did all I could for him" Isildur sighed "He will walk again, but I think he will need a cane all of his life, and he will be able to run only with great pain."

"He wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard…" Arya said quietly.

"He is deeply comatose right now; he has withdrawn within his mind, though I tried to reach out to him, he would not harken to me. Whether this is from the shock of his fall or something else, I cannot say" Isildur explained, his eyes closed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, great weariness on his face.

"What can we do for him?" said Robb, anxiousness for his brother clear on his face. From a pocket, Isildur produced a small leather bag. Opening it, he revealed several dried green leaves. The hallway was immediately filled with a clear, refreshing scent from the leaves.

"This is athelas, a plant from my homeland with many noble qualities. We have often used it in healing, but it seems most potent in my hands or the hands of those of my house. I must depart for King's Landing, but I will leave with you one of my men, my cousin Beregond, to care for Bran. If you crush these leaves in hot water and waft them around his face, you may be able to wake him, for the scent refreshes, clears and calms the mind. Beyond that, I cannot say" Isildur explained. His face was drawn, and for a moment he felt fully just how old he was. "All we can do is hope. I will pray to the One for him" he added.

"Thank you, Isildur. If you had not been here, my son-" Ned trailed off.

"Don't even think of such things. I just thank Eru that I was here"

"Gods be good, Bran will awake soon and be able to thank you properly." Cat said, and she wiped a few tears from her eyes. Ned drew her into his arms for a gentle hug.

"Shh, it's alright, it'll be okay." Eddard murmured into her hair. Isildur watched them quietly for a moment, and then he bid the Starks good night and walked away towards his chamber.

_____________________________________________________

Isildur found himself walking in the godswood again, but he could not remember how he got there. The sky was a stormy grey, the whole world around him seemed washed out and colourless, all sound was muted and distant except for the crunching of leaves beneath his boots as he drifted slowly through the wood. All around him, the trees were bare and lifeless. Snow was beginning to fall, and he could see his breath in the air.

"Cold be hand and heart and bone
and cold be sleep under stone" Isildur heard a voice whispering. It seemed to come from behind every tree and right in his ear all at once.

He looked up, there was the old, broken tower, and there was Bran in the window once more. Bran was slipping, Bran was falling. Isildur opened his mouth to cry out, but no words came from his throat. He began to run, but it felt like he was moving underwater. Too slow, too late, he'd never make it in time.

"You couldn't save him, Isildur Elendilion" he heard a voice, deep and powerful, echoing through the woods. And then once more there came the whispering voice again.

"Never more to wake on stony bed
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead"

Suddenly, Isildur was not in the godswood, but in a great large room. He recognized it: It was the great hall of the Red Keep, in King's Landing. Looking up, Isildur saw that the roof was smashed and open to a stormy grey sky. Snow was falling through the open roof, more heavily than before and already the hall was covered in a layer of white, even over the Iron Throne. Before Isildur stood two men, a table in between them. Stretched out on the table was a woman, dark-haired and fair of complexion, but deathly still and cold. The two men were weeping over her.

"You couldn't save her, Isildur Elendilion" said the deep voice, and the whispering followed.

"In the cold winds the stars shall die
and all men shall give a fearful cry"

Now he found himself in a new place, but this one he recognized immediately. Despite the snow that now fell heavily upon everything, he could recognize that he was at the havens at Romenna, back in Numenor, but it was not the Romenna he remembered. A heavy blanket of snow covered everything, the buildings were broken and crumbled, the towers had been toppled, and the walls were in disrepair. The whole city had the air of a place that had been abandoned for many years. There was ice in the harbour, great floating floes of it and the sea was black as night.

Out on the horizon, Isildur could see the ocean beginning to swell, a massive swell. A swell coming towards him, growing as it did. It towered over the tops of the tallest buildings, it was taller than hills, taller than mountains, taller than Mount Meneltarma itself. A wall of black water, vast and silent, bearing down on Isildur implacably and unstoppably, coming towards him faster and faster.

"You couldn't even save your home, Isildur Elendilion"

"And the Dark Lord shall raise his hand over dead sea and withered land"

With a mighty roar, the wave came crashing down.

________________________________________

"NO!" Isildur cried out as he sat bolt upright in bed. He was breathing heavily, his sheets were soaked with cold sweat, and he felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. The low embers of his fire were burning out in his hearth, and the grey light of dawn streamed through his window. Then Isildur's door was flung open, and the Numenorean knight who had been on watch rushed in, hauling his sword from its scabbard.

"Cirion, it's alright… Just a dream" Isildur said slowly as he swung his feet over the side of his bed. His guard visibly relaxed.

"Very well milord" Cirion replied, sheathing his sword. He saluted in the Numenorean fashion, with clasped fist on his breast, and then left the room.

Isildur pulled on his travelling clothes, a sturdy, simple, but finely made high-collared tunic with trousers, and a sleeveless black surcoat overtop, belted around the waist with Narsil on his right side and a short dagger on the left. On the right side of his chest, over his heart, a small tree was embroidered in silver on his surcoat. From his bedside table, Isildur picked up a silver brooch. It was small, but very finely made, a silver brooch in the shape of an eagle with wings outstretched and an eight-rayed star on its chest. Isildur regarded it for a moment, and then pulled his heavy grey cloak up around his shoulders and pinned it there with his brooch. Then he pulled a long wooden pipe and some dried galenas out of a pouch on his belt, and filled the pipe, lit it, and then wrapped his cloak around himself and stood by the window as he smoked.

The weather matched his mood: Grey and grim, with only a hint of blue sky on the horizon, the rest covered in overcast clouds. There was no training in the courtyard this morning, the King's retinue was too busy preparing for departure, packing and repacking the carriages, carts and wains, marshaling the horses and assembling the supplies, barrel upon barrel of food and drink for the road. Ohtar was amongst them, bickering with some Lannister squire over a matter of some package to go in the cart for the Dunedain or the cart for the Lannister men. Isildur heaved a deep sigh, breathing a cloud of smoke out the window, they had many miles to go today, and even after his smoke his mind was not at peace.

After he had checked on Bran to find the little Stark still deeply asleep, his breathing now steadier, Isildur broke his fast. When he had eaten lightly of bread and cheese, Isildur walked out into the main courtyard. The travel preparations were continuing smoothly, and Ohtar seemed to have his own company's preparations firmly under control. He had always been an excellent squire. Isildur breathed the brisk northern air in deeply, and then spotted Jon standing over by Winterfell's smithy. As he walked over towards him, Jaime Lannister passed by Isildur going in the opposite direction. The wolfish look in Jaime's eyes seemed to say that he was sizing Isildur up, measuring him in some way. Involuntarily, Isildur's hand twitched near Narsil's hilt.

Jon was standing above a workbench as the blacksmith polished off a sword with a long, thin, light blade with a complex guard around the hilt.
"You are to leave today?" Isildur said as he approached. Jon turned, startled at his voice.

"Yes, going north with my uncle, my lord" Jon replied.

"Jon Stark, I'll say it again: Call me Isildur. You planning on taking that to the Wall?" said Isildur, nodding towards the thin blade in the blacksmith's hands. The finishing touches done, the smith sheathed it in a special thin scabbard and handed it to Jon.

"No, it's a gift" Jon explained with a small smile. Isildur held out his hand towards it, and Jon handed it over. With one smooth motion, Isildur swept it out of its scabbard and held it aloft before his face.

"I never thought I'd see one of these again. In my homeland they were called 'limmegil'. They were quite a fashion amongst the nobles. Rather useless on a battlefield full of armoured men, but they were quite handy in the duels of honour most of our nobles were fighting, or for driving off thugs in the street." Isildur said, and then sheathed the sword and handed it back to Jon. "Who is it for?" he asked.

"My sister"

"Ah, Arya. It will suit her well. So much like her aunt, that one… Jon, I know a lot of people in the Kingdoms don't take the Watch seriously, but I would just like to thank you now for choosing to take the black. Not many volunteer for such a duty, not many have the right spirit for it, but I see you shall go far, Jon Stark." Isildur said, and he extended his hand towards Jon. Jon went to take it in a handshake, but instead Isildur clasped Jon's forearm firmly in the Numenorean fashion

"Give my best to my nephew" Isildur said.

"I will" replied Jon with a smile.

"Good hunting, Jon Stark"

Over by the supply cart, Isildur found Aratan and Ohtar. All of the Dunedain belongings had been packed away snugly in the cart, and Ohtar was overlooking the lashings that held it down with a satisfied eye.

"How is Brandon?" Aratan asked immediately.

"He will survive, the only thing worrying me now is when he will awake. The athelas shall help, and young Beregond was ever a diligent student of the healers" answered his father. Isildur pulled his saddle off the cart and put it over his shoulder, then walked over to where a groom was holding Fleetfoot's bridle and placed it on the horse's back.

"Forgive me father, if I had been faster-" Aratan began, but his father cut him off.

"Enough of that Ari. You are too hard on yourself. I went to see Bran before I broke my fast this morning, his breathing has improved, and there is more colour in his skin today. All we can do now is hope and pray to Illuvatar for the boy and his family"

"To endure such injury at such a young age… Poor boy" Aratan said, while Isildur secured the straps on Fleetfoot's saddle.

"My Lord Isildur" said the voice of Robb Stark. Isildur turned away from his horse to see the eldest of the Stark children standing there. Despite Robb's strong, stocky build, he appeared small amongst the tall Numenoreans all around him.

"I just wanted to thank you for what you did for my brother, I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't have been here" Robb said. Isildur stopped him with a raised hand.

"I'm just glad I was here. I'm very fond of that boy. I hope he awakes soon. You will write me when he awakes?"

"Yes, of course. And you'll watch my father's back down in the capital?" Robb replied.

"Always have" Isildur laughed.

It was nearly noon when the King's entourage was ready to leave. With a great clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the column set off, riding beneath the tunnel of the main gatehouse. The royal procession streamed out from under the portcullis like a river of colour and steel. King Robert led at the forefront of the column, the royal stag banners streaming above his head, with knights and men-at-arms in Baratheon yellow all about him. Next went the Queen's carriage, with Lannister men on horse and foot all around it, lion banners fluttering in the cool breeze. Bringing up the rear were the Starks and the Numenoreans, the white tree of the Dunedain flying alongside the grey direwolf of House Stark.

The few summer inhabitants of the winter town lined the streets for the King's departure as the procession passed out of the East Gate of Winterfell. Isildur could never get used to their awed looks whenever he rode amongst Westerosi. They rode out on the eastern road, over the broad grassy moors and hills surrounding Winterfell. The overcast was beginning to clear, and rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, shining down upon the fair green hills of the North. At length, they came to the crossroads, the castle of Winterfell now shrinking in the distance behind them. Ahead of Isildur, he saw Benjen Stark, and the little Lannister dwarf and his two guards, turn away from the main column and start up the northern path. Jon and Eddard had stopped at the crossroads.
"The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother" Isildur heard Ned say, his voice personal and deeply emotional. Jon turned his mount, and then cantered away towards the north after his uncle.

Isildur found himself halting Fleetfoot at the crossroads, silently looking away towards the north. The column was passing him by as he sat upon his horse, watching Jon and Benjen and the Lannister dwarf ride away.

'That boy rides towards dark places and many hard labours… And so do I' Isildur mused, and then reined Fleetfoot around and cantered away into the south.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter IV
The Kingsroad

Days turned to weeks as the King's company rode south along the Kingsroad. At first they rode through the broad, grassy highlands of the North, and Isildur slept under a vast expanse of stars each night. The weather was cool, but pleasant, sunny with little clouds and no rain. And so south they rode, the climate growing gradually milder and warmer as the miles passed away and they went further and further south. Though the Kingsroad this far north was only a dirt path, it was dry and hard-packed, and the going was easy. For days and weeks, they rode south, until finally they reached Moat Cailin, at the northern end of the Neck. There the company passed a night in the cold, silent ruins of the once-great fortress, amongst toppled towers and massive slabs of black basalt that were once walls. They were not smooth like walls of Numenorean stonework, but marked, pitted and hewn. Isildur ran a hand along the rough surface of one of the blocks.

'How long did it take them to cut this block and move it here? How many lives of men were spent putting up this fortress to guard the gates of the North?' Isildur mused, for he knew that the First Men did not have the art of the Men of Numenor with which to shape stone, they had done this with no great power or craft, just simple hands hewing away at hard rock over years and years. Though they had built Moat Cailin with less artistry and grace than Isildur and his people had erected Minas Ithil and Annuminas and Minas Anor and the other great fortresses of the Dunedain, in a way he found Moat Cailin to be even more impressive, for it was far more primitive, short lived people with less knowledge that had raised this castle and it's towers and walls.

A quiet, surprisingly restful night they passed amongst the silent walls of Moat Cailin, and then at dawn's first light they set out again, onto the causeway that led into the vast swamp known as the Neck. No longer was the world green and grassy, in the Neck it was damp and swampy and full of mist. The waters were cold and clammy, and their dark, greasy surfaces were covered in the scum of weeds. The ragged shadows of dead grass and reeds loomed in the mists, and here and there were lonesome, half-drowned trees covered in moss and fungus. For the most part the Kingsroad was dry, raised high above the marshes on a causeway, but in some places the Neck had worn down the causeway and the road became wet, muddy and boggy, treacherous for both horse and cart. More than one of the footmen lost a boot or other article of clothing in the deep, sucking mud.

Even worse than the mud and the persistent dampness were the insects, huge swarms and clouds of insects. There were horseflies as bigger as half a grown man's thumb, black clouds of biting midges, mosquitos in abundance; hosts of insects, armies of insects, numbers so great that the air was filled with an ever-present buzzing of tiny wings. At night the swarms grew even bolder, and the men passed the night in an agony of bites and swatting, or else wrapping themselves in their bed rolls and trying to endure as best they could. The midges and flies sought out eyes, nostrils, and ears; they tormented man and animal alike. Each day was silent but for the buzzing, each man enduring his own private hell of insects. Out in the mists, they heard the deep-throated hisses and roars of lizard-lions, and more than one man awoke cursing in the night with a snake slithering beneath his sheets for warmth. The days seemed to run together into one never-ending blur of wet misery.

Then one day, just over a week since Moat Cailin, the mists rolled back, the ground grew dry and solid, and the world became green and fair once more as they broke through the Neck and into the Riverlands. The company continued south along the Kingsroad, on the eastern bank of the cold, swift-running Green Fork. The valleys were fertile, the woodlands a verdant green, and they rode past fields rich with grain, past thriving towns and villages, past hilltop castles whose banners bravely proclaimed the sigils of the Riverlords. A constant stream of boats passed up and down the Green Fork, bearing goods and merchants up and down the Green Fork. It was a welcome change after the unbearable experience of the Neck, the men's spirits were raised, and their journey became merry once again.

"Gods, now this is country!" Robert declared as he stepped out from behind a tree where he had been urinating. The sun was warm on Isildur's face, and a pleasant breeze rustled the leaves in the trees. They had stopped alongside the road for a noon meal. Fresh Riverlands fruit, good white bread and meat roasted on an open fire were spread out, using boxes and crates for tables for Ned, Isildur and the King.

"I've half a mind to just take my horse and keep going, leave them all behind" Robert said as he sat down and grabbed a mug of brown beer.

"I've half a mind to join you" Ned replied.

"What do you say Ned, just you and me on the Kingsroad, swords at our sides, couple of tavern wenches to warm our beds tonight" Robert said with a grin.

"Just you and Ned?" Isildur asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Only because I know you'd never come with us!" Robert laughed.

"Oh I can think of a time when I might have" Isildur replied with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"When was that, four hundred years ago?" Robert teased.

"More like three hundred actually" Isildur replied, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Robert and Ned exchanged glances.

"Gods Isildur, how is it your people live for-bloody-ever anyways? No one's ever told me" Robert asked.

"Death is a gift Robert. My people are given longer before they must accept the Gift of Men" answered Isildur. Immediately Robert scoffed with derision.

"'Death is a gift' you say, 'Gift of Men' you say. Bunch of mystical Numenorean bollocks I say. It's a load of shit that you get to live on and on for hundreds of years doing as you please, like your eighty year old son out in the Free Cities adventuring, whilst me and Ned never even got a chance to be young" the King said.

"Oh, I recall a few chances" Ned said with a grin. Robert broke into a hearty laugh.

"There was that one, that common girl of yours" he said to Ned "Becka, with the big tits you could bury your face in!"

"Bessie" Ned corrected him "She was one of yours"

"Bessie! Thank the gods for Bessie and her tits!" Robert laughed. Isildur rolled his eyes at both of them.

"Oh don't give us that look Isildur, I know you must have taken at least one nice plump whore to your tent at some point" the King said merrily.

"No, I didn't" Isildur replied flatly.

"How about you Ned? Who was that common girl of yours? Alena? Merril? Your bastard's mother" Robert said to Eddard.

"Wylla" Ned said quietly.

"She must have been a rare wench to make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honour" Robert teased "You never told me what she looked like"

"Nor will I" replied Ned coldly. Robert looked at him hard.

"We were at war, none of us knew if we were ever going to go home again. You're too hard on yourself, you and Isildur both, you always have been" Robert said.

"You know Isildur, there was this one Numenorean girl I was with this one time, Silmarien, Gods there are some benefits to a girl who can live for hundreds of years but keep a young woman's body" Robert said with a laugh.

"Silmarien is my granddaughter's name" Isildur said flatly, staring hard at Robert. As Robert's faced paled, Isildur burst into laughter.

"My granddaughter is only twelve. You should have seen the look on your face!" Isildur guffawed, slapping his knee.

"It's a good thing I'm your King, between you and Ned being so embarrassed about his wench, one of you would have hit me already" Robert said with a grin.

"The worst thing about your coronation was that I'll never get to hit you again" Ned said drily with a smile. Suddenly, Robert's face seemed to darken.

"Trust me, that's not the worst thing" he said. From a pocket, he took out a small piece of parchment paper. "There was a rider in the night" Robert explained, and handed it to Ned. Ned read over the letter, and then grimaced and threw it down upon the table.

"Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord, what of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?" Ned said.

"A dagger in the night perhaps, and a bold man to wield it." Robert replied harshly.

"Perhaps sending them a few dragon skulls would-" Isildur began, but he was cut off.

"Oh you actually want to send a gift!?" Robert snapped, "What Rhaegar Targaryen did to the woman I love was unforgivable, what the Mad King did to Ned's family was unforgivable. I'll kill every single Targaryen I can get my hands on and whoever stands in my way!" he finished with a snarl.

"Well this one is across the Narrow Sea, and she's little more than a child Robert" Ned said. Robert's eyes were hard and cold.

"Soon enough that child will spread her legs for this 'Khal Drogo' and start breeding, and what then? There's still plenty in the Kingdoms who say I'm a usurper, and if a Targaryen boy crossed with a hundred thousand screaming Dothraki behind him? There's scum who will join him. This is why you will build me an army Ned, and you'll give him everything he needs to do it Isildur" Robert replied, voice harsh and commanding. There's was a moment of silence, and it was plain that Eddard carefully considering his next words.

"As you wish, Your Grace" Ned said finally. The breeze was rustling in the leaves and the grass, and Robert took a long swig from his beer, which calmed him.

"You speak the truth Your Grace, however sending assassins after the Khal's wife will only aggravate the Dothraki, and even though they cannot cross the Narrow Sea, I do not think sending her a dagger to be planted in her breast is the most prudent choice of action" Isildur advised, his voice even, conciliatory.

"Isildur, in that letter it reports that Daenerys is being accompanied by an unusual mercenary. Very tall, with dark hair, and he carries a steelbow" the King said. Isildur furrowed his brows.

"My people aren't sellswords Robert… And if you're suggesting that it was my son-" Isildur's tone was rising.

"No, no, I'm not suggesting anything" Robert said immediately, raising his hands diplomatically. "But it sounds like one of your people. All I'm suggesting is that you should write your boy, check where he is, what he's doing… I'd hate for him to get mixed up in any bad business across the Narrow Sea"
Isildur took a deep breath.

"It couldn't be my son, he wouldn't. He would never debase him so. I taught him better than that" the tall Numenorean said at last. Again they sat in silence, their food untouched, until the King broke the silence.

"There's a war coming, I don't know when or who, but I can feel it coming" he said, staring hard at Ned and Isildur in turn.

Their ride continued south, the weather growing warmer with each mile they passed closer to King's Landing. The Kingsroad grew busier as they traveled deeper and deeper into the rich, populous, southern heart of Westeros. They were still on the northern shore of the Trident, far from the heartlands of the Reach, and yet traffic on the Kingsroad was growing with every day, merchants and travellers heading one way or another. The smallfolk bowed as the King and his company passed them by, but Isildur caught a few awed glances cast up his way. 'Numenorean' they whispered as he passed. He would never get used to such awe from others, and already he felt the yearning for Minas Ithil, the fair highlands of Ithilien and his own people.

Then at last it came time for them to cross the Trident, at the Ruby Ford.

It was unnaturally quiet when they came to the Ford. The kind of quiet that Isildur felt would precede an ambush, though he knew that no such attack would come, for they were not at war. It was a hot day, the second hour of the afternoon, with the sun just beginning to sink from its zenith. There was no wind, no rustling in the trees or grass, no songs of birds, and even the burbling of water over the rocks of the shallow ford and the sounds of horses and carts crossing it seemed subdued.

Robert sat sullenly upon his horse as Isildur rode up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at Isildur, showing a face deep in contemplation. Isildur gently pulled back on Fleetfoot's reins to halt next to his King.

"You remember this place Isildur?" Robert asked.

"I remember it well" Isildur replied.

"I remember like it was yesterday. The royal army's ranks were all massed on that bank over yonder, with the colours and shields and sigils of the Targaryens and the Martells and dozens of different loyalist houses, and I remember how there was that great pause as both our armies stopped and stared each other down, and then you and your little company charged right into the middle of them. By the Gods, you hit them like a thunderbolt, and our army followed" Robert reminisced, his eyes cloudy and distant.

"Someone had to open the ball" said Isildur.

"The ball! I like that, maybe if you called a battle a ball, you'd get my little brother out on the field. I remember charging right at that cursed dragon Rhaegar, right for his dragon standard, with the hammer in my hand. But I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there to lead that first charge" Robert went on, sighing deeply.

"You would have won, with or without me. I just made it easier. It doesn't change the fact that you won that battle with a swing of your hammer" Isildur replied.

"Aye" said Robert, "Aye, I remember like it was yesterday. I'll remember that blow to the day I day. You and your housecarls had just smashed your way through the locked shields of the Warguard. I found Rhaegar in the ford, slogging through the water on foot. His visor was up; he was catching a breath when he saw me. I put everything into that blow, all my strength, all my rage, all my hate. Collapsed his breast plate, broke every bone in his chest I bet, sent those rubies scattering into the river. Gods, I still remember the look on his face, the shock on those sneering Targaryen features, the shockwave traveling up through my arms from how hard I hit him…"

Isildur stared at his friend. Robert's face was unreadable even to the Numenorean and his tone strange. There was a certain sense of vindictive satisfaction in his voice, but also regret. Not regret for Rhaegar, of that Isildur was certain, but perhaps regret for Lyanna, all that he had done for her sake, and all that had all come to naught.

"What do you remember about that day?" The King asked. Isildur closed his eyes for a moment.

"I remember duelling Barristan Selmy on the far bank of the river, before you struck down Rhaegar" the Numenorean said, reopening his eyes. "Ned had fought him to a standstill, and I intervened when I saw Ned begin to tire and struggle. I had been routing the loyalists wherever I came against them, so I didn't expect much from Ser Barristan, yet to my own amazement he stood when no other would. He must have known he was outclassed; I was larger than him, stronger, a longer reach, more experienced. But still he stood, and he fought hard, the hardest fight I've ever gotten from an Andal, he fought bravely. I was so impressed that I disarmed him rather than kill him. Good man, Ser Barristan, the best Andal knight I've ever fought, the best I've ever seen" As Isildur spoke, his tone was melancholy, and his face was pensive.

"We should be riding on, Your Grace," Isildur said. Robert sighed.

"That we should Isildur" he agreed, and squeezed at his horse's flanks.

As the column passed out of the ford and Robert rode away, Isildur looked around at the Ruby Ford. It seemed so odd that a place that had seen such horrendous carnage could be so quiet and tranquil. The Trident had been stained red with blood, the stream littered with bodies of the dead and dying, the ford filled with struggling men, the air had been full of shouts, screams and battle cries, with the clash of armour and weapons. And yet, the Ruby Ford showed no trace of the horrors it had seen that day. It was just another ford on the mighty Trident, filled with the sounds of water running over rocks. The company was drawing away now, so Isildur spurred Fleetfoot across the ford, and followed his King.

Now south of the Trident and coming closer to the heartlands of the Eight Kingdoms, the King's procession rode through along southern bank of the Trident, through well-cultivated farmlands, dotted with small septs and villages, and here and there on the hilltops there were the holdfasts of the lords of the region. Tall hedgerows separated the fields and ran along the road, punctuated here and there by ancient oaks and stately elm trees. From time to time they would pass a common meadow, grazed upon by cattle, oxen and herds of bleating sheep. The climate was warm, in the full heat of a southern summer, with the sun bright and hot.

They came to an inn not long after the crossing at the Ruby Ford, late in the afternoon as the sun began to sink towards evening. It was a fair inn, two storeys tall and built of stone, with a wide grassy meadow across the road from it, and surrounded all by forest. It sat upon a crossroads, where the Kingsroad running from King's Landing to Winterfell was intersected by two other roads, one running east to the Vale of Arryn, another west towards the Riverlands and the Westerlands. A sign above the door proclaimed it as "The Crossroads Inn", an apt name. The glade in which it sat was quiet enough, but in the distance they could hear the rush of the nearby Trident, now a swift, mighty river from the merger of its three forks. Robert announced that they would spend the night at the inn before continuing on in the morning. Immediately, the men began to pitch tents and pavilions all around the inn.

"Will you be taking a room in the inn milord?" asked Ohtar. He was standing next to the Dunedain cart, helping the men unpack the gear for making camp. In one smooth motion, Isildur dismounted Fleetfoot.

"No Ohtar, I think I'll sleep outside tonight, with the men. Pitch my pavilion somewhere amongst our people, I'll leave it to you" Isildur answered, beginning to loosen off the saddle straps on his horse. Fleetfoot tossed his head and neighed at other passing horses as his master removed the saddle, and then retrieved a brush from the baggage and began to brush him down.

"Let me do that milord, you needn't trouble yourself" Ohtar said.

"It's fine, you have enough of your business to attend to, I can take care of Fleetfoot myself" Isildur said with a smile.

When his horse had been tended to, and tied up with the other Numenorean mounts in a pasture of good grass, Isildur made his way to the inn. As he opened the door to the common room, a greyish flash streaked across the floor and ran into one of his legs.

"Nymeria!" cried a voice. It was Arya Stark, dressed in her usual tattered common garb, a brush in her hand. Looking down, Isildur saw that the grey flash was one of the direwolf pups that the Stark children were raising, now grown to equal a good sized dog. It had a fierce aspect in its flashing yellow eyes that spoke of a wildly independent spirit. 'Just like its master' Isildur thought as he knelt down, smiling at the wolf. Gingerly he carefully extended a hand towards it, holding eye contact with the wolf. Cocking its head to the side, the wolf sat down on its haunches, tail wagging slowly. Isildur slowly patted the wolf along its shoulder; the fur was soft and silky, but matted with dirt and mud.

"Nymeria?" he said to Arya as she knelt by her wolf and began to brush the mud out of its hair.

"I named her after the Warrior Queen of the Rhoynar" Arya said, almost bashfully, as if the name was silly or childish.

"A worthy name for a direwolf I think" Isildur said. He had always liked Arya, a fiercely independent little girl, so adventurous, making friends amongst highborn and commoners alike. Lately had often seen her with the butcher's boy, running here or there, going far afield of the column, exploring everywhere as they rode south. With her dark Stark colouring and long face and wild nature, she reminded him very much of her aunt, Lyanna.

"She got all muddy when we crossed the river; I was trying to get her clean. Stay still Nymeria, I need to do the other side!" she said as the direwolf tried to squirm away from the brush. Nymeria tried to spring away again, but Isildur seized her firmly but gently and spoke to her softly in the Elven tongue, and the direwolf quieted down and sat patiently as Arya began to brush the other side.

"How did you do that Uncle Isildur?" Arya asked with wide, wondering eyes.

"Sindarin, the tongue of the Grey-elves." He said with a chuckle "Ever since I was a boy I have found Quenya more beautiful, more elegant, but animals always seem to respond best to Sindarin. I've yet to meet a beast that did not seem to understand its words" Nymeria regarded Isildur with brilliant yellow eyes as he scratched her behind one of her ears.

"Could you teach me?" Arya asked eagerly. Isildur stood up with a good natured smile, whilst Nymeria still sat patiently as Arya brushed the clods of mud out of her fur.

"I shall be quite busy when we get to King's Landing, but when I am free or one of my men is unoccupied, we shall teach you what we can of the Elven tongues. You are so much like your aunt, she was eager to learn as well" Isildur said with a laugh.

"My aunt Lyanna could speak Elvish?" Arya asked, voice full of wonder.

"Aye, one of my best students in fact. She often came to Minas Ithil, and travelled many times to Annúminas, Minas Anor, Osgiliath, all our great cities. She was so eager to learn anything she could about us, our homeland, our history, our language. She was equally at home in the sparring yard as she was discussing philosophy with my brother. You are very much like her, quite unlike your sister" he answered. Arya rolled her eyes at the mention of her sister.

"Sansa is just so… Ugh! Her and Septa Mordane both, they never want to do anything fun. They want me to ride in the wheelhouse with the Queen tomorrow, but the wheelhouse doesn't even have windows! You can't see anything. I'd much rather go riding; there are so many things I've never seen before in the south!" Arya complained. She finally finished brushing the last of the dirt and mud from Nymeria's coat. The young direwolf had a savage beauty to her, with long, dark grey fur on her back and flanks and lighter, creamy fur on her underside and neck. Her limbs were shapely and strong, and Isildur could tell that her friendliness around Arya belied a far more savage nature.

"Well it is a great honour to be asked to attend the Queen" Isildur said. 'An honour I can do without with that woman' he thought, but did not say it. Arya did not look too impressed by the honour either.

"Mycah and I are going to go exploring instead" Arya said "We're going to go looking for the rubies!"

"The rubies?" Isildur said. It was then that he remembered the rubies that had been encrusted in the shape of a dragon on Rhaegar's breastplate that day at the Trident, and how they had been sent flying like a spray of blood when Robert's war hammer had caved that breastplate in, and he remembered the soldiers of both sides, rebel and loyalist alike, scrambling to gather up the precious stones.

"Rhaegar's rubies, do you think there's still any left?" Arya asked. Isildur smiled warmly at her.

"Perhaps, if you look hard enough" he told her, ruffling her hair. With a wide, beaming smile, she ran off, Nymeria loping along at her heels.

"There is a lot of the wolf's blood in her" said Aratan's voice. Isildur turned to see his son behind him, just outside the door to the inn. Like all Numenoreans, he was tall, almost a spitting image of his father and eldest brother, but for his mother's blue eyes rather than the grey of his father and siblings. In one hand he held an envelope, sealed with black wax, which Isildur knew was the seal of the Night's Watch.

"A rider just arrived from the North, he said this was addressed to you by your old friend Mormont, Lord Commander of the Watch. The rider is one of the brothers; he said he set out as soon as the word reached Castle Black of your appointment as Hand. He's been on our trail for weeks" Aratan said, extending the envelope towards his father. Isildur walked out of the inn common room into the warmth of the southern air, taking the letter from Aratan's hands as he did. He broke the thick, heavy seal and opened it up.

"Ohtar!" Isildur called over to his squire, whom he spotted speaking to the lean, rangy black-clad Watchman who stood, looking weary and worn by hard riding, by a sweating, panting horse. Ohtar snapped sharply to attention, an old soldier's habit, at his lord's address.

"See that the Watchman is given food and rest, and plenty of drink" he ordered. Ohtar led the grateful messenger off towards the inn.

"Definitely Mormont's hand" Isildur said as he read over the letter. Isildur and Aratan, standing head and shoulders above most of the Westerosi, headed towards the Numenorean encampment, which stood separated by a short distance from the rest of the camp.

"What news?" asked Aratan.

"Seems that news travels fast in the Kingdoms, my old friend the Lord-Commander already knows I am the new Hand of the King" Isildur said. "He is asking for my support to help renew the Night's Watch. They have barely a thousand black brothers left, barely enough funds to maintain them, barely enough food to keep them fed… Valar above, I always knew the Watch was neglected but never so shamefully or so badly" he said incredulously, eyes sweeping over the letter again.

"Anardil went north to the Wall" Aratan said quietly.

"Aye, one of our folk shall be a great boon to them there, but not enough I judge" Isildur replied.

"Shall you speak to Tar-Robert about this matter?" asked his son.

"I must. If the tales about what lies beyond the Wall are even half as true as our tales are, then letting the Night's Watch fall to such a state would be an extreme folly."

"But, the Westerosi say those things have been gone for thousands of years…" Aratan said.

"We thought that our Enemy was gone too, lost in the War of Wrath, but he came slithering back up from the east to haunt our halls again." Isildur said in a hard voice, folding the letter back up. He deposited it in a pocket on the inside of his tunic, to show the King later.

"Aratan, when you begin training the recruits for Robert's host, I want you to select a fair number, several hundred to a thousand at the least. Good, brave, dependable young Westerosi men with few family associations to hold them back, the sort of men that the Watch needs. I'll leave their selection to you, but have a list ready so when I convince Robert of the need to reinforce the Wall, we can have them ready to send, already trained by you and our masters-at-arms." said Isildur.

"Yes father" Aratan said, nodding his head.

"And I need you to do something for me as well" replied Isildur, his tone deadly serious. He stopped and faced his son, placing a hand on Aratan's shoulder.

"Anything father" his son said.

"I need you to relax sometime Ari" Isildur said with a fatherly smile, ruffling his son's hair just as he used to do when Aratan was a boy.

"I relax plenty!" Aratan protested with a laugh.

They turned and walked into the Numenorean camp, amongst tents and pavilions of black and white, silver and blue. Merry fires were crackling amongst the tents, and here and there gathered groups of the Dunedain soldiers, laughing and talking amongst themselves as they began to prepare their evening meal. The aroma of meat beginning to roast over an open fire wafted amongst the tents.

"Relax plenty you say? Ohtar tells me that every day you're up before everyone else, going through sword forms. At lunch you spar with one of our knights. And I've seen you up after almost everyone else, still working on forms. Aratan, the exercise of arms has ever been your joy, but do not overwork yourself. There will be much to do when we reach King's Landing. Don't make me set Ohtar on you, you know what he's like" Isildur threatened good-naturedly.

"Oh I know" Aratan laughed "He's got that saying: 'a good squire's greatest duty is-"

"'To make sure his fucking knight gets some fucking sleep'" Isildur finished "Trust me son, I've heard it many times". They both laughed. The father and son found a fire near the centre of the camp and sat down amongst their men for the evening meal. Isildur always made a point of eating amongst his men whenever possible, of knowing them as best he could, of sharing in their laughter, their triumphs and their hardships. His father had told him when he was a boy that no man would follow a stranger who stood behind him.

The cook was just dishing out joints of roasted lamb when a cry arose from the inn, and then suddenly there was a cacophony of noise and commotion from the building. Men were shouting, dogs were barking, and amongst the noise was the more distinctive bark of Sansa's direwolf. Isildur shot to his feet, followed by Aratan, and they strode towards the inn swiftly. They were met at the crossroads by Ned Stark and many of his men, who were kindling torches and assembling their horses. There was a stricken, worried look across Ned's grim features as he took a torch from one of his men.

"Arya has gone missing" he said, seeing the question in Isildur's eyes. Isildur paled, and then shot a look at Aratan. His son immediately understood without even a word, and took off running back towards the Dunedain camp.

"There was some incident by the river, I didn't hear the whole story, Sansa and the Prince are in there now, his arm is bleeding. Arya has run off with her wolf, Sansa doesn't know where she went" Ned explained. Torches in hand, his men began to fan out and enter the woods between the inn and the Trident, calling out Arya's name.

"My men and I will help search" Isildur said. Aratan had already roused the Dunedain of his household from their camp, and they were kindling torches of their own to join in the search with the Stark men.

"My Lord Isildur" said an urgent voice behind them. It was the King's squire, a young, sandy-haired youth with the look of a Lannister about him. "The King is asking for you" he explained.

Isildur locked eyes with Ned. They both already guessed what Robert wanted.

"My men will help you search; I will see to the Prince's wounds and then join you as soon as I can" Isildur said. Ned nodded and headed off towards the dark, dense woods, calling out his daughter's name with the rest of the searchers.

The common room of the Crossroads Inn was lit by many candles and a blazing fire in its hearth. It was crowded, too crowded, as it was filled by the serving staff of the inn, Lannister men, Baratheon men, and many of the servants and retainers crowding around a table near the end of the hall. Looking above their heads, Isildur could see Robert and the Queen standing near to their son, talking in heated, argumentative tones. One of the servants was cleaning out the wounds on the Prince's arm, whilst the Prince snivelled and whimpered with each touch of the damp cloth. The crowds parted before the tall Numenorean lord as he walked in, heavy boots thudding on the flagstones of the common room's floor.

"Isildur, finally a man with some common sense! Come talk some of your Numenorean wisdom into my wife" Robert said, turning towards him as Isildur approached.

"Yes Lord Isildur, please tell His Grace the King of the seriousness of his son's wound" Cersei said, a touch of venom and a dash of motherly concern in her voice.

"Serious wound? Seven Hells woman, I've seen serious wounds. This will give him some good scars and nothing worse, it was just a dog bite" the King said.

"Wolf" Cersei spat. "It was one of those northern savages' wolves"

Wordlessly, Isildur walked past them and approached the Prince. The servant stepped back with a bowed head, for he knew that Isildur had far greater knowledge as a healer and physician than himself. Seeing that the servant had only pushed up Prince Joffrey's tunic sleeve to clean the wound, Isildur unsheathed his dagger from his belt and swiftly cut the remains of the sleeve off to expose the arm. He knelt by the bench that Prince Joffrey sat upon and gently took the Prince's arm in his hands to examine it. Joffrey gave a whimper at Isildur's touch. The bite marks in his arm were bloody, but not severe. Isildur tested the motion in each of the Prince's fingers, and then the motion of his wrist, testing to make sure that the bite had no damaged any of the sinews in the arm. It was just as Robert had assessed it: Not a severe wound. There would be scars, but nothing worse.

"He'll live" Isildur said, standing up and turning around. "Wash his wound out well, bandage it in clean linen and change the bandages regularly. There'll be scars but no permanent damage, you have my word"

"'No permanent damage'? My son has been savaged by a wild beast!" Cersei hissed. Ignoring her, Isildur started towards the door.

"Where are you going my lord Isildur? Your prince is wounded, he requires your attention" the Queen said vehemently. Isildur spun around on her.

"If the Prince was mauled by a bear, perhaps he would. But he wasn't, and there is a young girl out in the woods right now who is lost. Your son will live, I promise you. Your servant was doing a perfectly adequate job of cleaning his wound. The Prince is safe. Arya Stark might not be. I go where I am needed, your Grace" he said, deadly quiet and calm. In his eyes they could see the restrained anger and outrage. No one spoke a word as Isildur stalked out of the common room, the crowds once again scattering before him like leaves in a gale.

They spent hours searching in the forests along the banks of the Trident, northmen and Dunedain alike, first in the failing light of the evening, then on into the night, with the orange lights of their torches casting flickering in the darkness. "ARYAAA!" many voices called out, echoing in the silent woods. Ned led them, and with his daughter potentially in danger he seemed tireless, striding forward, calling out his daughter's name ceaselessly.

Then, near to the midnight hour, Isildur spotted torchlight in the distance, down towards the banks of the Trident. The light was too far ahead of their own line to be one of his men or Ned's. Leaving Eddard and Aratan to continue the search, Isildur headed towards the light. The night air was cool on his bare face, and as he tramped through the underbrush he was surrounded by the nocturnal sounds of a forest. Crickets chirped and insects buzzed around his ears, and in the distance there was the forlorn, eerie noise of a hooting owl. The search party's calls for Arya echoed amongst the trees while he walked. Isildur drew closer to the light he had seen, and he spotted figures standing amongst the trees, four of them, men by the look of them.

"Where's your wolf, girl?" asked the voice of one of the men.

"She ran off" said the small, but distinctively defiant voice of Arya, unseen behind the figures.

Isildur emerged from the trees into a small clearing, near to the roaring river. Four men stood in the clearing, two in the white armour and garb of the Kingsguard, two wearing the livery of House Lannister. Even from behind, Isildur could recognize the golden hair of Jaime Lannister.

"Good evening sers" Isildur said loudly, walking towards Arya. Her eyes flashed up towards him, she looked deeply relieved by his presence. The two Kingsguards and the Lannister soldiers whirled about to look at him sharply, watching him as he passed by to stand between them and Arya. The other Kingsguard was Meryn Trant, as Isildur identified him by his red beard and the cruel curl of his smirk. Jaime Lannister was fingering the hilt of his dagger, and Isildur noted that Meryn Trant's hand was around the pommel of his sword.

Isildur locked eyes with Jaime, looking at the handsome, golden-haired knight intently. There was silence, but for the continued calls of Arya's name in the distance, and the chirping of insects all around them. Slowly, Isildur looked to each of the other men in turn, affixing them with his stern eyes, hard and grey as a steel blade. He was taller than any of them, as he was taller than almost everyone, and they had to look up to meet his eyes. It was Jaime Lannister that held his gaze the longest. It seemed to Arya, in that long silent moment, that it was as if there was an invisible line of smoldering fire drawn between the eyes of Isildur and Jaime, one that might burst into sudden flame at any moment. Long they held each other's gaze, until at length Jaime Lannister flashed his cutting, wolfish grin at Isildur.

"Glad we found her and she's alright, might have gotten hurt out in these woods at night" Jaime said with a laugh as he and his men turned around and started back towards the inn. "I hope you know, my Lord Hand, that my sister the Queen has ordered her brought before the King directly" added Jaime offhandedly while he walked away.

It was only when they were out of sight that Isildur released his grip on Narsil's hilt.

"Come on little one, we best get you back to your father" Isildur said, and they started off through the woods, heading towards the sounds of Ned's voice calling through the trees. And while they walked, Arya told him what had happened. She and her friend, the butcher's boy Mycah, had been playing down by the river, fighting with sticks, when Sansa and Joffrey had come walking up to them. Joffrey challenged Mycah to a duel, drawing his sword, and when the butcher's boy failed to fight, he started to cut open his face with the tip of his sword. To save her friend, Arya had struck Joffrey with her stick, and only when Joffrey tried to hit her with his sword did Nymeria come to her rescue, biting his arm to save her. She called Nymeria off, and then threw his sword into the river.

Ned rushed to Arya and wrapped his arms around her protectively when Isildur had brought her to him.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Arya repeated, over and over again, her words muffled as she buried her head in his tunic.

"Shh, it's alright, are you okay? You hurt?" Ned said, and Arya said she wasn't. In her father's arms, she looked very small.

"Ned, some Lannister men had found her before I did. The Queen has ordered her to be brought before the King directly" Isildur said. Arya looked up at her father with frightened eyes.

"What? What for? She's just a child" Eddard said, and followed it with several curses in a dark voice.

"Back! Back to the inn! Get back!" Ned roared out to his men, and Isildur followed him, heading back towards the inn. He could feel an apprehension growing in his mind about this night.

Eddard stormed into the inn when they reached the crossroads without even a word to his men. The common room had grown even more crowded than before, and many Stark and Dunedain men added to the press of people within. Despite the packed quarters, Ned pushed past the crowd with ease, and the men made a channel through their ranks for him.

At the end of the hall sat Robert, his face stony and impassive, and to his right stood the Queen and the Prince. There was nothing but naked loathing on Joffrey's face, Isildur noted, but the Queen was a different sort, and Isildur could read a cold fury in her.

Eddard stood in a hollow circle in the crowd before the King, as if he was in court. Arya stood behind him, and Isildur to the side, observing quietly.

"What's the meaning of this? Why would you order my daughter brought before you rather than to me?" Ned demanded.

"You dare speak like that to your King-" said Cersei.

"Quiet woman!" Robert silenced her "I'm sorry Ned, I never meant to frighten the girl, but we need to get this business done quickly"

'Never meant to, but you let it happen' Isildur thought, but he kept his peace.

"Your girl and her friend attacked my son, and that wolf of hers nearly ripped his arm off" said the Queen. At this Isildur raised an eyebrow, he had examined the wound himself, it was very far from being nearly ripped off.

"That's not true! She just bit him a little" Arya protested. Both Robert and Cersei looked taken aback that this young girl would speak back to the Queen herself. "He was hurting Mycah" she added.

"Joff told us what happened. He said you and that butcher's boy beat him with clubs and then she set her wolf on him" Cersei continued.

"That's not what happened!" Arya protested again.

"Yes it is! They all attacked me and then she threw my sword in the river!" Joffrey retorted.

"Liar!"

"Shut up!"

"ENOUGH!" the King roared, shocking them both into silence. "Seven Hells, she tells me one thing, he says another. What am I to make of this?"

"Your Grace" Isildur spoke for the first time since returning to the inn. "Perhaps if we get them both to tell their sides of the stories, the truth will reveal itself to us" he suggested.

"Aye. Both of you, one at a time, without interrupting the other, tell me what happened" Robert said.
First Arya recounted her tale, just as she had told it to Isildur before.

Then Joffrey told his own story, and it was much different, a tale of how he had been walking by the river with Sansa when Arya and the butcher's boy ambushed them from the bushes, beating him down with clubs before he could get his sword out, letting the wolf attack him and then throwing his sword into the river out of spite. As he spoke, Isildur began to extend his mind towards the Prince's, observing, seeking and finding, searching, perceiving, knowing, seeing through the words and the practiced face, seeing the truth of the matter. And as he spoke, Joffrey grew more and more visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting and squirming as he felt Isildur's will working upon him. Isildur kept his silence though, carefully watching the King's face as he took stock of their stories.

"Damn it, still she tells him one thing and him another. Your other daughter was there, where is she Ned?" Robert demanded.

"She's in bed, asleep" Ned replied defensively.

"Ah, she is not" said Cersei Lannister, her voice deceptively soft. "Sansa" she called gently towards the end of the hall "Come here little dove"

Despite everything, Isildur noted that Sansa had still taken the time to make herself lovely. Her hair, the reddish auburn of her Tully mother, had been brushed until it shone, and she wore a fine dress of pale green fabric. Around her shoulders was a fur-lined cloak, fastened with silver at her neck. The crowd made a path for her up towards the King and Queen, and Isildur noticed the fear in her eyes as she looked at the sworn swords and freeriders all around her. Despite that, she kept perfect posture, and she walked up to the King and curtsied. Her eyes were fixed on the Prince now, and Isildur could see the longing in them now.

'Damn' Isildur thought. He could see where this was going.

"Now, child, tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a grave crime to lie to a king" Robert commanded.

All eyes were on Sansa now, Isildur's, the King's, the Queen's, Joffrey's, Arya's, her father's, every man in the room watching her.

"I don't know" she said at last, hesitantly. "Everything happened so fast. I didn't see"

"LIAR!" Arya screamed, and then leapt up and seized her sister by the hair and began to pull, hard. With a squeal of pain, Sansa doubled over, her sister ripping at her long locks.

"LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!" Arya shouted at the top of her lungs, enraged.

"Stop it! Arya!" Ned roared, pulling his daughters apart.

"She's as wild as that wolf of hers. I want her punished" the Queen said after Arya had released Sansa's hair. Cersei Lannister's smile was equal parts beautiful and cruel.

"Seven hells woman, what would you have me do? Whip her through the streets?" Robert asked, rhetorically. Wisely, the Queen kept her mouth shut.

Isildur made eye contact with Robert, steely Baratheon blue locking with stormy Dunedain grey. In a single look, Isildur understood. Robert had seen the same thing Isildur had.

"Your Grace" Isildur said "May I speak freely?"

"You may" Robert replied.

"Forgive me Your Grace, but I believe your son is lying to us"

"How dare" Cersei began, her tone full of anger.

"Quiet woman!" Robert cut her off immediately. He turned to his son. "Is that true Joffrey?"

Joffrey's silent shock was as good as a confession.

Robert looked at his son hard, and then turned back to Ned.

"Ned, discipline your daughter. I'll do the same for my son" he said.

"Gladly Your Grace" Ned replied.

Isildur felt a wave of relief wash over him as the King stood up from his chair and made to leave. It was not long lived however.

"And what of the direwolf?" Cersei said, quietly but maliciously. "What of the beast that mauled your son?"

"I had forgot the damn wolf" Robert said with a curse.

"We found no trace of the wolf Your Grace" said one of the Lannister men.

"We have another wolf" said the Queen. Her words seem to hang in the silence of the common room, ominously, like a grim omen.

"She doesn't mean Lady does she?" Sansa said at last, unbelieving. She was growing hysterical, tears welling in her eyes. "No! No! Lady didn't bite anyone, she's good!"

"Lady wasn't there! You leave her alone!" said Arya fiercely.

Robert glanced at Isildur.

"Don't punish the innocent Robert; you are a nobler man than that" Isildur said in a low voice, but not low enough for Cersei not to hear.

"So you take commands from these Dunedain?" Cersei snapped contemptuously.

"I take commands from no one, I am the King!" Robert snarled, and then cursed and looked back and forth between Isildur and Cersei. He turned his gaze towards Prince Joffrey.

"Boy, was the other direwolf there? Tell me the truth" he demanded. Joffrey lowered his eyes, unable to meet his father's gaze.

"No" the Prince admitted.

"There you have it, my lady. I shall not punish an animal that was not even present" Robert said with an air of finality, as if that settled the whole issue. The look on the Queen's face, however, plainly said that it was not. Wrathfully, both King and Queen stormed out of the common room, the royal family following in their wake, and the great crowd began to dissolve.

Isildur sighed; somehow the trepidation he felt in his heart had not disappeared. Nodding to Ned, he left the inn. The night air was cool on his face and the moon and stars were bright in the ink-dark sky. Even after three centuries in Westeros, the stars still looked strange to him. Isildur heard a clop of hooves on the cobbles of the road, and turning he saw Sandor Clegane, the Hound, on a tall dark horse. The Hound was covered in layers of dark grey plate, mail and boiled leather, battered and plain armour with no hint of heraldry or chivalry upon him. His greatsword was sheathed on his back. Across the front of his saddle was laid the body of a boy, thin and rangy, with red hair, bloodied and cut. Isildur recognized the corpse almost immediately.

"The butcher's boy?" Isildur said, shocked. "Why!?" he demanded loudly.

"He ran" the Hound said, quietly, callously. "But not very fast"

Cursing the South and the Queen and the Lannisters and all, Isildur retired to his pavilion that night in a foul mood, and fell into a fitful sleep. Again he dreamed of his homeland, covered in snow, and the great icy wave crashing down upon it.

They had weeks yet upon the road before they reached King's Landing, and every step of the way was plagued by a new tension between the Starks and the Lannisters, and a gloomy air pervaded over the entire party as they rode finally into the Crownlands.

The royal demesne was fair and fertile, for being north of Shipbreaker Bay, the Crownlands were not wracked by storms, but rather basked in the warm air brought in by the sea. Despite the warning he felt in his heart, Isildur could not help but feel his spirits rise at the familiar, salty smell of the sea as they climbed the last hill of the journey. He could not see the city yet, but he could smell it, even from far off. The city had a great stench, the kind of stench produced only by hundreds of thousands of people living together in cramped quarters. Then Fleetfoot crested the hill, and Isildur set his eyes upon it at last: That beating heart of the Eight Kingdoms, that nest of snakes, that scheming hive of corruption and villainy, that unsightly royal heap, the city of King's Landing.

'Valar above, nothing has changed' Isildur thought, looking down upon the vast, sprawling capital. Much of it was just as he remembered from all the years of the Targaryen dynasty. There stood the Great Sept of Baelor, with its seven towers, atop Visenya's Hill. To the north was the Dragonpit, its once-great domed roof now collapsed, looming upon Rhaenys' Hill. Between and around and upon the hills, sprawled a vast, twisted, crowded city, their thatched roofs and shingled roofs freely intermixed, with half-timbered buildings of wood and stone and brick, many of them so ramshackle it would stun a Numenorean builder, and between them an occasional more stately manse. And there was more than that, for King's Landing was filled with taverns and storehouses, granaries and merchant's stalls, trading posts and brothels, all along the long, wide, tree-lined roads, or the winding, crooked streets, or the back alleys so narrow that a man could barely squeeze through. Dozens and dozens of quays and wharfs lined the waterfront, forming the havens of King's Landing. Out in Blackwater Rush and the Bay, the water was filled with fishing boats, ferries poling along, and merchantmen from the Free Cities. Isildur spotted a dozen slim, deadly, golden-hulled dromonds sitting at their docks. Above it all loomed a great frowning castle on Aegon's Hill, ringed with seven massive towers, surrounded by a mighty curtain wall, built ever upwards with rampart heaped upon rampart: the Red Keep.

The King's company rode towards the city from the northwest, approaching the Old Gate, one of the seven gates of King's Landing. Even from a distance, Isildur could hear the noise of the city. He heard the shouts and calls of merchants and fishmongers hawking their wares, the clatter of wagon wheels, the clop of hooves on cobblestone, and beneath it all, the persistent chatter of hundreds of thousands of people's voices.

Isildur examined the defenses of King's Landing with a critical eye as they approached the Old Gate. The gate itself was stout, with a portcullis and a strong wooden door barred with iron, and a squat, strong gatehouse that overlooked it with murder holes and arrow loops. The walls, on the other hand, left much to be desired for Isildur. Rather than a layered, concentric defense, such as the Numenoreans were accustomed to constructing, the walls of King's Landing was but a single curtain wall, of great height and thickness perhaps and dotted with tall towers, but Isildur doubted that it could hold a determined attacker for long, if they threw all their weight at any one point.

The new Hand of the King put these gloomy thoughts out of his head as he rode through the gate, his black banners fluttering above his head, and he entered King's Landing for the first time in sixteen years.

Looking down from far above the pomp and ceremony of the King and his Hand's entrance to the Red Keep, a man stood upon one of the many balconies of the Red Keep. Upon his chest, a silver broach in the shape of a mockingbird fixed his cloak about his shoulders. His grayish green eyes were fixed upon the white tree and silver stars of the Numenorean banner born behind the royal stag banner, in particular upon the white crescent moon that sat above the tree and stars.

"Observing the new player in our little game?" said a soft voice behind him. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw the portly, plump, powdered figure of Lord Varys approaching him soundlessly, hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his tunic.

"Yes, I'm sure you had nothing to do with our King's selection, didn't you?" said Lord Petyr Baelish.

"Me? Oh no, my Lord Baelish, I am a mere servant, I do not presume to command" Varys replied silkily. He came to stand next to Petyr upon the balcony, a soft hand on the bannister, looking down at the courtyard beneath them, watching the tall Numenoreans dismount from their tall horses.

"He is a rather impressive specimen, do you not agree? Almost as tall as his father, I am told, and his father is the tallest man in the Kingdoms" Varys said in his usual candid tone.

"A tidbit from your little birds?" Petyr asked.

"My little birds? Nay, my good Lord Baelish, I receive few tidbits from my little birds about those people, for very few of them have taken roost in the good realm of Gondor" replied Varys, turning his head towards Petyr with a faint smile.

"I'm sure. Then you know nothing about our new Lord Hand?" said Lord Baelish. Varys turned his eyes back down towards the Numenorean lord that strode across their courtyard, his faint smile still plastered on his face.

"Only what everyone knows" he said innocently. "He's tall, strong, stalwart, wise, honourable, courageous, and of course utterly ruthless to those who incur his wrath, like those poor, foolish Greyjoys"

Lord Baelish's face was an unreadable mask. Lord Varys folded his hands within his sleeves once again, and turned to depart, but then turned back, as if suddenly remembered something important.

"There is one thing you should be absolutely aware of at all times with this man, my Lord Baelish" Varys said, suddenly serious.

"And that is?" Petyr asked.

"It is difficult to deceive this one. And perilous to those who try"

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter V
The Forests of Qohor

When he was a young child, Valandil's lord father often told him of the great majesty and beauty of the mallorn trees that had grown in the western provinces of Numenor, a gift to the Dunedain from the Eldar. In his youth, he had often dreamt of seeing a real mallorn, with its mighty silver trunk and golden blossoms. The great trees of the Forest of Qohor did not equal the mellyrn of his dreams, but still his heart was joyed to ride amongst the vast, wild, beautiful forest. He rode beneath a sun-lit golden canopy, along trails dappled with light streaming through the leaves above. Across the back of his saddle was slung a deer fawn's carcass. It lay limply across Velo's haunches, secured to the saddle by ropes, with a single puncture wound in its neck. Valandil was simply dressed for his hunt, clad in a green tunic with brown trousers, and his grey cloak secured around his shoulders, hood down, his head bare. His silver eagle broach glinted in the sunbeams of the forest.

All was silence while he rode. He was some distance from the khalasar yet, he judged. The approach of Drogo's horde had driven all animal life away in its path, he had had to ride far from the khalasar to find game. One arrow shot from a steelbow at a hundred paces had dispatched the fawn easily enough, but getting it back to the khalasar for the khaleesi's dinner was rather a more time-consuming task. Breathing deep of the fresh forest air, Valandil spurred Velo to a light trot down the trail. The gelding was surefooted and swiftly passed amongst the trees at a brisk pace.

The air was warm, the sun was shining, but as he rode Valandil found himself filled with thoughts. It had been some time since he had last written a letter to his family. Since Braavos at least… I should have sent them something in Pentos he thought. He had felt trapped in Minas Ithil, yet he could not help but miss his family. He missed Aratan, his constant companion in the sparring yard or on the hunt. He missed Ciryon, bright-eyed and quick to mirth, and Elendur, who had always been the wisest just as he was the eldest. He missed dour, ever-faithful Ohtar, and his crooked, oft-broken nose. He missed his lord father Isildur with his booming laugh and kindly smiles. He missed all of Elendur and Ciryon's children, his nephews and nieces. I left to see the world, and found that I miss my home more and more every day, despite the wondrous places I have seen he mused. I left in search of adventure, in search of a cause for my sword, and what have I found? A boy who calls himself a king, heir only to a toppled dynasty of madmen… If only his sister had been born elder, or born a man. Yet I swore an oath, and I cannot throw that aside. Nor can I abandon a friend, and Jorah is a good friend and true. Perhaps though, with the counsel of a Numenorean, these Targaryens may be shown the path of wisdom. There were fair and just Targaryens kings once, it may be that there shall be again.

There had been a singing of birds amongst the gold-clad branches, but it soon disappeared. As he rode, Valandil heard the sounds of the khalasar drifting closer through the air. There was the steady clop of thousands of hooves, and beneath it the relentless, neverending tramping feet of the thralls. Drawing closer, the smell of the khalasar wafted through the trees. A smell of sweat, horseflesh and manure, thick,and overbearing. Valandil nudged Velo into a brisker trot. He was close now, the khalasar could not be far.

"Who goes!?" cried a voice in the harsh tongue of the Dothraki. Valandil reined his horse in as the brush to his right erupted with a trio of Dothraki, arakhs and bows in hand, mounted atop large, snorting horses. Out-riders, the picquets of the khalasar, deployed ahead and on all sides of the main column to ensure the khalasar could not be ambushed… And to search for foes or plunder.

"Thorongil!" Valandil shouted, putting up a hand. "It's Thorongil! Friend!" he added in what little of the Dothraki speech he knew.

The foremost rider studied Valandil's face closely, almond-shaped eyes flicking across Valandil's features and down to the carcass secured by his saddle. He exchanged a few words with his fellow riders, and then waved Valandil on. Nodding to the out-riders, Valandil spurred his horse on.

It was only a short time before he finally rejoined the horde.

The vast main column of Drogo's horde stretched out as far as the eye could see in either direction. Jorah had told him that it numbered over forty thousand warriors, and Valandil believed it. Forty thousand riders, and their families and children, their slaves and thralls, and many camp followers beside it all. Over a hundred thousand people welded together by the strength and will of Khal Drogo, and all on the move. There was great power in this khalasar, Valandil could tell. This was the great tidal wave of men and horses which Viserys Targaryen intended to use to engulf the Eight Kingdoms and reclaim his father's throne. With this vast force, Viserys would bring fire and slaughter, terror and war upon the kingdoms of the West. And yet, Valandil noted, they marched east in accordance with Dothraki custom, not west following Viserys' will.

Reining Velo around, Valandil rejoined the khalasar's line of march. Two of the slaves immediately began to unburden his horse, untying the fawn's carcass from his saddle. In broken Dothraki, Valandil told them that the venison was for the khaleesi tonight, and the slaves both nodded silently. The slaves of the Dothraki were always silent to him, he had noticed, like dogs that had been beaten too much and cringed at the mere sight of people. Poor souls he thought sadly Children of Iluvatar deserve better than thralldom.

Valandil reflected on the two Targaryens while he rode up the column at a leisurely walk, looking for his wards. It had been over a month since he had come into their service as their protector, and he was beginning to know them very well.

The elder was Viserys Targaryen, the Third of His Name, and the self-styled rightful Lord of the Eight Kingdoms, though more men knew him as the Beggar King. Viserys was a proud man that much Valandil knew for sure. He was proud, ambitious and looked back on a mighty heritage that stretched back for centuries, yet he was also impatient and swift to anger. He called his wrath "waking the dragon". The dragon is a light sleeper Valandil mused, thinking on the many times he had had to speak soft words of counsel to the would-be king, to avoid his anger over this or that foolish thing. He seemed to have utterly no regard for the Dothraki who he intended to use as his army. With every passing day, Valandil could see Viserys' frustration continue to grow at their eastward march, and with frustration came his temper and its inevitable foolishness. He will undermine all his ambitions by himself if I do not stop him. Perhaps I should help him fail; even if he was not in exile he would not be kinglike. But he may yet become so, he is young, and he has not been given the counsel that a king needs. Alas, were Elendur here, surely he could show this man to the path of wisdom. Iluvatar willing, I must help him.

His sister, on the other hand, was a different matter. Daenerys Targaryen, whom some named Stormborn, and Drogo's khaleesi. On the day of her wedding to Drogo, Valandil had seen her as a meek, young girl, newly come to womanhood, terrified of her husband, his people, her brother and everything about her new life it seemed. Yet, with every passing day on their ride into the east, she seemed to grow. There was an inner fire kindled in her, and her strength and confidence seemed to wax amongst the Dothraki. She took to their garb and learning their language with far greater ease than her brother, who still clung to his tattered tunics and cloaks from Pentos. Valandil could see her finding her place amongst these savage people in a way that her brother simply could not.

It was her brother that Valandil spotted first as he rode up the column. He wore a dark cloak, once fine but now travel-stained and mud-spattered. His long silver-blond hair was greasy and unwashed, slicked back on his head. He glanced at Valandil over his shoulder when he came to ride next to him. Viserys' eyes were hard and purple as a lilac, deep set in a gaunt, lined face. His customary sneer was set on his lips before Valandil said even a word.

"Thorongil" he said, without greeting.

"Your Grace" Valandil replied courteously. He knew that Viserys flew into a rage when he was being improperly addressed.

"I trust you found game for tonight, I weary of Dothraki horsemeat" Viserys said.

"Aye Your Grace, venison, I brought a fawn for the khaleesi's supper tonight" Valandil replied, and then immediately wished he had phrased it differently.

"My supper, you mean. What is hers is also mine" Viserys said sharply. Valandil resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes Your Grace" he said.

Amongst the trees of the forest, Valandil was surrounded by the songs of birds and insects. The forest seemed too quiet riding with the khalasar. He could hear only the neighing and whickering of horses, the calls in harsh Dothraki, and above all the incessant tramping of tens of thousands of feet and hooves. Valandil hated riding with the khalasar, the eyes of the slaves were miserable and downcast whenever he looked at them. He felt his heart sink to see so many, held in such appalling bondage. Whenever they looked at him, which they seldom did, their eyes were full of fear.

To his left and right, front and back, there were Dothraki riders. They had a certain admirable savage courage, he had to admit, and some had nobility in their own way. Despite their virtues though, Valandil couldn't stand them. He couldn't stand the arrogant disdain with which they looked at anyone not of their kind, he couldn't stand the bow-legged strut they affected when dismounted, and he couldn't stand their violence, their crudeness and their cruelty. The night of the wedding, he had saved some poor girl from the attentions of Dothraki riders, yet as their ride east wore on, he had come to realize that he could not stop all of their cruelties. He could not even stop any significant amount of their cruelties. It was a hard truth to accept.

Shouted commands came down the column, and suddenly the whole khalasar ground to a halt.

"What is it? Why are we stopping?" Viserys demanded loudly.

"Khaleesi say stop" said one of the riders in a halting, heavily accented version of the Common tongue.

"What!? She dares to command me!?" snapped Viserys. His hand went to the hilt of his sword and his purple eyes flashed in anger.

"Your Grace" Valandil said, bringing his horse up close to Viserys' mount "Patience, my King, this delay shall not be long"

"Patience? Patience!? The dragon takes no commands! The dragon waits for no man!" Viserys said.

"But a King knows the value of a patient mind, Your Grace. You have been waiting your whole life to take back your throne, my King, a short wait such as this surely would not try the patience of a king such as you" Valandil answered. I must be truthful, I must tell him what he needs to hear, but I must still flatter his ego or else he shall never listen to counsel and he will be lost.

It seemed to be working. Viserys' hand strayed away from his sword hilt.

"I suppose she only commands these savages, I may ride on if I please" he said.

"Of course Your Grace, or wait for your sister's men to continue on if it please you" said Valandil. "Worry yourself not my King, I shall find out what is the reason for this halt"

"Yes Thorongil, go on ahead and find out for me. Tell them the dragon king wishes to proceed" Viserys said, his tone growing commanding and his chin raising.

Just takes the right tone with this one, like an unbroken colt. Perhaps he shall learn something yet Valandil thought, setting the spurs to Velo and cantering forward up the column.

Much farther up the column, Valandil found Jorah, Daenerys' handmaidens and the warriors of her khas. Valandil glanced towards the lean, lethal-looking riders that were sworn to Daenerys' own household. His lord father had had a similar group of knights sworn to his house. In Gondor such men were known as housecarls.

An east wind was whispering in the leaves. Jorah looked to Valandil as he brought Velo to a halt. The Bear Islander wore only a white tunic, open at his throat, and brown riding breeches. His sword hung from his saddle. His face was flushed, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his balding head and his hairy arms and chest.

"Hail Ser Jorah" said Valandil, raising a hand in greeting "The 'dragon king' wonders what the delay is?"
"Dragon king" Jorah repeated, chuckling. "Thorongil, you know as well as I that he is less than the shadow of a snake"

"Perhaps, yet it is said even the merest grass-snake may grow into a mighty wyrm with time" Valandil replied. He did not tell Jorah that his father had told him that saying to warn him against underestimating a potential foe.

"Would that that could be true, but I fear Viserys is even less than a grass-snake" said Jorah with a shake of his balding head.

"In any case, he wishes to continue on immediately. Where is the princess?"

"She wished to walk in the forest a little, to stretch her legs" Jorah answered, nodding towards the forest to the right of the trail.

As if she had heard them, the khaleesi soon appeared from the brush. She was so young, yet Valandil was not made of stone like his uncle or steel like his father, he could not deny Daenerys Targaryen's beauty. Her once-pale skin was growing more and more golden, tanned by the sun each day, vividly contrasting with the violet of her eyes. She wore her white-golden hair long now, and she was dressed in the Dothraki fashion, with a horsehide vest and breeches. She had taken off her sandals to walk on the mossy forest floor with dainty bare feet.

"Thorongil" she said with a polite, kind smile "It is a pleasant surprise to see you. Are you not guarding my brother today?"

"Aye my Princess, the King merely inquires as to the reason for our delay" he replied. Her smile fell from her face.

"Oh… Have I done wrong? I have woken the dragon, haven't I?" Daenerys asked, her voice ashamed, almost fearful.

Waking the dragon. What a ridiculous term for wrath Valandil thought.

"Nay Princess" he lied "Your brother the King is just anxious to continue on"

"Very well Ser Thorongil, we shall go on. Ser Jorah, tell them that the khaleesi wishes to continue now" Dany said with a sigh, slipping her sandals back on and then lacing them back up.

One of her handmaidens dismounted and help Daenerys up onto her silver mare, which stood quietly and demurely as its rider swung up onto it. The handmaiden then smoothly mounted her own horse once again. Though he had been riding with the Dothraki for weeks now, Valandil still found himself surprised that women in the khalasar did not ride side-saddle as women in Gondor did. It took more than a little getting used to women of the Dothraki, for they were an odd study in contrasts. The ladies of Gondor that Valandil had known at home were proud, dignified women, educated and spirited, a match for the will of any Numenorean man, but they took care to dress themselves in a lady-like fashion. The women of the Dothraki, in comparison, dressed in the same breeches and vests as the Dothraki men, and rode as the men did, but were not afforded the same courtesies or respect as the women of Gondor were.
Ser Jorah shouted a few words in the Dothraki tongue, and then other Dothraki took up the shout up and down the column of the khalasar. With much shouting and the thumping of thousands of hooves on hard-packed earth, Khal Drogo's horde began to move once again. Bidding farewell to Jorah and Daenerys, Valandil turned Velo around and made his way to his charge.

Their journey through the forests of Qohor lasted for another fortnight. Each day, Valandil rode far afield of the khalasar, the black arrows of his steelbow taking elk, deer and pig for the supper of the khaleesi and the King each night. Alone and away from the Dothraki, beneath those golden boughs Valandil's heart was light. As he rode back to the horde each day, he would sing for joy in the tongues of Elves and Numenoreans alike. He sang until he reached the pickets of the khalasar, and then would sing no more so as not to draw too much attention amongst the superstitious Dothraki. Amongst the khalasar, he would ride beside Viserys for the most part, though on some lucky days he and Jorah would agree to trade off. On the whole, he found Daenerys' company more pleasant, her conversation more engaging, but Valandil knew that it was Viserys who needed his counsel more direly. The boy king could talk of nothing except "the Usurpers" as he called them, and how "the Dragon" would take his vengeance against them. Viserys would often speak of rapacious Robert Baratheon, whose greed and fury were unquenchable, and icy Eddard Stark with his cold eyes and frozen heart, and arrogant, ageless Isildur the traitor. It took all of Valandil's willpower to not strike Viserys for his insults to his father, but he managed to keep himself from loudly correcting his King. Having known all the men that Viserys spoke of, Valandil could tell that the King truly knew nothing about them.

Each night, Valandil would seek out Jorah after the khalasar had made camp. He and his friend would join one of the fires of the Dothraki warriors, and they would eat, talk and drink late into the night. Then Valandil would smoke a pipe, and then find a soft patch of forest floor to sleep on, and fall to a sound slumber beneath the stars.

Then one evening, near to the end of their time in the forest of Qohor, as Valandil and Jorah sat talking and jesting by a fire, one of the khaleesi's handmaidens came to them. She was the shorter, more finely featured one, Irri if Valandil recalled her name correctly.

"Khaleesi wish you come eat with her tonight" Irri said. Jorah and Valandil exchanged a confused look, they had not been summoned to the khaleesi's company before.

"Aye, we shall gladly" Jorah said, standing.

Valandil stood and followed Jorah, whilst the handmaiden led them through the camp to Daenerys' tent. It was a respectable sized tent of hide, and a thin plume of smoke rose from the top. Passing through the entrance of the tent, they found the inside was thick with the smell of fire, smoke and roasting meat. In the centre of the main space of the tent was a cooking fire, and above it was spitted the boar that Valandil had shot that day. Daenerys' other handmaiden was slowly turning the spit while the boar roasted, grease running over the crispy skin as it cooked. In a circle around the edges of the main space, were cushions, benches and stools. At the far end of the tent was Daenerys herself, looking as radiant as ever, her long hair oiled and seeming to glow golden in the dim light. All around her were a few of her sworn warriors. They looked at Jorah and Valandil with curious, unreadable black eyes. Daenerys looked up when they entered, a small smile on her face.

"Ser Jorah, Ser Thorongil, it is good to see you! I was wondering if you might like to join us to eat tonight, it seemed the least I could do after you have brought all this game to us this past fortnight" Dany said.

"It would be our honour, khaleesi" Jorah said with a humble bow, and Valandil matched it. They were bid to sit on the right side of Daenerys, amongst her Dothraki guardians, whilst her own handmaidens sat at her left and right hand.

The fare was simple, as most Dothraki food was, and accompanied only by the fermented mare's milk preferred by the horselords. The boar was divine, roasted to perfection and covered with herbs. Still, Valandil could not help feeling a little out of place. Jorah and the Dothraki talked and jested back and forth in the Dothraki tongue, and what they were saying Valandil could not guess. Despite that, it was hard not to feel welcome amongst the laughing, smiling, surprisingly friendly Dothraki. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that such men were capable of the cruelties the Dothraki were known for.

"Jorah the Andal" said one of Daenerys' riders, the one known as Rakharo, in his heavily accented Common Tongue "You are from Sunset Kingdoms, yes?"

"Aye, and Thorongil as well" Jorah replied.

"Tho-Ron-Gil" said another of the riders, Aggo "Strange name"

"A-g-oh. Strange name" Valandil retorted, and they both shared a chuckle.

"Tell me, Jorah the Andal, how they fight in Westlands?" Rakharo said, leaning forward intently. Jorah scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully.

"Well different men have different methods. For my part, I prefer this" Jorah said, and then in one smooth motion he drew forth his sword. It was not an ornate weapon, but the blade was castle-forged steel, long, double-edged and sharp tipped, with a steel crossguard and a hilt wrapped in leather for grip. Unlike Valandil's sword, Jorah's blade was one-handed. He held it deftly in one hand, and then lowered it so the tip sat lightly in the ground and the flat of the blade rested against his leg.

"Straight. Not like arakh." Rakharo said, picking up his scimitar. He placed the long, sickle-like blade next to Jorah's arming sword. Jorah took it from him and held the arakh up to the firelight.

"Yes, on horseback the curved blade is better. Handles easier in the saddle, delivers a more powerful cut" he said, running his finger along the inner, unsharpened edge of the scimitar. Jorah put it back down and then held his own sword up again. "But in Westeros, where men are protected by steel, the arakh's cut won't penetrate, so the straight blade has the advantage, as it can thrust through gaps in the armour or the visors of helmets". He sheathed his sword again.

"Dothraki do not wear steel dresses" Rakharo said.

"Armour" corrected Jorah.

"Armour… This makes man slow?" asked Rakharo.

"Perhaps a little, but it keeps you alive"

"Oh enough of this war talk, I hear enough of that from my brother" Daenerys said, frustrated "How about a song? Irri?"

At her words, Irri began to sing a high, keening song in the Dothraki tongue. Despite knowing little Dothraki, Valandil could pick out words like "trample" and "burn" in her song. Daenerys waved her hand at Irri and the handmaiden stopped.

"No, thank you Irri, but no, I am so tired of songs about maiming and killing and raping. Ser Jorah, Ser Thorongil, have you any songs from the Eight Kingdoms? A song about Aemon the Dragonknight or Florian and Jonquil?" asked Dany. Jorah only chuckled.

"I'm afraid my voice isn't one for singing the great songs, khaleesi" Jorah said apologetically.

"And you Ser Thorongil?" Dany said.

"I confess my Princess, those songs are not known to me, but I do know a song that might be to your liking. A… friend from Gondor taught me the song of Beren and Luthien Tinuviel" Valandil replied. Daenerys' purple eyes seemed to glint with curiosity, and she sat forward a little on her seat.

"A song from Gondor? I have never heard any" she said.

"The folk of Gondor keep to themselves my Princess, but I spent some time in that realm, and this song I learned. Unfortunately, I haven't the old Elvish tongue to sing it as a Numenorean might" Valandil lied. He felt like his lie was utterly transparent, but Dany and her Dothraki companions seemed to accept it
"However, in the Common Tongue, it runs like this:" he said, and then he began to chant, slowly and melodiously, as his father used to on cold winter nights by the fire in Minas Ithil:

"The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinúviel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
And in her raiment glimmering.

There Beren came from mountains cold,
And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven-river rolled
He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock-leaves
And saw in wonder flowers of gold
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
And her hair like shadow following.

Enchantment healed his weary feet
That over hills were doomed to roam;
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
Through woven woods in Elvenhome
She lightly fled on dancing feet,
And left him lonely still to roam
In the silent forest listening.

He heard there oft the flying sound
Of feet as light as linden-leaves,
Or music welling underground,
In hidden hollows quavering.
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,
And one by one with sighing sound
Whispering fell the beechen leaves
In the wintry woodland wavering.

He sought her ever, wandering far
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,
By light of moon and ray of star
In frosty heavens shivering.
Her mantle glinted in the moon,
As on a hill-top high and far
She danced, and at her feet was strewn
A mist of silver quivering.

When winter passed, she came again,
And her song released the sudden spring,
Like rising lark, and falling rain,
And melting water bubbling.
He saw the elven-flowers spring
About her feet, and healed again
He longed by her to dance and sing
Upon the grass untroubling.

Again she fled, but swift he came.
Tinuviel! Tinuviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinuviel
That in his arms lay glistening.

As Beren looked into her eyes
Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies
He saw there mirrored shimmering.
Tinuviel the elven-fair,
Immortal maiden elven-wise,
About him cast her shadowy hair
And arms like silver glimmering.

Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless."

The last word of the song died, leaving silence in the tent, broken by the crackling of the fire. Dany was looking at Valandil intently with her violet eyes.

"That was… wonderful Thorongil, I never knew a sellsword to have such a voice. Do you know any more about this tale, this Beren and Luthien?" Dany asked. Valandil smiled, feeling almost bashful.

"Alas my Princess, I fear that song does not equal how I heard it sung in Gondor" he said. "I know only little of the lore of the Numenoreans, but I know that Beren was a mortal man, and Luthien was an immortal elf-maiden, and forbidden was their love because of this. They say that Luthien was the daughter of an elf-king, and she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that they endured much sorrow and many trials before they could be wed, and their love was a tragic one, for she had to give up the immortal life of the elves to be with him. Beyond that, I know little more. The men of Gondor are a quiet bunch, they keep to themselves and tell little of their lore to outsiders"

"It is a stupid tale" declared Aggo with a note of finality in his voice.

"What? Why? I thought it was beautiful" Dany said.

"Khaleesi, if Beren chase this women, he need only take horse to catch her. Only a fool chase on foot. Beren is stupid" Aggo explained. Valandil burst out laughing.

"I suppose that's a point the old elf-poets didn't think of" he said between laughs.

"My lord" said the third of Daenerys' handmaids, a fair-haired young Lysene girl named Doreah "What is an 'elf'?" she asked shyly.

"In the lore of Gondor, the elves were an ancient race that is much like men, but… Greater. They say they are immortal, unless slain, wiser and stronger than any men, but just as they are greater, they also fall lower, and both their joy and their sorrow is deeper than mortal men, for the elves forget nothing. They dwell not in this part of the world, though the men of Gondor say that they once visited their homelands. They were beautiful… I am told" Valandil said, his voice distant.

He stared into the fire, melancholy. He and his brothers had all been born of Westeros; they did not have the memories of their fair homeland across the Sunset Sea as their father did. He had always wanted to meet an elf, one of the fair elf-lords or ladies that once visited his grandfather in Andunie, but his lord father had told him that no elves dwelt in these lands, or none that he knew of. Westeros and Essos were the lands of men, they bore no sign of the dwelling of elves, for no land forgets the elves if ever they dwelt there.

One of Daenerys' warriors, the thin, lithe one named Jhogo, made a hacking noise in his throat and then spit on the ground.

"I spit on Gondor and its tales. It is good they are trapped across the poison water, they are warlocks who cast spells on men's minds" Jhogo said, wrinkling his nose.

"It is known" agreed Jhiqui.

"I have never been there" said Daenerys "But some day my brother will rule Gondor and the rest of the Eight Kingdoms, and then I will know whether they are truly so evil or not"

Valandil kept his peace and said not a word, staring intently at the flickering fire.

"On that day, khaleesi, I hope your brother khal is wise enough to trample warlocks to dust" Jhogo said.

As the night deepened, Daenerys thanked Valandil and Jorah for their company, and then bidding them goodnight, retired to sleep. Her handmaidens stayed in the same tent as her, but her warriors along with Jorah and Valandil departed to find their own place to sleep for the night. As soon as Jhogo, Aggo and Rakharo were out of sight, Jorah suddenly pulled Valandil aside, in the darkness between two of the Dothraki tents.

"Who are you?" he demanded in a low, urgent voice.

"What?" Valandil said, confused.

"Dúnadan, I have travelled with you for many miles, you've never revealed your identity to me, and I've never asked out of respect for you, but after that display, I want to know now before I keep any more secrets: Who are you? No common sellsword, even a Numenorean, would know such ancient tales and lore and speak and sing as you do. Who are you?" Jorah pressed.

Valandil regarded his friend with his grey eyes. There was no other way to say it, so he said it plainly.

"I am Valandil Isildur's son. Valandil Isildurion of the House of Elendil" he said.

Jorah's face paled with shock.

"Valandil? The grandson of the Kingmaker himself? I don't believe that, you're lying" said Jorah, and then saw the intent seriousness on Valandil's face.

"Seven hells, you mean it? What in the name of gods old and new would bring a son of Isildur here? As a sellsword of all things? Your father helped overthrow the Targaryens, what are you doing-"

"Shh, keep your voice down." Valandil hissed, seizing Jorah by the shoulders "Listen Jorah, I know what my father did. I know what it has cost my family. And I can see hope for a better future… If the Targaryen boy is counseled properly. He mustn't know who I am. You have heard how he speaks about my lord father, and you know what the Dothraki think of my people. If I am found out, everything I am hoping for is lost"

"Seven hells Valandil or Thorongil or Strider, or whatever your bloody name is, how foolish are you? How long do you think you can keep up this mummer's farce?" Jorah asked angrily. "Viserys is a fool, but his sister isn't stupid, and neither are the Dothraki. You keep carrying on like this, you will be discovered, and the Khal will not look kindly on one of your kind in his horde, nor will Viserys look kindly on the son of one of the usurpers travelling next to him"

Valandil released Jorah, realizing that his grip had become viselike. He turned away, hanging his head.
"I know this, and so I must ask you to keep my secret Jorah." Valandil said. There was a long moment of silence, and then he was surprised to feel Jorah clap him on the back.

"As you wish. Though I frown on the deception, I feel you must have good reason. We must talk though, we must have a very long talk"

They found a dwindling fire unattended by the edge of the camp, surrounded by gloomy forest, a fair distance from the rest of the khalasar so as not to be overheard. Jorah brought a skin of wine from his own baggage that he had been saving, and they passed it back and forth as they built up the fire to a merry blaze. There was long silence between them as Valandil stared at the flames, wondering where to start, and Jorah waited for him to explain himself. Finally Jorah spoke:

"So why did you leave Gondor?"

Valandil sighed

"My father changed after the rebellion. Not Robert's, the Greyjoy rebellion. You remember it?" he said.

"Aye. I was one of Ned Stark's bannermen then, and he had called the banners to help King Robert put down that upstart Balon Greyjoy. Never made it to Pyke though, your father smashed the Greyjoys into dust before we could. The whole realm was shocked by what Isildur did" Jorah replied.

"I-I did it too Jorah. All my brothers and I, we were right there alongside my father, we fought too" Valandil said, hanging his head.

"Why?" asked the Bear Islander. Valandil was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was choked and broken.

"My mother and grandmother, they often travelled in the south during the summers, they loved the Arbor, the fields of the Reach and the forests of the Stormlands. They were to return to Gondor by ship from Lannisport… When the ironmen attacked. Many years ago, far before you were born Jorah, the ironmen had sworn an oath of friendship to my grandfather. When they burned the Lannister fleet, my mother and grandmother were taken captive… They endured great cruelties before their deaths, they were-" He stopped, seeming unwilling to say the word before he finally spat it out "Defiled" he said.
His mood seemed to change suddenly, and he looked up at Jorah with fiery eyes.

"Oathbreakers, murderers, traitors" he said spitefully, face full of hate. Then the shadow seemed to pass from Valandil, and he hung his head again.

"Led by my father, we sailed to the Iron Islands, with the whole White Fleet behind us. We sent their fleet down to the deeps, but Balon Greyjoy, his brother Victarion and a few of their bannermen escaped, though his brother Aeron was sent down to their drowned god. We pursued them to Pyke, we stormed and..." he stopped again, and then looked back to Jorah intently, intensely.

"We killed them all Jorah. My father killed everyone" he whispered "I saw my father drive his sword through Balon's heart, I saw my eldest brother slay Victarion in single combat, my brothers and I killed Balon's sons, and my father, who I had thought was the best of men… I saw him turn his blade on Balon's own wife. Only two Greyjoys are left now Jorah. Theon and Yara. I was the one who found them, scared and alone, in a bedchamber. The blood of their kin was still fresh on my sword, but those two scared little children, looking at me with those dark, terrified eyes, I finally found mercy inside myself, I gave them mercy when my father surely would have slain them. It was only afterwards that we learned that another had escaped, that scum Euron slipped through our fingers!" He finished in anger. Valandil took a deep breath, as if to calm himself.

"My father changed after that. He has a wrath in him, deep down inside, smoldering away, ready to burst into flame at any moment. None of us spoke of what happened at Pyke to anyone, not even to each other. My father and brothers seemed to want to forget it even happened, but I could not. I had to escape that, find something, find some cause, something that might erase my shame" finished the son of Isildur. Jorah regarded him with steady eyes, not unkindly.

"So here you are" Jorah said. Valandil couldn't help but chuckle bitterly.

"Yes, here I am, hoping to restore a rightful heir to his throne, perhaps to make him better than his father" Valandil replied. Jorah sighed.

"If you hold to that cause, my friend, then I will help you however I can. I will keep your identity a secret, though I know not how long you will be able to hide it if you keep carrying on as you have" Jorah said. Valandil couldn't hold back a smile as he looked up at the Andal.

"Thank you. You are a true friend, Jorah Mormont, and I swear I shan't forget it" Valandil told him, and he meant it. "But now, since you know all my secrets, I wish to know: What has brought you here?"

Jorah grimaced: "An expensive wife, little money and a longing for home"

"Tell me"

Jorah exhaled deeply, and his face became very still. Firelight reflected in his brown eyes.

"Lynesse Hightower was her name. After your father crushed the Greyjoys, the Lannisters held a great tourney in Lannisport" he said.

"I remember the invitation when we put in to Lannisport to resupply. We had no taste for it though after what we had done, and we sailed home rather than stay for it" Valandil replied. Jorah chuckled despite himself.

"Oh yes, they say that little rebuke ruffled Tywin Lannister's mane a great deal" Jorah said, but the jollity quickly passed and his mood grew grim again.

"My father had gone to the Night's Watch, I was the new young Lord of Bear Island, and the Northern forces were already in the South mustering for an attack on the Iron Islands when we learned that Pyke had fallen to Lord Isildur and Balon Greyjoy was dead. Lord Stark and most of the other bannermen started north again, but I was eager to prove myself, so I went to this southron tourney. That's when I met her: Lynesse Hightower, the daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever met in my life; I fell for her then and there. She gave me her favour to wear and, by all the gods, I won" he continued.

"You won against?" Valandil asked.

"All of them" Jorah explained with a slight smile "Bronze Yohn, Lord Whent, the Strongboar, Ryman and Hosteen Frey, Lord Jason Mallister, even the Kingslayer himself. I broke nine lances on Lannister's shield to win the joust. I won myself a knighthood for it. I named Lynesse the Queen of Love and Beauty. That night, drunk on victory, knighthood, glory and far too much southern wine, I asked her father for her hand in marriage. To my astonishment, he agreed, we were wed, and for a while we were happy as we traveled back to Bear Island. When we got there however…" Jorah paused, lost in memory. Valandil said nothing, and a heavy silence filled the air as he waited for his friend to continue.

"My island is rich in bears, lumber, fish and stone. However, Lynesse did not like it. She hated living in a log hall, she hated the cold, and she was terrified of the forest and the bears. It was nothing like the rich southern life she had known. I tried to keep her happy, I showered her with gifts, brought singers and performers from the Free Cities, tried to recreate the life she was used toin the north, but I had never been rich, and the expense was too much to bear. I got so deep in debt, all I wanted was to keep her happy, and then I caught some poachers on my land. Out of desperation I sold them to slavers" Jorah said.

"You sold men into thralldom?" Valandil said sharply, shocked and disguted.

"Aye, to my lasting shame" Jorah replied with a grimace "Now Ned Stark wants my head, and here I am, thousands of leagues from my home and everything I love"

Valandil felt his anger subside seeing his friend hang his head in deep regret. He thought back on Eddard Stark, the cool, quiet second son he had known on visits many years ago to Winterfell, and the thought of the implacable, relentless, quietly efficient warrior and commander he became on the battlefields of Robert's Rebellion. A good man, no man could doubt his honour or his justice, but Valandil knew that as sympathetic as Ned might be to Jorah's plight, Eddard would do justice, and Eddard Stark would swing the sword himself.

"Where is your wife now?" Valandil asked, more gently.

"In another place, with another man" Jorah said, looking up, a hard edge to his voice, his words bitter and cold.

"The Targaryens might be my only chance for a pardon, just as they are your hope for redemption" finished Jorah.

"Then we best make Viserys into more than the worm he is" Valandil said with a small grin. Jorah looked at him and chuckled.

"Aye, I think they shall call him Viserys the Unlikely if he ever rules. Aegon the Unlikely ruled well enough, perhaps we may yet kill the boy in Viserys and let the man be born" said Jorah. Valandil was pensive as he replied:

"His fate shall be his own doing, yet we may yet counsel him to change his ways. All we can do is counsel and hope, though it is a fool's hope"

The next morning came after a light, fitful sleep for Valandil. His dreams had been dark after his talk with Jorah the previous night. He had dreamt that he was back in Pyke, the blood of the Greyjoys dripping from his blade, opening the door to the bedchamber with the two children inside. In the dream, however, he advanced on them, and against his will raised his sword to strike. The children laughed, and grew, and shed their skin, becoming vast, twisted, inhuman beasts with staring eyes, gnashing beaks and a forest of grasping arms, breaking the roof of the castle above them as they grew. Krakens, just like their sigil. One of them grasped him with a long, slimy limb, thick as a tree trunk, and lifted him up to stare at him with a vast eye as big as a horse. He had awoken suddenly in a cold sweat, his heart racing.

It was with a heavy heart that he rolled up his bedroll and made ready to leave that day. They would break out into the Dothraki Sea sometime today, Jorah had told him, and he found that he had grown fond of the forest of Qohor in their time there. He loved the songs of its birds, the smell of its air; he loved the way light played amongst the canopy and the branches. He had treasured the time riding its paths alone, singing as he went. Somewhere in his heart he felt that, no matter how far he may travel from this place, some part of him would always remain here, singing beneath the golden leaves of Qohor.

The Dothraki were fast and efficient at breaking camp, and no sooner had Valandil finished packing his saddle bags and emptied out the ashes of his pipe from his morning smoke, then the whole khalasar was ready to move again. Valandil swung up onto Velo, who snorted in displeasure and tossed his head willfully. However, with a stern word, Valandil quieted him and then lightly touched his haunches with his heels. Snorting again, Velo began to walk, the whole khalasar rumbling around them as it moved.
Viserys rode alongside Daenerys that day, and so Valandil and Jorah rode together behind them, amongst the riders of Daenerys' khas. The trees grew smaller and more distantly spaced, the undergrowth grew sparser, and the canopy became thinner and clearer as they rode through the morning and into the afternoon. Then at last, some hours after noon, they came to the edge of the forest, and leaving it behind they began up a small ridge.

Valandil had seen many wondrous sights in his years. He had seen the fair fields of the Reach covered in golden flowers as far as he could see, he had seen wintry mornings in Gondor where the whole world was covered in frost and ice and glittered in the sun like diamonds, he had seen icebergs in northern seas as tall as castles, he had seen the High Tower of Oldtown and the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, and the Titan of Braavos, and the White Tower of his grandfather Elendil in Annúminas. Yet still, when he set eyes upon the Dothraki Sea, he felt his heart leap.

As far as even his Numenorean eyes could see, a vast ocean of green stretched out before them. The rolling plains stretched out, immense and empty, no hills or mountains, roads or cities, trees or bushes, only endless fields of grass that rose and fell in long, low undulations. With even the smallest brush of wind, the tall grass would ripple and sway in long waves, like a windswept ocean. Above them, the sky was so vast and so blue it could make a man's spirit soar.

"The Dothraki Sea" Ser Jorah said, reining his horse around to stop at the crest of the ridge. He, Valandil and Daenerys had outpaced the rest of the khas, including Viserys who still struggled with the unfamiliar Dothraki saddle.

"It's so green" Dany said softly, a smile on her face as she took in the sight before her.

"Aye, here, at this time. When it blooms, it turns crimson with red flowers from horizon to horizon, in the dry season it is brown as bronze. In places, the Dothraki Sea is as colourful as the rainbow of light within a sept, for there are a hundred kinds of grasses, some as yellow as lemon, others as blue as indigo." Jorah said with a smile of his own.

Daenerys wheeled her mare around and then urged her on into a headlong gallop down the slope, laughing while she went. The descent was steep and rocky, yet her white mare was surefooted and did not stumble. The mare seemed to flow through the air like liquid silver as Daenerys rode her down the ridge. Her long silver-gold hair flew behind her in her speed.

"Grass" said the voice of Viserys Targaryen behind them. His tone was unimpressed, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sight before him.

"It's nothing but grass, not a town in sight. This all is where these savages live?" Viserys snapped.

"They may live simply, my King, yet they are warriors beyond compare, it would not do to insult your allies" Valandil said.

"This is my army, not my allies, my kingdom waits for me in the west and we're going east. Khal Drogo is marching the wrong way with my army. If he intends to cheat me-"

"The Khal has promised you a crown, you will have it, but the Dothraki do things for their own reasons in their own time Your Grace" Jorah said diplomatically.

"If he does not pay me my price, that barbarian will feel the wrath of a woken dragon" Viserys said through clenched teeth, and he set his hand on the hilt of his sword. Jorah exchanged a knowing look with Valandil. Viserys set the spurs to his horse and started down the slope, much slower and with a great deal more cursing than his sister.

"The fool's hope" Jorah said with a shake of his head. They started down the ridge, followed by the rest of the khalasar. For all that he snorted and tossed his head in frustration, Velo proved surefooted on the descent, and it was not long before they were within the Dothraki Sea, riding amongst grasses so tall they brushed Valandil's calves from horseback.

Suddenly a long, piercing cry broke the air, echoing across the open plains. The whole khalasar turned their eyes skyward, and again the cry came, immensely loud and incredibly distant. Valandil scanned the huge mass of blue above him, and finally he spotted the source as a third cry echoed around them. Far above him, far higher than any normal bird could fly, floating on the wind was an eagle. The eagle let loose another echoing cry, it was circling overhead, soaring majestically on the air. With a skipped heartbeat, Valandil realized that for the eagle to appear so large from so far away, it had to be an immense eagle, larger than anything else had ever seen fly. Its feathers were coloured in a mix of bronze and gold, and it spread its wings wider than the span of any bird he had ever seen.

"A great eagle" Valandil said breathlessly as he watched it fly.

Thrice did the eagle circle above the horde, and thrice more did it give its ear-piercing cry, and then it veered off and flew to the west and they saw it no more.

Now out on the open plains, Drogo led the horde to a faster pace. For miles and miles they raced across the Dothraki Sea while the outriders ranged far afield in search of foes. The thralls were driven on mercilessly, jogging and running to keep up with the riders, whipped when they fell behind by cruel Dothraki whips. Daenerys did not notice the cruelties going on right behind her, but Valandil saw them, and he made note of Viserys' indifference and Daenerys' ignorance of them. They covered many miles before finally making camp as the sun set in a brilliant display of red and orange over the plains.

Night was gathering when Valandil went walking through the camp in search of a sleeping place for the night, bedroll under his arm. In the darkness around him, there were the shapes of Dothraki crowded around bright fires, laughing and singing and talking in the gloom. He passed by a larger tent atop a small rise off a distance to his right, but as he did the tent flap opened. His eye was drawn as he saw the pale figure of Daenerys leading the Khal outside. Something drew him to stay and watch while she led her husband out to the ground in front of their tent flap. To his left and right, Dothraki men and women watched with dark, curious eyes. The Dothraki believe that everything important in a man's life must take place beneath the open sky he thought suddenly. Daenerys stoop before her husband and all the waiting eyes of the Dothraki, pale, slender, naked and beautiful. She pushed Drogo's vest off his shoulders, and then undid his belt of heavy medallions and pulled down his horsehair breeches. Something within Valandil cried out for him to turn away, but he felt affixed to his spot. He finally regained his senses when he saw Daenerys lay her husband down upon the ground and swing her leg over his groin to mount the Khal. He turned aside suddenly and walked away as quickly as he could with long, driving strides. Behind him, the Dothraki continued to stare.

There was an odd lurch in Valandil's stomach when, weeks and many miles later on the far side of the Dothraki Sea, Irri announced that the khaleesi was with child.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter VI
King's Landing

Isildur slammed the doors of his solar shut behind him, and let out a low, wordless noise of frustration. Frustration with the King, with the Queen, with the Small Council, with the King's court, with the whole of King's Landing. He crossed the sun-bathed room and poured himself a glass of iced water from a pitcher beaded with perspiration, and then he sunk gratefully into his chair, wiped sweat from his brow and drank deeply of the cold, refreshing water. Not for the first time, he found himself yearning for home, for the clear air and cool mornings of Ithilien, and a good summer snow. Mostly he yearned to be done with King's Landing and all the people within it.

The smallfolk often said that the late summer was the hottest part of all, and he believed them. The sun beat down mercilessly on the city, and a heavy, moist heat lay upon King's Landing like a stifling blanket. The days were scorching and the nights humid and sweltering. Many of the city's commoners had taken to sleeping by the riverbank at night, where the only cool air could be found. Some of the commoners even said that this recent heat wave was being stirred up by Isildur himself or "that Gondor sorcerer" as they called him.

It had been a month since Isildur had arrived in the city to become the Hand of the King. A month and he had not achieved nearly as much as he wanted. Despite all the best of intentions and efforts, Isildur could tell that his position in court was tenuous. He was no fool, he could see how the nobles of the court looked at him, and hear how the servants whispered behind his back when he passed. Every lord and lady of the court seemed to suspect some Numenorean plot to usurp the throne or bring this disaster or that misfortune upon this house or that house. The servants, on the other hand, seemed to fear him. They whispered that he could curse a man to a lifetime of suffering just by looking at him, and that he communed with dark powers late in the night. The Faith had a different reaction to Isildur's presence and on every street corner there seemed to be half-mad holy men and self-proclaimed prophets. They preached that Isildur planned to destroy the Great Sept of Baelor and erect a temple to the One God, driving out the many gods old and new, and extolling the faithful to not stand for the presence of this 'heathen' in their presence. Of course he planned no such thing, but it made no difference as far as the common folk were concerned. It seemed like every living soul in King's Landing feared him or suspected him of treason, heresy or both. It was not how Isildur had imagined the smallfolk reacting to his appointment.

The King's council was no better. Renly Baratheon, the Master of Laws, was all jokes and easy smiles, much as Robert had been at that age, friendly enough outwardly, but of no serious value in any debate within the council. Stannis Baratheon, Robert's other brother, had disappeared to Dragonstone shortly after Jon Arryn's death, and despite dispatching several ravens to summon him, Isildur had heard of nothing from him about why he had left or when he would return. He was sorely missed; despite his cold, unfriendly nature he had always respected Stannis' staunch sense of duty. Pycelle was a simpering sycophant, who blustered and droned on about nothing in his old age, and Isildur was almost certain he was someone's puppet. Like Renly, Littlefinger was all smiles and jests, but there was something sharper about him, his humour was barbed, and Isildur disliked the private little smile Baelish always had, and how he looked at everything as if he knew some private little joke that no one else was privy to. Varys the Spider was little better, a plump and powdered eunuch, speaking in soft, silky, deferential tones, appearing disarmingly effeminate and squeamish, yet he had no doubt that Varys had eyes and ears everywhere, and that at least some of them were following Isildur himself.

Even Robert himself was a part of Isildur's frustrations. He had ordered the creation of a King's Host, "to keep the scum in line" as he put it, and yet thought nothing of the great expense of building and maintaining an army of ten thousand trained fighting men. Robert loved feasts, festivals and the hunt. To Isildur's dismay, he had even ordered a tournament to be held in honour of his appointment as Hand of the King. They had quarreled long and loud when Isildur told him that he could have his host or his merrymaking, but he could not have both. They had filled the halls of the Red Keep with the sounds of arguments and shouting over that little disagreement.

At least I talked the fool into postponing the damned tournament by a fortnight Isildur thought wearily, rubbing his brow. I wish I had Ned's job. Why could not he be Robert's Hand? Is he not Robert's best friend and closest companion?

There was a knock at the door, and the voice of Ohtar came through the heavy timbers:

"My lord, Lord Varys wishes an audience"

Isildur inwardly groaned. He had hoped to escape the council for the rest of the day at least.

"Very well Ohtar" he called.

Ohtar opened the door and Varys the Spider glided into Isildur's solar silently, hands folded within the large, drooping sleeves of his colourful, garish robes, a small half-smile on his plump face. Ohtar watched Varys closely with hard eyes and his hand on the hilt of his sword, and then closed the door behind him. Varys turned to face Isildur, and then bowed with a courtly flourish.

"My Lord Hand" Varys said in his simpering, soft voice.

"What do you want Varys?" Isildur demanded "I did not summon you".

Varys' half-smile remained plastered on his face.

"I admire your candour my lord. May I sit?" Varys said. Isildur nodded, and the eunuch sat down in a chair across the desk from him, gathering up his silks and robes as he did.

"Now, Master of Whisperers, what are you here for?" Isildur demanded.

"To serve the good of the Realm, my Lord Hand, just as you are. There are things you must know and things I must tell you" Varys said. Isildur scoffed.

"I've been in this viper's nest a month now and heard nothing from you outside of council meetings. You are rather tardy about your duties, Lord Varys" he remarked drily.

"Alas, you must forgive me my lord, but think on all you know about me, and then try to imagine all that I know about you. It is not easy for a spider to trust" Varys said silkily.

"They say you know everything Varys" Isildur replied.

"Oh I have heard many a song from many a bird, however you are rather a difficult subject my Lord Isildur" Varys said with a nervous chuckle. "I know what you look like, a very tall man somewhere in his thirties I would estimate, yet I know that you are a great deal older than that. I know you landed here some thirty years after Aegon. If I might pry for an anecdote my Lord, what was old Aegon the Conqueror truly like? I've always wondered"

"Avaricious, solitary, obsessed with his own legacy, talked too much" Isildur answered. It was no exaggeration, although the first Tar-Aegon had been generous enough to the Numenoreans after they had sworn fealty, he had not left a favourable impression on Isildur or his father and brother. People called him "Aegon the Dragon", and indeed he was much like a dragon: Arrogant, ruthless and full of greed.

"I suppose one must forgive a tedious speaker when his words are backed by dragonfire" Varys said.

"Quite. Now what do you need to tell me Varys?" Isildur pressed. Varys' smile faded and his tone and face grew suddenly serious.

"Very well my Lord, if you wish to go straight to business, so be it. You are being-"

"Watched, I know. If that's all you have Varys, I'm unimpressed Spider" Isildur said. Varys smirked.

"Why, my Lord, one would almost guess that you have played this game before" the Spider said.

"More than you know, Lord Varys. Aren't you supposed to know everything?" Isildur replied.

"Oh my lord, they say I know everything but I am merely a humble servant. Do you know who is having you watched?" Varys asked

"You, the Queen, and most likely Baelish as well I would guess" answered Isildur.

"Well done my lord. You know, it was I who suggested to His Grace that you might make a better Hand than dear old Ned, and you have not disappointed me. Ned Stark is too much of an honourable man to see what goes on in the shadows of a king's court, but you, my lord, you have walked in those shadows before, you know how this game is played" Varys said with a small, enigmatic smile.

Crafty devil. I will need to be more careful with him. Isildur thought. Slowly, his face betraying nothing, he began to bend his will towards Varys' mind, his eyes as hard and grey as a sword blade as they bored into the man before him, Isildur's gaze steady and unyielding. There were secrets there, and Isildur could see the Spider spinning webs within webs. It could take him hours of searching to untangle it all, but even a cursory glance revealed to him that Varys knew much about his people and their history.

"Ned would have been a good Hand, he is a good man" Isildur said, breaking away from his brief search.

"Perhaps, but you are the King's Hand my lord, and the King faces death, unless you can save him. It has been a close run thing; you scotched the snake but did not kill it when you had the tourney postponed. They had planned to kill him then, but so far he has escaped the doom prepared for him" Varys said, his tone deathly serious.

"Kill him? How?" Isildur asked.

"In the same way as they killed Jon Arryn. The tears of Lys they call them, a most insidious poison, it is clear, odourless and tasteless, it leaves no trace, but death is certain. At a tourney feast, with Robert drinking everything he can get his hands on… You know what they planned to do my lord, you can see how easy it would be. Like Jon Arryn, Robert refuses to use a taster" Varys replied.

"Jon Arryn? Maester Pycelle told me he died of a sickness, though I have suspected that Pycelle is somebody's pet. He was a good man, he gave the realm good years, who could poison him?" Isildur said, rubbing furrowed brows wearily. He knew that King's Landing was a pit of intrigue and plots, but he had never expected anything like this.

"Oh there were many, you know as well as I that Lord Arryn was a kind and trusting man. There is one, a boy who owed all he had to Jon Arryn. His squire, now a knight, Ser Hugh of the Vale. Of course, with the tournament postponed, he may have left the capital by now" said Varys.

"But why? Why poison Jon Arryn? Why poison Robert?"

"Why does anyone poison a king? With Robert dead, the throne will pass to Joffrey, but he is still young, he would need a regent"

"And the city is already filled with Lannisters" Isildur said, as if seeing the pieces of a puzzle assemble themselves before him. Varys nodded.

"And Jon Arryn?" Isildur asked.

"Before he died, Lord Arryn was beginning to ask questions, I'm afraid even I know little more than that. Alas, my lord, I must cut this visit short. We wouldn't want the Queen to think you and I were on friendly terms, that would alarm her, and Her Grace has such a bad habit of doing foolish things when alarmed" Varys said with his small, mysterious smile. He arose, and bowed again, before heading to the door.

"Varys" Isildur said as the Spider opened the door to the hallway.

"Yes my lord?" Varys replied, turning back.

"Can I trust you?"

"My lord, you can trust me only to be untrustworthy. It is the ones who try to make you trust them that you must beware" the Spider said, and then turned in a swish of silks and was gone.

"Cirion! Ohtar!" Isildur called into the hallway through the open door. Immediately his squire and his housecarl came swiftly into Isildur's solar. Despite the heat, they were both dressed in mail hauberks of black steel rings, the coifs pulled back off their heads, with long black surcoats bearing the tree, stars and crescent moon that was Isildur's sigil, swords and daggers at their hips. Ohtar was scratching at one of his old battle scars, as was his habit.

"Close the door" Isildur commanded. Cirion shut the heavy oak door behind him. Isildur rose from the desk, and walked over to his balcony, where the curtains had been flung open to let in as much of the breeze as possible. Looking outside, his keen eyes spotted what he was looking for: Upon the battlements of the curtain wall, across the courtyard from the Tower of the Hand, a red-cloaked Lannister guard was staring intently at balcony of Isildur's solar. Grimacing, he quickly closed the curtains, not wanting to be observed any more than he already had been. He turned back to Cirion and Ohtar and leaned down against his desk.

"It seems our duties here might be a little bit more complicated that I first presumed" Isildur said.

"Like in the old days my lord?" Cirion asked.

"Aye Cirion, like in the old days" Isildur answered. Ohtar and Cirion nodded grimly.

"But it will be different this time. The players of this game are different. Our enemy is not the Deceiver, merely men. There may be some plot here to usurp the Crown and I intend to find the truth behind this. Ohtar, I have need of you. There is a knight, Ser Hugh of the Vale of Arryn, former squire to Jon Arryn. He may have left already with the tournament postponed, but find him for me if he hasn't and quietly inform him that I would like a word with him"

"Aye my lord" Ohtar said with a nod, and then turned to leave.

"Ohtar" Isildur said before his squire could go. He smiled a little. "Perhaps put on some different clothes before you go speak to Ser Hugh"

"My lord, we are Dunedain, and the only Dunedain in the city, we'll be noticed wherever we go, but as you wish." Ohtar said with a chuckle.

"Do not hurt him if he refuses, Ohtar" Isildur said as the squire left.

"Yes my lord" Ohtar replied with a slight grin, and then he left, walking swiftly away, and closing the door behind him.

"What does my lord command?" Cirion asked.

"I need the men to be on the watch for anyone with eyes on us or on this tower. I want to know who are the informants and the spies in this castle, or at least who are the ones watching us. Instruct each watch to keep their eyes open for anyone who might be spending a suspicious amount of time around the tower, but keep it quiet, don't let anyone know you're watching." Isildur explained.

"As you wish my lord" said Cirion, then he saluted and quickly left the solar.

Isildur picked up his cup of water and drained it, drinking deeply. He turned around and crossed the room to the balcony once more, and flung open the curtains. The guardsman that had been watching had moved away now. A merciful breeze cooled the sweat on Isildur's forehead as he leaned against the railing of his balcony and looked out upon the city. The sun was beginning to set, a brilliant ball of red on the horizon that cast long shadows throughout the the castle. Down in the yard beneath him, men in the crimson cloaks of the Lannisters were finishing up their day's training with swords and axes, filling the yard with shouts and the clash of steel on steel. Amongst the redcloaks, Isildur spotted the tall, broad shape of the Hound, and several younger lads in the white and brown garb of the Squireguard.

Isildur looked up from the yard and stared out at the glittering, distant Blackwater Rush, and the sea beyond it. It had been fifteen years since the last time he set foot in King's Landing, but longer, much longer, since he had last played this kind of a game. And the last time, we lost our home in the end he thought grimly. It was home, in Numenor, in the court of King Ar-Pharazon where Isildur had learned the game from his father and grandfather. He had learned to move unseen, to say little and give away nothing when he did, to watch and perceive men's intentions, to observe the relationships between men of power. He had been young then, so young; he was barely come to manhood in those days. The King's Men were everywhere, and the Faithful were few and persecuted, and ever the foul temple that the Enemy had erected to Morgoth smoked with sacrificial fires and echoed with the screams of the condemned. Those had been dark days, when the King's ear was held by the creature who called himself Mairon the Admirable, but whom Isildur knew as Sauron the Deceiver.

This place is not Armenelos, and my foes here are not Sauron or the King's Men, this time we shall have the mastery Isildur mused, sweeping his gaze out across the expansive view of King's Landing. It was a strange feeling for a man at times, to be a Dúnadan. It had been over two centuries ago when Isildur and his kin had first set foot in King's Landing, in the thirtieth year after Aegon's Landing by the Westerosi reckoning. It had been a far smaller city in those days, a few thousand houses and other buildings sitting close by the river, with muddy dirt streets, and the Red Keep still an unfinished heap of stone on Aegon's Hill. Isildur could never forget the hour he spent with his father and brother in Aegon's hall, telling the tale of how their people had come to wash up on the shores of Westeros under the steady, unflinching gaze of Aegon the Dragon. Isildur had been sure that Aegon would laugh at them and cast them out, but instead he had given them titles and lands to settle in the north, and asked only that they bend the knee and swear fealty to him in return. With three great wyrms at Aegon's command, they had to bend the knee or risk their people's destruction. It would be nearly another hundred years before Isildur would see King's Landing again, after the Dance of the Dragons, to crown Rhaenyra Ruling Queen of the Eight Kingdoms. And again, it would be many lives of men before he came to the capital again, when it was a smoking ruin after the Lannisters had sacked it and thrown down the Mad King. He could not have guessed when he first set foot in King's Landing all those years ago that he would someday be Hand of the King in this city. The years come and go, and every time I return King's Landing grows larger and busier, but it always has the same stench Isildur thought with a chuckle.

Isildur awoke the next day to the sounds of the bells from the Great Sept of Baelor ringing out, greeting sunrise and calling the faithful to morning prayers. He had grown used to that sound already in the month he had been in King's Landing: A long, loud, tolling noise that could be heard from every part of King's Landing. There was something oddly reassuring about the sound of the sept bells, rung out regularly at sunrise, the noon and sunset.

He arose from bed and, still dressed in his smallclothes, walked over to the copper basin of warm water the servants had laid out for him. He immersed his head and face in the water, splashing it all over his neck and back as he did. Then, soaking a towel in the water, he set to washing the rest of his body before dressing himself. Unlike the fashionable members of the court with their ornate, heavily decorated doublets and hose, Isildur preferred the simpler clothing of his people: Plain linen tunic, trousers, black boots, and a long black surcoat with the white tree embroidered on his chest, belted around the waist with Narsil at his side.

After lightly breaking his fast, he left his chambers. Two of Isildur's housecarls, Huor and Belegorn, fell into step behind him when he left, mail hauberks clinking as they did. They followed him out of the tower of the Hand. The yard was empty except for a few of the young squires going through their morning drills. Above them the great hall loomed, and its heavy doors were flung open by footmen at Isildur's approach. A knight in the white and red armour of the Redguard glowered at Isildur and his housecarls as they passed into the hall.

The great hall of the Red Keep was a vast chamber; with space enough for a thousand men and to spare. Hefty stone columns lined the long hall, with floral designs in the shape of vines crawling up around them in bronze. Once the great black skulls of Targaryen dragons had lined the hall, giving it a sinister air, but now in the place of the skulls there hung bright woven tapestries showing scenes of hunting and nature. Isildur did miss one of the skulls: That of the beast that his father had slain, which Queen Rhaenyra had covered with the banner of Gondor in the hall in honour of his father's feat. The Mad King had torn it down and had it burned when Gondor refused his call to arms.

At the far end of the hall, raised up upon a high platform, was the throne itself. The Iron Throne, Seat of Kings. It was a twisted and misshapen beast of a throne, jagged and treacherous, fanged with barbs and spikes of steel. The fires of the old wyrm Balerion had forged it, melted down from the thousand swords of Aegon's enemies. It sat upon its platform sullenly, hunched and brooding, a dark mass of blackened steel amongst the golden light of the hall.

Isildur walked past the throne to the door at the back of the great hall, the staring eyes of another Redguard following him and his housecarls all the way. Within the council chamber, he found the King's small council already assembled and waiting for him.

All around the meeting table, the men who ruled in King Robert Baratheon's name sat. The eternally bemused half-smiles plastered on the faces of Varys and Baelish made Isildur yearn to throttle both of them. Renly Baratheon looked fashionable in a doublet of rich green decorated with small gold studs in the shape of stag's heads. The Grand Maester Pycelle was almost ready to doze off, his eyes heavily lidded. Isildur saw that both Ned and Aratan had joined the council today. He smiled slightly to see that Ned looked as impatient and distasteful amongst all these courtiers as Isildur felt.

"My lords" Isildur began, sitting at the end of the table on the right hand of one empty chair, that of King Robert. "What have you for me today?"

"Your tournament grows nearer my Lord Hand, I think it best we start making our plans" Baelish said.

"The tournament, Lord Baelish. It is certainly not mine by choice or design. What does the King desire?" Isildur replied.

"What any man desires: To eat, drink, fuck and be merry" Littlefinger quipped. Renly chuckled. Isildur exchanged a glance with Ned; He disliked a king's own council laughing at the king behind his back.

"His Grace wishes a tournament of four days, with a joust, a melee, and an archery competition, and a great winner's purse for each event" Lord Varys said, handing Isildur a piece of paper where the scribes had recorded all the details. Isildur's eyes widened as he scanned over the plans.

"Fifty thousand gold dragons for the champion of the joust? And another forty thousand for the champion of the melee?" Isildur said, aghast.

"I expect I shall have to borrow from Lord Lannister, but no matter, at least he doesn't haggle like an old fishwife like the High Septon" Baelish said. Isildur rubbed his brow.

"We will make the prize thirty thousand for the winner of the joust, twenty thousand for the winner of the melee and ten thousand for the winning archer" he said.

"How frugal, a tourney for cheap" remarked Baelish sardonically.

"Were we being frugal, Lord Baelish, there would be no tourney at all" Isildur replied sternly.

"My Lord, the realm prospers on such events" Varys said smoothly "They give the great a chance for glory and the lowly a respite from their woes"

"The tournament will put money in many purses Lord Varys, I have no doubt, but it will put little enough back in our own coffers. Perhaps we ought to introduce a tax on brothels?" Isildur said with a pointed look at Baelish.

"Now you're beginning to sound like Stannis Baratheon, my lord" said the Master of Coin with a smirk.

"Stannis wouldn't tax the whorehouses, he'd burn them down" said Renly.

"You're Master of Coin Lord Baelish, I care not what you do, but find some way to put some silver in our treasury out of this" Isildur said. Baelish will find a way, he is clever. He is dangerous though, he knows all too well his own cunning

"Shall we move on? Lord Stark, what progress have you to report?" Isildur continued, nodding to Ned. Eddard straightened up in his chair and began to speak, addressing the whole Council.

"We've established a camp outside of the city, about half a day's ride away. We plan to pay the men according to their skill. It will work out to fifteen silver stags a month for a common man, five gold dragons a month for a trained archer and ten gold dragons for a sergeant. I have commissioned several workshops on the Street of Steel to provide pikes, crossbows, gambesons, helmets, whilst the Dunedain sergeants that Lord Isildur provided drill the men with the basics of soldiering. I reckon that we can maintain ten thousand fighting men, trained with pike, short sword and crossbow"

"Not much of an army for the King of Eight Kingdoms is it Lord Marshal?" Renly remarked.

"It is a peacetime army. If the realm is invaded, those ten thousand trained men can train thousands of others at need, and the armies of the lords and their bannermen will support the King's Host." Aratan explained. He did not add "Or else the Host will come down on their heads", but the implication was heavy in his words.

"What will be the burden on the Treasury I wonder?" Pycelle said ponderously.

"With only ten thousand, it shall not be too heavy an addition to our expenses to pay the silver for most of the men. The gold… Well I'm sure our good Lord Hand will solve that soon" Baelish replied, jotting a note on his account book. There was a gleam of something in his eyes that Isildur disliked.

"You have only mentioned foot? What will the Host do for horse I wonder?" Renly asked.

"There are knights and freeriders a plenty in the kingdoms. We thought it prudent to keep the Host on foot to save the Crown from the expense of warhorses. And we shall recruit the captains and other officers from amongst the knights and nobles of the realm" Aratan explained. There were nods of agreement from around the table.

"Whilst we are on the topic of the Treasury, a group of merchant captains have come forward to me with this" Baelish said, sliding a large piece of parchment across the table to Isildur. Isildur examined it with a close eye; it was covered with the names and signatures of many notable merchants in King's Landing, and their seals along the bottom.

"It is a petition; these merchants seek royal permission to sail to the far east in search of new trade routes, to Qarth or beyond. They would like an escort of warships from the royal fleet; in exchange they offer us a cut of all their profits from their voyage. This venture may well help us pay off our considerable debts" the Master of Coin explained. Though his face was smiling, his gray-green eyes did not.

"Yes, I shall bring it before Robert to deal with in court" Isildur replied "We must also bring Lord Stannis back to King's Landing, for he is Master of Ships and must have a say in this matter"

"Alas my Lord Hand, there has been no raven from Dragonstone, no word, nothing" Pycelle said, folding his hands beneath his long beard.

"Hmm, and Lord Varys? What know you of Stannis' self-imposed exile in Dragonstone?" asked Isildur.

"I fear that none of my little birds have brought me any songs out of that dreadful island" Varys replied apologetically. "However, I have heard some most dreadful songs from here in the capital itself. It would seem that some of our smallfolk take offense to your faith Lord Isildur, they are worried that you do not hold with the old gods or the new"

"You're losing your edge Varys, everyone knows that." Renly said with a smirk.

"I do not hide the fact that I do not hold with the Seven or the olds gods" Isildur said, narrowing his eyes.

"Nor I" Aratan added.

"We have all heard the dreadful things they say against you in the streets my Lord Hand" said Varys "But I fear that there may be whispers against you in the Faith itself, even amongst the Most Devout. To whisper against the King's Hand is to whisper against the King himself and his council"

"We might turn the people in our favour if you were to attend prayers in the Sept of Baelor" Renly suggested.

There was silence around the table. Isildur stared at him with hard grey eyes. Renly recoiled slightly.

"That I cannot and will not do, and you would do well to remember it Lord Renly" Isildur said slowly.

"A poor jest my lord Hand" Renly laughed with a shrug

"It is not much to worry about I deem, the Faith Militant has been gone for centuries" said the Grand Maester.

"I remember. Still their influence is considerable. Bring me the names of those who speak against the Crown, I must consider this matter further" Isildur replied.

The morning's meetings wore on until the bells of Baelor rang out midday. There were plans to be made for the tournament, for the provisioning of the Host, preparations to be lain out for the next winter, for the next harvest, for the next feast, financial arrangements to be made in regards to the Crown's considerable debts, diplomatic and trade relations with the Free Cities to be considered. Isildur felt like a gardener tending to a garden that grew uncontrollably whenever he turned his back, no matter how much he pruned it. Though many of the issues were similar to what he faced at home as Lord of Ithilien, they were on a different scale entirely, problems of eight kingdoms, not of one highland fief.

"That will be all for today my lords" Isildur said, leaning back in his chair when the bells began to ring.

There was a scraping of chair legs on stone floor, and the small council rose as one to depart, each bowing to Isildur before they left. Eddard and Aratan were the last to rise.

"Ah, Aratan, Ned, pray would you two join me for luncheon? I wish for some company today" Isildur said, smiling towards them. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Baelish leave the room and Belegorn close the door to the council chamber behind him. Isildur's smile fell and his face grew serious.

"There are things we must discuss, the King may face death and I will need both of you" said Isildur. Both Aratan and Ned's eyes widened in shock at the sudden change.

"What? What doom?" said Ned, brows furrowed.

"What need of us?" said Aratan urgently.

"Not here" Isildur hissed in a low voice "Too many listening, too many watching. Meet me in" he paused to think of the place in the castle where they would least be expected to be. "The royal sept, tonight, while the rest of the castle sleeps. And ensure you are not followed"

"But what is this threat?" Ned pressed.

"We cannot speak of it here. I shall tell you all I know tonight. Now go, and speak of this to no one"
Eddard's reservations about this whole situation were clear, but still he and Aratan rose and agreed to meet Isildur in the sept at midnight, then they turned and left the council chamber.

When Isildur arrived back at the Tower of the Hand, he found Ohtar leaning against the wall next to the door, his scarred face creased by a small grin of self-satisfaction.

"I found Ser Hugh my lord, he waits in your solar" Ohtar said at Isildur's questioning look. The squire fell into step with Huor and Belegorn behind Isildur as they passed back into the tower.

"Well done Ohtar, where did you find him?" Isildur asked, ascending the stairs towards his solar. Ohtar chuckled.

"We asked his innkeeper where he was, and we were told he was last seen heading towards the Street of Silk. Found him there arguing with a, uh, young lady that his knighthood deserves a discount"

Isildur quirked an eyebrow.

"Westerosi, all the same" he sighed.

Within his solar, Isildur found Ser Hugh sitting in the chair by his desk, waiting for him. Hugh was a young man, with a narrow face and a large nose, dull blue eyes and a mop of blond hair atop his head. On his chest he wore a surcoat of sky blue with a white crescent moon as his sigil. The new knight arose when Isildur stepped into the room.

"My Lord Hand" Hugh said curtly.

"Ser Hugh is it not? I do not believe we have been introduced?" Isildur said, extending a hand courteously. Hugh did not take it.

"What is the meaning of this summons my lord?" said Ser Hugh, almost demandingly.

"I had thought we might discuss your former master, Lord Arryn and his recent death" Isildur said, walking around the desk and settling into his chair. Ser Hugh sat back down across from him, face slightly paled.

"What would you like to know?" Ser Hugh asked, only the barest hint of a quiver in his voice.

"I am curious: How did Lord Arryn take sick?" Isildur said.

"I don't know my lord" said Hugh, a little too quickly "He was a very old man"

"Old by the reckoning of your people, yet he had always been hale and sound, until this sickness took him. Do you not think that such a thing would raise suspicion?" replied Isildur.

"I do not my lord" Ser Hugh answered stiffly "He was old, he took sick, and he died"

"The Hand of the King? Died suddenly? Can you not think of any reason that someone might wish him gone? And you were his squire, very close to him as a squire is" Isildur said. Hugh bristled in his chair.
"Is my lord suggesting that I-"

"I suggest nothing, are you confessing?" Isildur cut him off.

"I am a knight, I will not stand to have my honour insulted like this. I had nothing to do with Lord Arryn's death, and if any say otherwise than I will meet my accusers with steel in hand and let the gods show the truth of it" Ser Hugh snarled. Isildur did not even need to look into his mind, he could see that this young man had all the foolish arrogance of a new-made knight, yet there was no lie in Hugh's eye.

"As you say Ser Hugh. Still, you must agree that the whole thing seems strange does it not?" replied Isildur. The anger passed from Ser Hugh's face, replaced by a look of slight worry.

"I confess my lord, yes I have found it all quite unusual and very sudden" Hugh said.

"Perhaps you might help me look into this matter, you were Lord Arryn's squire, you must have known much of his comings and goings" Isildur said.

"Aye my lord, but I fear I know only little, I was only his squire and Lord Arryn did not confide in me." Hugh said apologetically.

"What can you tell me Ser Hugh?" asked Isildur.

"Before he took ill, Lord Arryn was spending much time with Lord Stannis, out in the city, or taking long rides in the kingswood" said Ser Hugh

"What did they talk about?" Isildur inquired, furrowing his brows.

"Alas I do not know my lord, they rode alone and spoke in private for the most part" explained Hugh with a grimace. "I cannot help you much more than that"

"Very well Ser knight, you may go and be about your business, but stay in the city at least until after the tourney, I may have more questions for you" said Isildur.

Ser Hugh thanked Isildur, and then stood and took his leave with a stiff bow. Isildur sat at his desk for a moment, hands clasped in front of his face, elbows resting on the table. Quickly he decided what he must do. The tall Numenorean lord stood and crossed the room quickly, shutting the door and then locking it. He pulled the curtains close across each window in the room, casting his solar into a shaded half-light, and then he unlocked a chest along the wall and opened it.

At the bottom of his chest he found what he was looking for, a round, hard object wrapped up in soft black cloth. Gently he picked it up, the heavy, round weight of it filling both his hands. Sitting back down at his table, he unwrapped the cloth. Beneath it sat the most prized of all his possessions in King's Landing, a marvel of the Elder Days: A palantir, a Seeing Stone.

The palantir was perfectly round, wrought of solid dark glass or perhaps a black crystal, Isildur knew not. A pale light glimmered faintly and distantly within its depths. Isildur set his hands on either side of the palantir and stared into it. The light in his solar dimmed and he felt himself drawn deeper and deeper into the darkness of the palantir, until all he could see was the blackness of the Seeing Stone and the distant white light within.

He was looking down upon King's Landing, soaring above it like an eagle, yet he felt neither wind nor breeze. Beneath him, the city was spread out upon its three hills, the Red Keep looming above it all. He knew that within his solar in the tower of the Hand, his body remained whilst his eye and his mind had entered into the palantir. He was high in the air, the land spread out beneath him like a map upon a table, and he turned north towards where he felt the presence of the other Seeing Stones. In an instant he felt the one he was searching for and started towards it, flying across the land at impossible speeds, hundreds of leagues passing by in minutes. He turned his gaze westward as he flew and saw Casterly Rock, fortress of the Lannisters, high, strong, never broken, a bastion of might and power . He turned eastwards and saw the Mountains of the Moon, teeming with mountain clansmen who appeared as tiny as ants from high in the air. In another moment, beneath him flew the Neck, which had been such a slow, miserable part of his southward journey, now flying past in an instant. There was a swash of wine-dark sea beneath him as he passed over Blazewater Bay, and then Gondor lay beneath him. He passed over his home, Minas Ithil, sitting upon the river Sirhun in Ithilien, its high citadel as pale and white as the moon. He felt a pang of longing within him, but he could not linger. He flew on, north and west, across the highlands and the moors, and then he saw it: Annuminas lay beneath him, the great ships in its havens appearing as tiny as a child's toy boats. For a moment he looked down upon Annuminas, feeling the tug of the Seeing Stone in the citadel. Isildur looked out to the north, the gaze of his palantir showing him things far beyond the reach of even a Numenorean eye. He saw the Wolfwood, dark and green and wild. He saw the Wall, a sheer cliff of ice that shielded the realm from all that lay beyond.

He bent his will towards beyond the lands beyond the Wall, but he could not see. All there was that he could see beyond the Wall was a shroud of darkness and shadow, and staring into its impenetrable depths Isildur felt a sudden dread creep up within himself, like a cold hand closing around his heart.

He turned back towards Annuminas and focused his mind on the feeling of the Stone he had come to make contact with. He felt its insistent pull upon him and allowed himself to be drawn towards the chamber of the Stone in the heart of the citadel of Annuminas. He soared down, through the clouds, through the streets, passing through the solid stones of the wall as if they were air, and as he drew nearer to his destination, blackness took him and Isildur saw no more.

When he regained his vision, he was looking up at a vast, domed ceiling, painted blue, dark as the night sky. The ceiling was studded with gems and precious stones made to resemble the stars, and these stars glinted and glimmered in the sunlight that lit up the chamber from tall windows set in the walls and the ceiling. Isildur knew himself to be seeing the room from the palantir that sat upon a stone platform in the centre of the chamber. He looked around, searching for the guardsman that was meant to be keeping a watch upon the Seeing Stone.

Dressed in the livery of Gondor, a young Dúnadan stood close by the door to the hall, a look of wonder upon his face. He must not have seen the Seeing Stone called upon before Isildur thought.

"It is I, Isildur. Send word to my lord father, I wish to speak with him" Isildur said, his strong voice carrying through the palantir as clearly as if he was standing there himself.

"Aye my lord" said the guardsman, and he saluted and quickly walked out of the room.

When Elendil arrived, he swept into the chamber, his sky-blue robes billowing out behind him. Elendil closed the door behind him, with a nod to the guard standing outside.

"My son, what news do you bring? I know you would not call upon me through the Seeing Stone to merely visit" Elendil said, setting a hand upon the palantir to look upon his son's face so far away in King's Landing.

"Grave news from the capital, father. I cannot speak for long, so I must be quick: I fear that there is a plot upon the King's life" replied Isildur.

"What? By whom? How did you come to know this?" Elendil asked. His brows were furrowed, yet his tone was not one of shock.

"Lord Varys has confided his suspicions" Isildur said.

"You should not place your trust in a spider Isildur, you are wiser than that"

"I am not putting my trust in him, but knowledge is his trade and if he suspects something it would be wise to investigate it ourselves. There is much jealousy and many schemes and plots here in the court of Tar-Robert, one even may wish to throw down the King himself and usurp the Crown"

Elendil sighed, rubbing his brows wearily.

"Ever has King's Landing been a hole full of rats, much as even the court of Numenor became. Whom do you suspect?" he said.

"I believe it may have something to do with the death of Jon Arryn. Lord Varys believes it has a Lannister plot, and indeed it could be. The capital is full of Lannisters and men sworn to them" answered Isildur.

"If the Queen's own kin are plotting treason, you must go to the King with this suspicion" said Elendil.

"I cannot do that father. Robert considers me a friend, to accuse his own wife and her family of treason without proof? Our people are distrusted enough as it is" Isildur replied.

"It matters not if they distrust us, it is your duty. You must go to King." said Elendil automatically.

"Yet if they distrust us, how can I do my duty? I cannot go to the King unless I can prove my suspicions father, surely you know that"

"Your word should more than suffice. The King may find the truth of it himself, with your aid"

"Robert has many virtues father, but subtlety is not one of them. No, I must do this myself before I bring it to him" Isildur insisted. Elendil's eyes flashed for a moment, and Isildur knew he had erred. His father was not used to being disagreed with by his sons.

"Let us not bicker now, there are other things we must discuss, for if House Lannister plots to overthrow the King, who else but us may stand before the might of Casterly Rock? Few enough houses can match the hosts of the Westerlands on the field, and if Lord Tywin aspires to place his house on the throne, many may join him." said Isildur.

"You need not worry yourself my son" Elendil replied with a grim smile "The eyes of the White Tower see much more than the Lannisters may suspect. If Lord Tywin marches, we shall know."

"Good, that is good. How goes Anarion's preparations?" Isildur said. A shadow passed over Elendil's face.

"He has been diligent, but your brother is discontent. I believe he feels that we should command the Andals, for he tells me that surely we are stronger and wiser and more just than they, rather than stand beside them when the day comes and the Enemy is upon us" said Elendil wearily. Isildur sighed.

"Ever have our people been plagued by such thoughts. There are times when I feel that it would be better if the Valar had never blessed us with our gifts" Isildur said.

"He was young when Numenor fell, still a boy really. It may be that the lessons we learned from such hardship are not as clear to him" Elendil said with a shake of his head.

"He adores you father, you must speak to him and he shall listen, I know Anarion. Alas father, I fear I have stayed too long already. I must be away now"

"You are the King's Hand Isildur, and you are my son, if there is any that can protect Tar-Robert it is you." Elendil said, raising his hand in farewell.

With a jolt and a sudden lurch in his stomach, Isildur found himself back in his chamber in King's Landing, birds chirping outside his window. The room swam before his eyes, but he shook his head and cleared his vision. The palantir still sat upon his table, dark and impregnable. The words of his father had only added to the cares upon his troubled mind. Once again he wrapped up the Seeing Stone in its dark cloth and then reverently placed it back in the chest, which he closed and securely locked. Then he unlocked his doors and cast open his windows, allowing sunlight back into his chamber.

The rest of the day passed slowly in meetings with the small council, talks with this noble and that noble, and long wandering walks throughout the castle. He felt as if all the troubles of the world were born upon his shoulders, and yet he could not act. He found himself often walking the battlements, staring out to the sea and listening to the sound of the gulls, wishing for nothing more than to take ship, strike out for the horizon and leave it all behind. Other times in the council chambers, whilst Renly joked and Baelish smirked, he wished only to sweep Narsil out and pull the truth of all of this out of them right then and there, yet he knew that would not bring him his solution. Everywhere he walked through the Red Keep there were smiles and nods and bows to his face and whispers behind his back.

He was glad when the sun finally set behind the western hills, bringing an end to a long and wearisome day. He waited for several more hours, the moon climbing high in the starry night sky. Isildur stood in his bedchamber, watching out a narrow window. One by one, he watched the windows of Maegor's holdfast darkened, candles being put out and fires burning down. Finally he was sure that the rest of the castle was sound asleep. Isildur turned and quickly crossed his chamber, opening the heavy door. Outside his door stood Huor the housecarl.

"Huor, give me your cloak" Isildur said, tapping his guardsman on the shoulder. Unfastening his broach, Huor took off his plain, drab grey cloak and handed it to his lord. Isildur took off his own finer cloak and the eagle broach, then swept Huor's cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood up to shadow his face. He started down the hallway towards the stairs.

"Be safe my lord" said Huor.

"Do not worry, I shall return in a short time" Isildur said, and then turned to quickly walk away.

The night air was cool and smelled of sea salt when Isildur exited the Tower of the Hand. Quietly and quickly he strode across the yard, Huor's grey cloak blending with the dark and the shadows beneath the walls. The royal sept lay across the bailey from the Tower of the Hand, and Isildur walked to it cautiously, wary of any eyes that may be watching. The sept was a round building, with a high domed roof and seven niches carved out of the walls on all sides, each bearing a carved stone image of one of the Seven. In daylight, windows of crystal and stained glass lent it a shining, colourful aspect, but in night it was darkened. Isildur smiled and was glad that Robert was not as pious or as prone to praying all night as Baelor the First had been and that the septon of the Red Keep was not as devout as perhaps he could be.

Isildur stopped at the door and looked back at the courtyard, scanning it for any sign of followers or unwanted eyes. A few guards were patrolling the battlements but all were looking out to the sea or the city, none towards the sept. He turned back and opened the door.

The interior of the sept was a round chamber of moderate size, sparsely lit by candles that burned softly from seven altars, each set before its own image of the Seven. The candlelight and the homely size of the royal sept lent it a sense of intimacy that grander structures like the Great Sept of Baelor did not possess. Despite this, Isildur could not help but feel a sense of unease at entering the temple of these false gods. He still remembered the temple that Sauron the Deceiver had erected upon Numenor in those last dark days, built for the worship of the Great Enemy. It had been a dark place of fear and pain and death, filled with screams. Even stepping into a sept of the Faith of the Seven still made the hairs on the back of Isildur's neck bristle. Worship for Isildur was done out in the open air, worship was the Three Prayers of Thanksgiving and the quiet contemplation of the beauty of nature, of mountains and waterfalls and the sea and the stars.

His eyes quickly adjusted to the half-light inside the sept. In the center of the room was a raised wooden altar, upon which was set a seven-sided crystal which, in daylight, would cast a rainbow of light when raised to the sun. Near to the altar stood Aratan and Eddard. Aratan was cloaked as Isildur was, but Isildur winced slightly when he noticed that Ned wore nothing to obscure his identity, and he saw the grey direwolf of House Stark plain upon the breast of his doublet.

"Were you followed?" said Isildur softly, quietly closing the door to the sept and then pulling his cloak back off his head.

"No of course not, now what is the meaning of all this?" said Ned, too loudly. I can't blame him for having no patience for this sort of thing. All this creeping in the dark is distasteful business for a man of honour thought Isildur.

"Shh, keep your voice down. We do not know who may be listening" said Isildur, crossing the sept to stand near to the altar with them, close enough to whisper.

"What have you found out father? What threat did you speak of?" whispered Aratan.

"I have reason to suspect that the Lannisters may be plotting against the Crown" answered Isildur.

"What? Lord Tywin is the grandfather of Prince Joffrey, his own daughter is the Queen, why would they plot against the Crown?" said Ned.

"Truth now my friend: Do you really trust Cersei Lannister or her kin?" Isildur asked.

"No" Ned admitted "She has always hated Robert I think. But why plot against him now?"

"Joffrey is not yet of age, he would need a regent, they could place a Lannister puppet on the Iron Throne. I think that Jon might have somehow found this out and that is why he died so suddenly. They may have slain him" Isildur explained.

"I confess I found Jon's sudden sickness strange as well and worrisome" said Eddard.

"How did you come to suspect this father?" Aratan asked.

"Lord Varys came forth to me with his suspicions"

"Varys? The eunuch?" said Ned with a touch of disgust in his voice.

"Indeed, I do not waste my trust on one such as him either. However he is the Master of Whisperers for a reason, and if he sees reason to suspect a plot, then it would be wise that we should find the truth of it ourselves" replied Isildur.

"But what can we do? I know not even how to begin" said Aratan.

"Aye, I have no mind for such intrigues. We speak to Robert with this" said Eddard.

"There is little that I do these days is not noticed, by dint of my station and office, but I shall try to look into Jon Arryn's death and find what truth I can in all of this. We will need proof before we speak to the King" Isildur whispered.

"But what can we do until then? Father, you cannot expect me to stand by whilst you bear this burden alone" said Aratan with a hint of frustration.

"No, no I will have need of you both. Varys said that I scotched the snake but did not kill it by having the tournament postponed. It may be that our enemies conspire to do something during the tourney, there is always much food and drink in such a celebration, and tournaments are always full of accidents"

"My intention had been to test my lance in the tournament…" said Aratan.

"That is good, do so. I shall never turn away the aid of someone I can trust in this horrible city" Isildur said, smiling and clapping his son on the shoulder.

"If we fall into a struggle with Lannisters, both of our armies are north of the neck Isildur, we are isolated with only a handful of men and even with your ships it would take our allies months to come south in force. Lord Tywin has never been defeated in the field, he is a great commander, his armies are many and his arm is long. The King's Host may mean the difference between victory and defeat for us here" said Ned. The voice of Ned Stark, friend and comrade of Isildur and Robert, was gone, replaced by the calm, steely voice of Eddard the Quiet Wolf, the cool, methodical, relentless commander who had not yet met an army he could not put to flight.

"Yes, that is true Ned. We will have to ensure their loyalty" Isildur replied.

"Leave that to me" the Lord of Winterfell said with a grim half-smile. "I have no taste for these palace plots, but soldiers I understand. Many of the men and their officers are from the Westerlands, but I will ensure that their loyalty, their duty, is to Robert and to the Realm, no matter what it takes"

"If there is any man who can do so, it is you my friend" said Isildur. "But until we have found out more, we must be quiet, we must be cautious, we must be observant. The peace of all Eight Kingdoms could fall upon our shoulders to uphold. Our vigilance must not falter!"

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter VII
King's Landing

The grass was long, the leaves were green, the sun was golden and never had the world seemed fairer or more full of life and wonder to Sansa Stark. It was the first day of Lord Isildur's tournament, and her heart was racing in her chest from excitement. She had been waiting, most patiently, for the Hand's tourney since she first heard of it when they had arrived in King's Landing. Sansa had been overjoyed. A tourney! A real tourney! With splendid knights and beautiful horses, just like out of the songs. She had been almost heartbroken when Lord Isildur had announced its postponing for a whole two weeks. Now it was here, and after nearly begging her father, she had been allowed to attend. Sansa had watching with growing excitement from the castle as hundreds of coloured pavilions had been thrown up at the tourney grounds outside the city walls. Now at last the day had come, and she was riding amongst that wondrous camp in a carriage with Septa Mordane and her best friend Jeyne Poole, breathless with amazement. She had felt a little bad with chaining Lady up back in the castle kennels, but she couldn't stay feeling down. Everything was simply too splendid for her words.

All the knights' pavilions were striped with vivid colours, reds, whites, blues, greens, golds, yellows, and each hung a shield bearing their arms outside the tent flaps. Everywhere she looked there was a pageant of heraldry, green apples and red apples, striding huntsmen, rearing unicorns, snarling leopards, three white feathers on black, three golden lilies on blue, a golden wyvern on red, eagles, griffons, stags and elk, heraldic birds and beasts of every description. Everywhere the knights and their loyal squires prepared for the day's contest, saddling snorting warhorses and polishing plate harness to a high gleam. It seemed in Sansa's eye that all the chivalry of Westeros had been assembled in this one place for this one magical showing of valour, skill and gallantry, and her heart skipped a beat when she realized that she would be part of it all, part of the whole wonderful event. She was dressed for the part, of course, in a gorgeous long green dress that accented the auburn in her hair.

They came to a tall viewing stand, newly erected by the lists. As her father was the Lord Marshal, Sansa had the honour of sitting on the high dais along with the King and the Queen and the whole court. She felt like she could barely contain herself, but Sansa was very proud of the grace with which she descended from the carriage and the composure with which she carried herself as she ascended the wooden stair to their seats. Septa Mordane gave a slight, approving nod.

Sansa was taken with the beauty of all the members of the court that day. Even old King Robert looked fine and dashing, in golden doublet adorned with leaping black stags, his high golden crown upon his head, his black beard and hair brushed and shining. The effect was somewhat lessened by the wine that ran down his chin after he took a long swig from his cup, and by the immense paunch of his belly, but still he looked almost kingly. The Queen was dressed to match, all in a golden dress to match her hair, but her gown was adorned with red lions instead, two of them facing each other, embroidered into the very fabric.

But to the left of the King sat Isildur and Sansa had never seen him like this before. On this day she saw revealed something which she had only glimpsed on all Lord Isildur's visits to Winterfell. He was dressed simply but richly, in tunic of white and surcoat of black and a cloak of black fastened by a silver broach shaped like an eagle with wings outstretched. Upon his chest were the white tree of Gondor, and the seven stars of the Dunedain, and the white crescent moon that was his own sigil. The heraldry glinted and glimmered, set in his surcoats with silver and precious gems. A slim circletof mithril adorned his head over his short, dark hair, and a single white stone was set in it. He was dressed much simpler than all the courtly nobles who surrounded him, yet none seemed as lordly or as noble as Isildur. Ancient and yet ageless he seemed, as stern as a high lord, as wise as a maester and as kingly as a king out of the Age of Heroes. His grey eyes reflected untold years as he watched the heralds march out upon the lists.

"It's better than the songs" Sansa breathed. There was a blast of horns and the spectacle began.

Sansa and Jeyne watched as the knights rode out in procession, the heralds calling out names both famous and unknown.

First rode the Kingsguard, the Six Brotherhoods. The Kingsguard themselves, the First Brotherhood, rode out first, led by the Lord-Commander Ser Barristan the Bold. They were seven of the noblest knights Sansa had ever seen, all but one in plate armour of the purest white and bearing white cloaks and riding white chargers. The sole flash of colour amongst them was Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, resplendent in gold from head to toe, his helm shaped like a roaring lion's head. The other brotherhoods, each of seven more fighting men, came after, their white armour bearing blazons of colour to mark out their brotherhood. There was the Heirguard, who safeguarded the lives of the royal family, in harness of white and yellow, and the Redguard, guardians of the Red Keep, in white and red. Behind them, in armour of black chased with thin white trim, came the Ironguard, led by their Brother-Captain Ser Ilyn Payne, guardians of the Iron Throne itself. Last of all, marching in on foot rather than riding on horses, came the Dragonguard and the Squireguard, fourteen strapping young squires whom served the other knights of the Kingsguard. Sansa knew from her lessons that once the Dragonguard had been tasked with the care of the Dragonpit while the Targaryen dragons still lived but now, with the dragons all dead, they cared for the horses and gear of the knights

"But where is the Bannerguard?" Jeyne asked.

"They say they all died on the Trident, protecting Rhaegar" answered Sansa. She had always remembered that part of the story; it seemed so grand and courageous of those knights to die so bravely on the field rather than accept surrender. Her father had once told her that half the Bannerguard had fled when they saw Rhaegar struck down, but she didn't believe him. True knights would never flee in such a way.

The great procession of knights and freeriders continued. So many of the names were so famous, it was like Sansa had stepped into a song. There came Bronze Yohn Royce and his sons, all in armour of bronze covered in ancient runes. There came the tall Lord Jason Mallister, an eagle's outstretched wings rising from his helmet, his arms all indigo and silver, and his son with him. Hither came thundering Ser Gregor Clegane, whom some called The Mountain that Rides and others named The Troll That Walks In Daylight, and he rode upon a massive snorting black stallion, his heraldry bearing the Clegane sigil of three dogs on a yellow field. When the young Lord Beric Dondarrion's name was announced, his hair all reddish gold and his black shield crossed by a bolt of lightning, Jeyne Poole declared that she was ready to marry him right then and there.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, entered the lists as well, in grey plate without adornment and wearing his dog's head helm. And there was Renly Baratheon, the King's handsome younger brother, in plate harness enameled a deep green, his tall helm bearing a vast rack of golden antlers. And there were many other names Sansa did not recognize, unsung freeriders and younger sons of noble families and unproven knights from the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Reach, the Vale of Arryn and the rest of the Eight Kingdoms, and Sansa and Jeyne gossiped back and forth about which they thought handsome and which they hoped would prove their valour soon. However then there came a name that Sansa did not expect.

"Aratan Isildurion, son of Isildur Elendilion, of the House of Elendil!"

Aratan trotted into the lists upon a dappled grey charger, as fine a horseman as only a Numenorean could be. His arms were unlike any of the other knights upon the field that Sansa could see. Most of the knights wore plate harness, and their shields were small, decoration to bear their sigils in the joust. Aratan instead wore a long hauberk of mail, down to his knees, forged all of black steel, and on his chest some kind of cuirass that Sansa had not seen before. Over it all he wore a long black surcoat, bearing the sigils of Gondor and his father on his chest. He carried a broad kite shield, long enough to cover his body from chin down to the flank of his horse. Aratan carried his tall helm, adorned with the wing of seabirds, under his arm. His bare face was as a younger image of his father, dark-haired, grey-eyed, stern of glance and noble in bearing, his head high and fair, less ageless perhaps than his father, but also less remote, closer in a way. As he rode past, Aratan caught Sansa's eye. He raised a gauntleted hand in salute; Sansa was sure it was to her and felt a slight heat warm her cheeks.

Again the horns were blown and the day's jousting began. Two southron knights whose colours Sansa did not know same galloping together in a rumble of hooves and a crunch of clashing steel as blunted lance met shield or armour. All morning and into the afternoon the jousts continued. Jeyne squealed and covered her eyes whenever a knight took a fall from his saddle, but Sansa knew her composure was perfect from Septa Mordane's small smile of approval. A high lady knows how to properly hold herself at a tournament. The commoners shouted and roared and gasped with amazement as their favourites met in terrific contests. They screamed when Renly Baratheon, beloved by the crowds, fell to the ground with a fearful snap. He rose after a moment though, having broken off one of the tines on his golden antlers. With a laugh, he held it aloft and then threw it into the grateful crowd. Some brave souls booed and hissed when the Kingslayer took the lists, but they cheered all the same when he inevitably unhorsed his opponent. One unlucky young knight from the Vale of Arryn was paired off with the Mountain for his first tilt. Sansa gasped with horror when Ser Gregor's lance hit the unfortunate knight with such violence that it drove up underneath his gorget and stabbed him through the throat, lifting him up from the saddle and tossing him bodily backwards upon the ground. The dying knight lay very still upon the ground, blood gurgling in his throat as he choked out a last breath. Jeyne paled and began to breathe quickly and hysterically, and she quickly excused herself, rushing away from the lists with Septa Mordane following after her to help her regain her composure, but Sansa stayed. She could not tear her eyes away from the dying man. She felt bad that the poor boy's name would never win renown now.

On and on the day's festivities continued. Sansa cheered for Jory, who represented Winterfell in the lists and acquitted himself well, unhorsing three opponents before losing to a fourth. The Hound seemed as unstoppable as his brother, and though his armour was grey and drab and his form was unsophisticated, Sansa had to admit he was a bold and courageous rider in the lists. Sansa's favourite however quickly came to be Ser Loras Tyrell, Knight of the Flowers. He was young and slim and heartbreakingly beautiful, and Sansa felt her heart race whenever he rode past and favoured her with a smile with his pouty lips and piercing eyes. He rode with the finest style and always overthrew his opponent, often without taking a single hit himself. He was the very image of the knight Sansa had always dreamed of, handsome brave and strong.

"The next tilt is soon to commence!" the herald roared out in a loud, clear voice. He held in his hand a long scroll. "Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lion of Lannister, shall ride against… Aratan Isildurion!"

Sansa sat forward a little in her seat. It was the first hour of the afternoon and she had yet to see Aratan ride. It was his first tilt of the day.

The Kingslayer, shining in his gilt armour, sat at one end of the lists on a warhorse caparisoned in scarlet and gold. His visor was back and he was staring down at his foeman. Usually Lannister would be tossing kisses to ladies in the audience, smirking and showboating, but now he looked at Aratan with deathly intensity. As a cat eyeing its prey before the pounce, so he appeared to Sansa. At the other end of the lists Aratan sat with his high winged helm already upon his head. Sansa watched a squire with a heavily scarred face place a lance in Aratan's fist. With lance in one hand and his broad shield on his other arm; Sansa realized with a jolt that Aratan was controlling his horse with his legs alone. She saw the mouth of the scarred squire moving, mumbling advice to Aratan.

The heralds set their horns to their lips. Jaime lowered his visor gently and picked up his lance. Both men stood silent, their horses pawing the ground eagerly.

There was a blast of horns.

Then there was the thunder of hooves.

Great was the clash of their meeting. So loud and so sudden was the crash of their arms, of lance hitting shield and armour, that the commons were shocked to silence and Sansa jumped a little in her seat. Their lances had both struck home, but both men had stayed in the saddle, and a ragged cheer went up as they went galloping past each other with shattered lances in hand. Squires scrambled to place fresh lances in the knight's outstretched hands, and then quickly they went hurtling back together again.

Lannister shifted himself to the right in his saddle at the last second, and Aratan's lance point glanced off the side of Jaime's shield, whilst the Kingslayer's lance hit solidly upon Aratan's. Still though, the son of Isildur kept his seat and rode past again. This was a different kind of joust than Sansa had seen before. Here there was no pageantry, this contest was deadly earnest. These two men-at-arms were seeking not to amaze the King, the court or the crowd, nor were they seeking glory or renown, these men sought only to defeat each other utterly.

Three more times they came rushing together with terrible violence and a tremendous noise of galloping hooves and the smash of lance on shield. Three more times they went galloping past, both still in the saddle. Three more times the crowd cheered, its excitement growing to a fever pitch by the courage and skill of the combatants.
On the fourth tilt however, there was a great crack of rending wood. Aratan drove his lance forward with such force that it cleaved straight through the Kingslayer's shield, splitting the lion blazon asunder. The lance bore Jaime Lannister back and he went flying out of his saddle, falling onto the ground heavily. Before Sansa knew what she was doing, she was on her feet clapping. The roar of the crowds was deafening. The King let out a great bellowing cheer of approval, laughing boisterously whilst Jaime slowly struggled to his feet.

Aratan trotted over to the fallen Kingslayer. He cast down his broken lance. Out swept his sword, bright steel shining in the sun. He pulled his warhorse up a short distance from Ser Jaime.

"Ser Jaime Lannister! Do you yield?" Aratan shouted. The commons had fallen quiet again.

Ser Jaime Lannister drew his sword. The golden blade caught the light as it was unsheathed, blazing like a fiery brand.

Aratan slid down from his saddle smoothly, kite shield on one arm, sword in hand. The two men squared off, but Aratan drove his sword into the dirt and left it standing, raising a hand as if to say "Wait." Then he took the strap of his kite shield off his shoulder and tossed his shield aside. Aratan took his sword in both hands and held it above his head in a stance that Sansa had never seen before.

There was a moment of stillness between the two foes, like swimmers taking a deep breath before the plunge. Even through their armour, Sansa could see, almost sense, the tension and power of coiled muscle. There was a lunge so fast that she could have missed it if she blinked

Blades flashed as they turned in the air. Blades cut and thrust and slashed with speed like Sansa had never seen. Each man's sword seemed to be in six places at once as they exchanged blows and counter-blows with furious intensity. Swords slipped and slid off each other from binds that lasted mere moments. Then, as if moved by one mind, they separated again, backing off and beginning to circle. Again they lunged together and their swords met with a mighty clash, Jaime parrying Aratan's blow. They rained blows on each other as a smith hammers on steel. It was as if they were tireless, inhuman. Jaime attacked with a thrust; Aratan turned it aside and rang a heavy strike off Lannister's lion helm, and the Kingslayer replied with a counter-stroke of his own that crunched onto Aratan's shoulder. They used the whole of their swords as weapons, not merely the blades. Jaime swung his sword like a hammer, blade in gauntleted hands, wielding the pommel like a mace. Aratan stepped back and replied with his own hammer blow, catching Ser Jaime by the ankle with his crossguard and tripping him to the ground. Quickly Jaime scrambled back to his feet as Aratan pounced and once again they were exchanging blows with dizzying intensity.

It was not the graceful dance with swords in hand that the bards sung of and Sansa had always imagined. There was a grace to it perhaps, but it was too savage, too rough, there was too much unbridled ferocity in it. They used their whole bodies as weapons just as much as their swords, grabbing and grappling, as they came to grips with each other in close quarters. Back and forth they went along the lists. Aratan would push the Kingslayer back with a flurry of hard strikes, surcoat billowing round his mailed legs. Ser Jaime was faster on his feet, but Aratan had the longer arm, greater reach and Sansa could see the power behind each of his swings. Ser Jaime could do little more than dodge or deflect the razor-blade that swung in Aratan's hands. Then something would change, their footwork would shift, and Jaime would be on the attack, harrying Aratan back with a flurry of his own. Lannister's sword was faster, he seemed to strike two blows for every one of Aratan's, yet the tall Dúnadan deflected and parried with the practiced ease of a master. Neither man could gain the advantage, too great was their courage, and too skilled was their swordsmanship.

"ENOUGH" roared the King, in a voice that echoed across the tourney grounds. The combatants stopped immediately at the voice of King Robert, both dropping to bended knee. Robert was on his feet, the commons had fallen into dead quiet.

"Right, that's enough from the both of you. You've both shown your courage, proved how hard you are; now let that be the end of it. This match shall be a draw. If you still feel the need to test your mettle, save it for the melee" said the King. Applause began to rise for the two knights on the field. Ser Jaime raised his visor once again, and Aratan pulled off his helm and pushed back his mail coif. His hair was matted to his head by sweat. He turned to Lannister and extended a hand. Jaime took it, but Sansa could see him mouthing words that she could not hear beneath the roars of the crowds. Then they released each other and stalked away towards opposite ends of the lists.

"Enjoying the joust my lady?" said a voice. Sansa looked up. Standing over her was a slim man. His hair was dark with threads of grey at the temples, and his beard was short and pointed. He was dressed finely, with a silver mockingbird securing his clothes at his throat. He was smiling, yet his grey-green eyes did not.

"I am sorry ser, I do not believe we have been introduced"

"Sansa, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, the King's Master of Coin" said Septa Mordane.

"Yes, an old friend of the family" said Lord Baelish. He sat down next to Sansa, too close. He was looking at her.
"You are the eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Stark? You know, I knew your mother before she was Lady Stark, when we were both young. You have her hair" he said. Something about him made Sansa's skin crawl.

She was saved from having to reply to that by the trumpets of the heralds. More names were called out. She sucked in her breath and stiffened slightly as Ser Gregor Clegane galloped past, heading to the far end of the lists.

"Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides" said Lord Baelish. He turned his head to her. "Or The Troll That Walks in the Day, as some others know him"

"I am sure he is a very brave knight" Sansa said. She could think of nothing else to say about Ser Gregor. He seemed like the evil black knight that the minstrels always sung of, to be defeated by some gallant young hero. How she wished that Ser Loras would ride against the Troll.

"You are frightened by him?" Baelish asked. Sansa could only nod slightly.

"You are wise my lady. Have you ever heard the story of the Mountain and the Hound?" he asked again. This time she shook her head.

The crowds cheered as Ser Gregor's lance caught his opponent in the chest and sent him toppling from his saddle to the ground. Unlike the poor knight of the Vale, this one survived the encounter.

"Lovely little story of brotherly love" Baelish said, barely a whisper.

"But not one that you need to trouble yourself with my lady" boomed a voice above them. Sansa looked up. Isildur towered above them, looking down. He did not look amused. Baelish's lips twisted into a smirk.

"My Lord Hand, how are you enjoying your fine tournament? I assure you that I was truly frugal in its funding" Baelish asked. Isildur did not heed him.

"Save your gossip for ears that wish to hear it Baelish. There is only one thing you need to know about the Troll and the Hound, young Sansa: They are both of them damned, both of them are wicked men. And wicked men shall never go unpunished" he looked at Lord Baelish pointedly. Isildur turned and strode away, followed by a pair of armed men in the livery of Gondor.

The jousts continued for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. Aratan was undefeated for the rest of the afternoon after his match with the Kingslayer, unhorsing many southron knights and lords. Ser Jaime Lannister reentered the lists with a renewed fury and practically trampled several of his opponents before being brought to another draw with Ser Barristan Selmy, who had ridden his first tilks of the day against men decades younger than him. Ser Balon Swann rode brilliantly but was eventually overthrown by the Hound. Out of all the dozens of knights who had come to tournament that day, a select few were chosen by the heralds for the final jousts that would come the next day, amongst them both of the Clegane brothers, Aratan and, to Sansa's delight, Ser Loras. She hoped so desperately that the Knight of the Flowers would win the tournament. After the final day of jousting, there would be a day of archery which she had no interest in, and then as the grand finale of the whole tourney: A day-long melee between all the knights, and that too she wished to attend.

The moon was beginning to rise in the inky night sky when the commoners began their walk home, chattering excitedly about the day's jousting. The court moved to the riverbank, where servants from the castles had erected a high dais and many long trestle-tables, a feasting hall beneath the stars. Sansa's heart was all aflutter. She and Septa Mordane were seated at the high table, Jeyne Poole sitting at one of the lower tables not far from them. Sansa got to sit to the right of Prince Joffrey. He looked so beautiful that night in her eyes, in his deep blue doublet. The air was full of the smell of cooking, for the servants of the castle had been preparing the feast all day whilst the joust had gone on. Sansa looked all around, her eyes wide, drinking in all the sights. All the knights looked so dashing in their doublets, the ladies all so lovely in long, ornate, flowing dresses. She watched as the High Septon, a large, rotund man, stood, moonlight twinkling in his crystal crown. He spread his arms wide and the murmurs and conversations of the gathered nobles fell silent.

"My lords, my ladies, let us pray" the High Septon said in a smooth, melodious voice. Sansa bowed her head with everyone else, but the moment before she lowered her eyes she noticed that Isildur made no move.

"O Gods on high, hear thy people pray. O Seven Gods, bless this, Thy bounty that Ye have given to us this day. Bless us, O Gods, and our good King, Robert, the first of His name, who reigns by Your grace. By the grce of the Father, may our King reign for all his days with justice and prosperity. By the grace of the Warrior, grant his heirs and successors strength and courage to reign after him from this time till the end of time. By the grace of the Seven, so let it be. "

"With the grace of the Gods, we give thanks" the crowd intoned, hundreds of voices speaking as one. When Sansa looked back up, she noticed that Lord Isildur was making a face like someone had just done something distasteful in his presence. She idly wondered what it was; she thought the High Septon's grace was lovely.

It was a night for magic, with the stars twinkling overhead and the air not quite cool enough to make her shiver. It was a night that Sansa would never forget. Never before had life seemed so close to all her dreams and all her desires and wishes.

An army of cooks had been working the entire day in open-air kitchens set up on the tourney grounds to prepare the feast. Sansa had never seen such a dazzling variety of foods, nor such expense and spectacle involved in their preparation and presentation. Not even her father's feasts at Winterfell could compare to this.

The courses came and went, born by the servants in succession before the high table prior to serving, and each seeming more delicious than the last. First came a hearty barley soup, rich with meat, and after that a salad of sweetgrass garnished with crushed nuts. There were fresh, warm, round loaves of white bread and wheels of sharp cheese. There were fruits, fresh picked and candied alike, and meat enough to sate any man's hunger. There were beefsteaks rich with spices and racks of ribs crusted with herbs. There were chickens, pheasants, partridges, all roasted over open fires and succulently glazed. There was venison, fresh from the Kingswood, and trout caught fresh in the river and baked in clay. There was eels, goose, duck and snails and so many foods Sansa had never tried before. Joffrey was the very image of courtesy and chivalry that night, and Sansa blushed profusely and thanked him demurely as he carved off a queen's portion of meat from every passing dish and course for her.

At her seat at the high table, Sansa even got to see the most unusual and spectacular creations of the cooks. It seemed as if the head chefs were all trying to outdo each other in the King's eyes. One presented King Robert with a whole roasted sow that had been ingeniously decorated so that it looked as if it were still alive, garnished with small loaves of bread that had been baked in the shape of piglets. Another had sewn together the front half of a pheasant with the rear half of a pig, cooked it all together and called it a "cockatrice" as he laid it before the King to carve. One chef brought forth a large pastry baked into the shape of a stag, not life-size but remarkably life-like , and when King Robert cut into it with his knife it even bled red wine and was stuffed with "entrails" of sausages, to the King's delight and amusement. A pie was brought forth, from which sprang a whole flock of doves. Finally three serving men, straining to carry a huge platter before them, presented the King with the centerpiece of the feast: A goose, plucked and roasted, sitting on top of whole wild boar. The goose was decorated with its own surcoat in Baratheon colours, the boar had been caparisoned like a warhorse, and the goose was wearing a helmet and carrying a lance, both made of pastry. The chef that had produced this spectacle bowed to the feasters, as rounds of applause filled the air. Sansa clapped along with them, never before had she seen such invention and theatrics go into the serving of food.

Not that the feast had been lacking in theatrics before. Players with harp and flute, tabor and pipe, filled the evening air with music. Acrobats flipped and tumbled to and fro, and fire-breathers spat out great gouts of flame to the amazement of their audience. The court fool, Moon Boy, danced about ridiculously on stilts, singing insulting songs and making japes at the expense of anyone who happened to be near him. King Robert laughed boisterously when Moon Boy mocked Lord Isildur, and even Septa Mordane laughed so hard she spilled her wine when Moon Boy sang his song about the High Septon. The feasting and merry-making continued long into the night.

"Will my lady be attending the joust tomorrow as well?" Prince Joffrey asked. Sansa blushed slightly.

"I do so hope I shall, it was all so wonderful today" Sansa replied.

"Whom do you think will win it tomorrow?" said Joffrey.

Ser Loras she thought, but kept her tongue.

"I do not know my prince, they all seemed so skilled today" she said.

"My dog and my Uncle Jaime shall do for them tomorrow I think" said Joffrey. "And one day, when I am old enough, I shall enter the lists and do for them all"

"I know you will ride most valorously my prince" said Sansa smiling.

"Of course I will, I'm a prince" replied Joffrey.

Sansa imagined Joffrey riding in his first tournament. He would look splendid in white, shining armour, or perhaps in gold like his uncle Jaime Lannister, with Baratheon stags antlers upon his helm. She pictured herself there too, wishing him luck with a kiss on the cheek before his tilt. She wondered if he would let her tie her favour onto his arm before the joust. How she would like that. She imagined Ser Loras and Prince Joffrey riding against each other, how brave, how chivalrous, how splendid that would be. She imagined her Joffrey defeating that foul troll Ser Gregor, being declared champion by his father the King.

"I will cheer for you when that day comes my prince" said Sansa. Joffrey smiled at her and she felt as if her heart was melting.

"And I shall defeat them all for you, you are my lady" Joffrey said. She blushed again.

It's all perfect. This day, this night, it's perfect. Oh why couldn't our day by the river have been like this? Why does Arya have to ruin everything? Sansa thought. She had wanted to spend another day like that with him again, but he had been so cold to her for the rest of the ride to the city. Arya had said such awful things about the Prince, but in her heart Sansa knew that he was just brooding because of his injury. Now he was being the perfect image of a chivalrous prince, he was looking at her and her heart was all aflutter.

Oh please spend another day with me, please ask me, I would so love too Sansa thought, wishing it would happen, willing it to happen. She wished she could ask herself but knew it was not the lady-like thing to do.
Joffrey opened his mouth to say something, Sansa's heart skipped a beat.

"SEVEN HELLS TAKE BOTH OF YOU! I'M A KING, I WANT TO FIGHT" roared the booming voice of the King suddenly. Sansa felt like she almost jumped out of her seat, and she looked down from the high table to see that King Robert was standing in the centre aisle between the lower tables, a goblet loosely in hand. His face was ruddy from too much drink and his hair and beard had become disheveled. Sansa hadn't noticed him leaving the high table. She had never seen the King's eyes in such a rage, it frightened her. She glanced to the side and saw that Lord Isildur was on his feet.

"Your Grace, what if something happens? The melee is no place for a king!" Isildur said sternly. The feast had fallen silent.

"Isildur, you're the King's Hand, not the King's bloody nursemaid! I'll do as I like" Robert spat back, slurring his words.

"My love" said the Queen "Lord Isildur and I only want what is best for you, a man of your age really-"

"A man of my age? A man of my age!?" the King bellowed wrathfully "I'll show you what a man of my age can do!", and he thumped his chest with a closed fist.

He turned to the crowd, all of them shocked into silence. His face was livid, his expression wild.

"If any of you think you can unhorse me, meet me in the melee. I'll be waiting" Robert said through clenched teeth.

"Robert, my love, I will not-" Queen Cersei began.

"You hold your tongue woman!" Robert spat spitefully at her.

"My King" said Isildur.

"Shut your bloody mouth" Robert snarled. The two men stared at each other hard, fuming with anger. Then, almost in unison, they both turned away and stormed off.

A cold wind chilled Sansa's skin, raising goosebumps. She looked around. People were quiet in the aftermath of the King's outburst, drunkards were already asleep on tables, and dull-faced servants began to clear away what remained of the food and drink.

The spell was broken, the magic was gone, and the feast was over.

"It's late my lady, do you need an escort back to the castle?" Joffrey said. Despite all that had just happened, Sansa's heart thrilled at the prospect of her Prince gallantly walking her back to the castle. She glanced to her side to see that Septa Mordane was asleep in her chair, snoring loudly.

"Yes my Prince" she said demurely.

"Right. Dog! Take my lady back to the castle" Joffrey called over his shoulders. Sandor Clegane loomed in the shadows behind the high table, Sansa had not seen him there. She looked at him and tried not to stare at the burnt wreck that made up an entire half of his face. Something about him scared her.

"Aye my Prince" Clegane said, his voice slurred.

Before Sansa could say a thing, Joffrey had stood up and left her alone with the Hound. A shot of fear traveled down her spine, and she felt as if all the hairs on her body were standing on end as he stood over her, his breath stinking of too much wine.

"What? Did you expect Joff to take you back himself?" said the Hound.

"Um" Sansa stammered.

"Learn this now so you don't need to learn it later: Joff only cares about Joff in the end, don't expect anything from him and you will never be disappointed" Clegane slurred, staring in the direction of Joffrey's departure.

"You're his sworn sword…" Sansa said, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.

"You think that means a damn thing?" Clegane snapped.

"Clegane!" called another voice. Sansa looked for her rescuer and saw Aratan approaching the high table. He was dressed much as his father was, still looking like a younger image of Isildur himself.

"What do you want Dunadan?" Sandor said coldly.

"I am going to the castle now, I can escort Lady Sansa" replied Aratan. Sansa felt a wave of relief wash over her.

"Hmph, as you wish" said Clegane, stalking off after Prince Joffrey. Sansa looked around, everything seemed so quiet now. Most of the knights and ladies had already left in the aftermath of the King's outburst. A cool breeze rustled the leaves in the trees.

"Shall we be off my lady?" Aratan said warmly, extending a hand and smiling towards her. Sansa smiled back, standing up from her chair and gathering up her skirts as she descended from the high table to take his arm.

"Thank you Ser Aratan" Sansa said politely. She was so relieved to be away from the Hound.

They walked in silence underneath the silent boughs of the trees along the riverbank. The stars twinkled above and a cool breeze chilled her skin. Sansa studied Aratan out of the corner of her eyes as they walked. She wished her Prince or Ser Loras could have walked with her instead, but Aratan was better than the Hound by far. He did not have the aching beauty of Ser Loras, but he was far taller, much wider in the shoulders and more strongly built. There was something solid and reassuring about him that Sansa liked, she could sense the strength in his arms and his broad, deep chest. And, she admitted to herself, he was not unpleasant to look upon either, with his short dark hair, piercing grey eyes and strong jaw.

Darkened shapes loomed before them. Sansa had been so lost in thought that she had not noticed that they were suddenly amidst the camp. Aratan led her down a path she had not trod before. Before long a pavilion appeared before them, its striped colours indistinguishable in the darkness. A man, a Dunedan by his height, was cinching the straps on a saddle to a bay palfrey that stood quietly as he worked.

"It was a good feast Ohtar, you should have come" Aratan said jovially.

"I'm not one for feasts lad, too much to do for you tourney knights" the man said, finishing his task on the saddle and turning towards them, smiling. It was the squire Sansa had seen earlier. She tried not to stare, but his face was a morbidly fascinating array of scars. Scars crisscrossed his cheeks, his chin and jaw line, even across his eyes. He had a prodigious knuckle of a nose as well, which looked as if it had been broken many times.

"Apologies for my face my lady" Ohtar said with a good natured chuckle. He scratched at one of his scars "I've been in a few scrapes in my time, and my stunning good looks have not come out unscathed"

"You never had stunning good looks you old fool" Aratan teased.

"Old fool? I could still whip you, I taught you everything you know and don't you forget that" Ohtar shot back.

"Maybe we'll have to meet in the sparring ring to settle this. Another night though, I am escorting the Lady Sansa back to the castle" said Aratan, taking the reins from Ohtar's hand.

"Figured you would head to the castle for the night, didn't figure you would take a lady. My apologies my lady, I'm afraid we don't have a side saddle" Ohtar said. Aratan turned towards Sansa and, setting his strong hands upon her waist, suddenly lifted her up into the saddle as easily as if she had been a child. She felt a blush upon her cheeks.

"This will suffice I'm sure Ser Ohtar, you have my thanks" she said with her best courtesy. Ohtar laughed.

"Ser Ohtar? That's a new one. I'm afraid not my little lady, just a squire. Played shieldbearer for Lord Isildur in the old days, now I play shieldbearer for his little whelps like this one here" Ohtar said with a grin. Aratan gave him a good natured punch in the shoulder in reply.

"We'll settle that later Ohtar, I ought to get this little lady back to the castle now" Aratan said, gently tugging on the reins and leading the palfrey, with Sansa, away.

The horse had a very smooth, pleasant gait, and its shod hooves clattering on cobble stones were just about the only noise in the silent streets as they walked towards the Red Keep. King's Landing slept all around them, in utter darkness broken only by the isolated islands of light cast by torches and lanterns in windows and doorways. Yet despite the peaceful quiet all around them, Sansa couldn't stop thinking about the King's anger.

"Aratan, do you think-" She began, but stopped herself. A lady should not ask questions.

"Do I think what my lady?" Aratan asked, glancing over at her.

"Do… Do you think the King will actually ride in the melee?" she asked. His eyebrows briefly raised in surprise before he answered.

"He may, he is strong willed, and rarely does he accept any counsel but his own. He loves battle, that much is clear" he replied.

"But why? What honour or glory could he gain from it?" said Sansa. Aratan smiled, his face almost sad, at her.

"For some men it's not about the honour or the glory. Some men couldn't care less about those things. Some men only care about the fight itself"

Sansa tried to think of a man who would fight only for a love of fighting. She could only imagine a horrid brute like the Troll or the Hound, not a true knight. Although the King was fat and drunken, she could not imagine her own father befriending a man who loved violence purely for its own sake.

"And the King is one of those men? He couldn't be, my father…"

"Is a good, just and honourable man, but honourable men do not always befriend men akin to themselves. King Robert is not wicked my lady, do not think him so, but there is something inside him. It the same thing that is inside most men, but it speaks to him louder and clearer than most. Within every man there is a lust for violence, a burning desire for war, women and wealth. Some master that beast, others are mastered by it, and others still fall somewhere in between. For men like Robert who hear its whispers so clearly, fighting is not about honour or glory, it is about the rush of battle and the thrill of victory. That is why they fight" said Aratan.

Sansa thought about all the men who had ridden in the tournament today. She thought about Ser Loras, Jaime Lannister, the Troll and the Hound, and that young boy who had been died to Gregor Clegane's lance. Why had that boy come here and what did he die for? Was it truly for honour and renown like the songs said, or was it for something else? Greed for gold? Or did they fight purely for a love of violence?

Ser Loras would fight for honour, I just know it she thought. Sansa regarded Aratan. She wondered what had brought him to this tournament

"Why do you fight, Ser Aratan?" Sansa asked quietly. He looked at her, and his grey eyes were full of a distant sadness.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter VIII
King's Landing

Valyrian steel. Nothing cut like Valyrian steel, or so Isildur had heard. The dagger was a long, gently curved, wickedly sharp implement that stood upright in the wood of Isildur's desk where Ned had stuck it. Its blade was dark and covered in the swirling, smoke-like patterns of Valyrian spell-forged steel. The hilt was black, carved of dragonbone.

"This is the dagger that the assassin used?" he asked, regarding the extravagant weapon.

"Aye, Cat brought it all the way from Winterfell to show me. She trusted no other messenger with this," Eddard replied. Isildur picked the dagger out of the table. The dragonbone hilt was smooth in his hand. He tested the edge with a thumb. Sharp as a razor. They said Valyrian steel never lost its edge once it had been honed. In all of his years in Westeros, Valyrian steel was the only metal Isildur had found that could match a blade forged with the arts of Numenor.

"Where would a common cutthroat get a weapon like this?" Isildur mused. He sheathed the dagger and placed it back on the table. Ned grimaced.

"Lord Baelish said it was his, but lost in a bet to Tyrion Lannister," said Ned, though by his face it was clear he had some reservations about Lord Baelish.

"Tyrion Lannister? Some speak ill of him, but he seems too… Scholarly for this sort of thing. Granted, he is the last person I would expect if the Lannisters had some malice for your son, but why? Bran is just a boy"

"Isildur, the Lannisters have tried to murder my son," Ned said, tone beginning to rise.

"I don't doubt that Ned" Isildur said, raising his hands diplomatically "They were the only people in Winterfell whom I would suspect, but the question is why would they do this thing? Ask yourself: Who profits from your son's death? Your second son, not your heir. The Lannisters act for their own profit, why would they wish to kill your son?"

"What if he didn't fall from that tower? What if he was thrown?" Ned said, his face dark and troubled.

Isildur sighed and stood up from his chair. He turned around and stared out the window of his solar. The sun was shining and the sky was blue and fair, but on the horizon he could see distant clouds, a stormy, iron-grey in colour, rolling closer. The sky seemed to match his mood.

"A troubling thought. Is that what your wife suspects?" Isildur said.

"Aye, she believes that Bran must have seen something or someone in that tower, something involved with the Lannisters," answered Ned. "And if what we suspect about the Lannisters is true…" he finished, implications hanging heavy in the air.

Isildur could see it clearly in his mind's eye. The child Bran climbing up the old abandoned tower, happening upon the Queen and her brothers laying some form of plot upon the King's life. Bran would have overheard them. They would have reacted quickly, to hide their plot, and a convenient fall should have killed the boy and hidden any suspicion of them. But something about it all still felt off.

"What news of your son?" Isildur asked, turning back towards Ned. Eddard smiled weakly.

"His strength returns, slowly. He will never run or climb as he used to, but at least he shall walk," Ned said, voice mixed with both sadness and gratitude.

"Does he remember any-" Isildur started.

"No, nothing. He has no memory of that day," Ned cut him off. Isildur frowned.

"Alas, would that he did. What he saw in that tower could have been the key to all this," he said, turning back to his window. "It seems that everything I do goes amiss these days,"

"Robert?" said Ned.

"Aye Robert. I should not have shouted at him as I did. That was ill considered," Isildur replied, shaking his head "I will need your help with him today,"

"He still intends to ride in the melee? That will never happen," Ned said.

"If he can get his armour on, who knows what will happen. That is why I need you to help me with him," said Isildur, looking towards Ned. Ned frowned.

"Surely he must see that a melee is no place for a king. It would ruin it, no one would risk his wrath by taking a swing at him," said Ned.

"I believe there may be those in the melee today looking to strike our king. That's why he must not enter it. If he does… Well my son will be in the melee as well to watch over him, but even Aratan cannot see all things or be in all places," Isildur replied, shaking his head.

"Your son is an impressive fighter, no doubt. I heard Sansa talking about Aratan's joust with Jaime Lannister the other day. And I heard Robert discussing it with the Queen earlier. And I've heard many other members of the court abuzz about it. From all I've heard, it was a spectacular match," Ned said, sitting down in a chair across the desk. Isildur turned and smiled, walking to a nearby table to pour himself a cup of water.

"It was a thing of beauty Ned, you should have been there to see it," said Isildur.

"I have no taste for tourneys, just a bunch of damn southron knights strutting about like roosters," Ned explained.

"I know. I don't particularly care for tournaments Ned, but even I must say that joust was quite the sight. I rarely see Aratan's skills put to the test in such a way, and Lannister may be treacherous cur but he knows his swordsmanship, I'll grant him that," answered Isildur, drinking deeply of his cup. There was a knock on the door. Cirion's voice came through.

"My lord, we ought to be depart soon," the housecarl said. Isildur sighed. One more day, just one more day till this damnable tournament is over he told himself.

The tournament had gone on for three days now. The jousting had been concluded on the second day with Ser Loras Tyrell as the victor. He had ridden gallantly and well, unhorsing Sandor Clegane in the final tilt of the day to claim victory. The crowds had cheered long and loud for their champion when Ser Loras rode around the lists, brandishing his broken lance triumphantly. On the third day, nobles and smallfolk alike gathered for the only part of the tourney that Isildur took genuine pleasure in watching: The archery competition. Every bowman with a mind to compete before his King was welcome in the archery competition. There were Andals and Northmen with longbows of every description, and Dornishmen with their recurved bows, and the exiled prince of the Summer Islands Xalabhar Xho entered with a great double-curved bow made of goldenheart wood, as tall as a man. Isildur's housecarl Huor too entered the contest, wielding the steelbow of his people, which only the Dunedain possessed the strength to fully draw. The day had been calm and windless, stiflingly hot, and the crowds had not been nearly as large as for the jousting, but Isildur had taken great pleasure in the archery regardless. The whole day had been filled the hiss of flying arrows and the thock of well-placed shafts hitting their targets. First hundreds of archers had shot, then as others were eliminated it was down to dozens. It had come down in the end to Huor and an Andal longbowman named Anguy. Anguy first outshot Ser Balon Swann and Xalabhar Xho with a mighty shot from a hundred paces, but even the young Andal's skill could not match the power of the steelbow, and Huor buried a black arrow into his target from a hundred and twenty five paces. In recognition of his opponent's skill, Huor shared his prize with Anguy. It had been a fine day, a fair show of strength and skill, and if the tournament had ended there Isildur would have been satisfied entirely. But of course Robert still wanted the centerpiece of any Westerosi tournament: The melee.

Barbaric practice, so-called knights bashing and bludgeoning each other for nothing more than glory. Isildur thought, finishing his water.

"Cirion is right, we must depart," Isildur said. He grabbed Narsil, sheathed along with his belt, from his table and buckled it around his waist. He was dressed in the simple colours preferred by his people, but his clothes were richly made enough to match any member of King Robert's court.

"Will you accompany me to the tournament grounds? I feel it would be wisest for us to speak to Robert together," Ned said.

"Aye, you may be right," Isildur agreed. Ned rose from his chair. He was already dressed in his finery for the tournament, in gray doublet and white cloak, a silver broach in the shape of a direwolf's head fastening his cloak round his shoulders. The pair of them quickly departed from Isildur's solar. Belegorn and Cirion were waiting outside, and they fell in behind their lord as he walked past.

The sun was still shining outside as they descended the last steps to the entrance hall of the Hand's Tower. As they walked into the courtyard, however, Isildur could see the clouds blowing closer, towering thunderheads in a grey like a stormy sea. The world seemed quiet and calm, but the clouds made Isildur feel uneasy. There was something fell on the air that he disliked.

Fleetfoot was pawing the ground anxiously where he stood, a stablehand holding his reins for Isildur outside of the tower.

"There, there Fleetfoot, be calm my friend," Isildur said, stroking the horse's strong neck before swinging easily up into the saddle. Behind him, Ned mounted his own bay palfrey. In the distance, Isildur heard a faint echo of thunder. The stablehand looked up at him.

"Pardon me milord, you think the storm will hold off until after the tourney?" the boy asked. Isildur arched an eyebrow, it was not usual for servants to speak to him so plainly.

"It may, I hope that it does," he replied. The stablehand opened his mouth to say something else, but he was cut off by the sound of the portcullis opening and the clattering of hooves on cobblestones. Isildur looked up and met a sight he did not expect.

A column of horsemen thundered up through the gatehouse and into the courtyard. They were armed and mailed, and above their heads floated the black stag of the Baratheons on a silken banner. But the man at the head of the column was not Robert, he was too lean. Nor was he Renly, for his harsh, leathery face with its stony brow and set jaw had not the handsomeness of the Lord of Storm's End. Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and the King's Master of Ships, had returned to King's Landing.

Stannis brought his horse to a halt before Isildur and Ned. Hard blue eyes regarded them. Stablehands ran out to take the horses of Stannis and his men.

"Lord Isildur, Lord Stark," Stannis said in greeting. "We must talk," he continued without preamble. Isildur exchanged a glance with Ned.

"Lord Stannis, I am gladdened that you have returned to King's Landing. We shall talk as soon as the tournament is concluded," Isildur said.

"Tournament? My Lord Isildur, I wish to speak to you now, privately. This matter is very urgent," Stannis replied. He glanced up towards Maegor's Holdfast. His shoulders were set like a man carrying a great weight.

"And we shall discuss this upon my return, Lord Stannis" Isildur said, voice sterner than he intended. "King Robert means to ride in the melee today and we must attend to the king,"

Stannis narrowed his eyes.

"The King rides in the melee? What business has he in the tournament?" he said bluntly.

"It is his wish to compete, though against the will of his Hand. Lord Stannis, we will speak when I return. Now we must depart," Isildur replied. Stannis stared at them hard, then grunted a wordless noise of agreement and dismounted his horse. Without another word he handed his reins to a stablehand and marched off towards the great hall.

Isildur shook his head at Ned, and then the pair of them set the spurs to their horses and trotted away. Behind them, a guard of Ned's northmen and Isildur's housecarls followed on horseback. The sound of shod hooves echoed in the tunnel of the gatehouse.

The tourney grounds were to the south of the city, and so Isildur and Ned set out along River Row, the looming city walls on their left, heading towards the King's Gate. They started off at a brisk trot, but the streets were busy and crowded that day so soon they were slowed to a walk. River Row was bustling, full of fishmongers loudly hawking their day's catch and foreign traders of the Free Cities bearing their wares to shops, markets and warehouses in the city. The air smelt of fish and smoke, salt and city filth, and the sea.

"Odd of Stannis to choose this moment to return to the city," Ned remarked.

"Yes, it is strange. He had not responded to the ravens I had sent. I do wonder what is on his mind, I wish I could have stayed and spoken to him, but that can wait until after the tourney," Isildur replied.

"Have you any idea what may have brought him back?" said Ned.

"My summons, I would hope, but I feel that it was not," said Isildur.

Their company soon entered a broad, open square, busy with people. The River Gate, which the common folk called the Mud Gate, sat to their left, flung open, a stream of people flowing in and out. Gulls cried in the air. The cacophony of noise grew even louder than it had been on the street behind them. In the distance, Isildur heard the faint clatter of hammers on anvils from the Street of Steel. From the direction of the smithies came riding a few of the tourney knights, plate harness newly polished and gleaming in the sun, holding plumed and crested helmets beneath their arms. The knights threw boisterous taunts and boasts back and forth between each other as they rode. Their laughter mixed together with all the other noises of King's Landing.

"The knights of summer," Ned said disdainfully.

"Thoros! Thoros of Myr!" yelled one of the knights. A portly man with flowing red robes over his armour rode past the other knights, raising a hand in greeting to them.

"Don't burn yourself Thoros!" yelled another, and there was a round of laughter.

"Don't fall off your horse again you drunken bastard!" Thoros yelled backed. Laughing, the knights and the red priest spurred their horses into a trot and rode off towards the King's Gate, the crowds parting before them.

"Thoros of Myr? I do not believe I know him," Isildur said, turning towards Ned.

"A red priest from the east I hear, came to King's Landing to preach but spends so much time fighting and drinking that he doesn't get many converts," Eddard replied.

"Ah, a fire-worshipper then…" Isildur said, feeling a creeping unease along the back of his neck.

"Aye, he fights with a flaming sword. Dips it in wildfire and sets it alight for the melee," answered Ned. Isildur arched an eyebrow and looked at Ned questioningly.

"Frightens the horses, and many of the men too I imagine," he said. Isildur shook his head.

On the other side of the square, the crowds were thinner, and Isildur and Ned quickened the pace to a brisk trot, the grey direwolf and the white tree and moon of their banners drifting above their heads. Soon the King's Gate, sitting at the southern corner of the city, yawned open before them. Outside the city, the breeze of the approaching storm was rustling the leaves of the trees and the banners and pavilions on the tourney grounds flapped and snapped in the wind. Again, Isildur heard a low, distant boom of thunder, the storm still some miles away but blowing towards, borne upon the sea-wind.

The tourney grounds were covered in the colourful tents and pavilions of knights and lords from every part of the Eight Kingdoms, some pavilions bore sigils of renown like the grapes of the Redwynes or the eagle of the Mallisters, others carried the unsung symbols of unknown hedge knights and freeriders. As Isildur rode amongst them towards the king's pavilion, he could sense the lust for glory amongst the knights that day. The melee would be their last great chance for fame and fortune in the tournament. The fighting men wore wolfish smiles as squires attached plate harnesses and saddled chargers.

At length they came before a huge pavilion, larger than the rest, rich in cloth of gold, covered in the prancing crowned stags of the Baratheons. Stooping through the tent flap, Isildur and Ned found their king. Robert stood in the centre of the pavilion, his expansive stomach poured into an ill-fitting set of armour, his face already looking red from the squeeze of the breastplate upon his chest. One of the king's squires was just finishing attaching the pauldrons to the king's harness, encasing Robert fully in steel. It only took a glance for Isildur to determine that this was the armour that Robert wore in the Rebellion years ago, and that it no longer fit properly at all. The plates were not sitting correctly, leaving larger gaps between them than there should have been, nor would they deflect the forces of blows as they should. Ser Barristan Selmy stood to the side. The look on the old knight's face told Isildur that he saw exactly the same as Isildur did. Robert, on the other hand, seemed jovial, and it was then that Isildur noticed a second squire standing next to the King, a wineskin in hand. Robert was in the middle of laughing at one of his own stories.

"So there's this stupid Leygood boy riding down on me, mace in hand. He sees 'The Usurper' on foot, figures he can end the rebellion right there, ha! I'm on foot so he thinks he has the advantage, but I had the hammer in my hands and there was no way some shit of a lordling was going to best me that day! So he comes galloping down on me, and at the last second I lunge with the hammer and hit his horse's forelegs so hard it probably broke every bone in its body! Down goes the horse! Down goes the knight! Both of them sounded the same when they screamed, hahaha!" Robert said with a great guffaw at the memory.

"A fine tale Your Grace," said Ser Barristan dutifully.

"Ned! Isildur! We're telling war stories!" Robert slurred as he saw his friends enter the pavilion. "Come on Isildur, let's hear it: Who was the first man you ever cut down?"

"I don't think now is the time for such things Your Grace. Your brother, Lord Stannis has returned," Isildur replied.

"Finally got him out of his pout in Dragonstone? Ahh the Seven Hells can take him, now tell me: First man you ever killed?" Robert replied, his eyes shining with too much wine. Isildur sighed, rubbing his brow. An ocean of men's faces seemed to swim up before his eyes, some as clear and as sharp featured as the day he had ended their life, others murky and barely remembered amongst all the other dead in his long life of bloodshed.

"It was a guard in the palace" Isildur said at last, reluctantly. "In Armenelos, many years ago. I was very young, fifteen perhaps, sneaking into the palace at night. I had been there before and thought there was a way that would avoid any guards, but there was one, standing by a postern along my route. I had no other choice. I killed him with a dagger in his neck, right here," Isildur pointed with a finger to a point right at the base of his chin.

"A dagger in the dark? Hardly worth mentioning! Who was the first man you killed in battle, you dolt," Robert replied. Isildur smiled humourlessly.

"The same night. The guard's comrades found him, since I had forgotten to hide the body. They found me not long after. I was quite hard put to it, but they got worse than I did. Still bear a few scars from that day,"

"Why were you sneaking into the palace anyways? A little affair with the King's daughter?" Robert asked, taking a long swig from his wine.

"No, it was for a piece of fruit," said Isildur. Silence fell on the tent as the Westerosi looked at him strangely.

"A piece of fruit?" Robert said at last. "You broke into a castle and killed men just to eat a piece of fruit?"

"No Robert, it wasn't for eating…" said Isildur. Robert shook his head.

"You will have to tell me the rest of the story later. I have some skulls to bash in," he said, turning around to grab his warhammer from the rack of weapons at the rear of the pavilion.

His squire had finished his task and Robert was now completely armoured, though his harness still did not fit properly. Isildur and Ned both winced as they saw Robert sway as he walked. The King's war hammer was a beast of a weapon, a long, two-handed hammer nearly as tall as a man, with a shaft of ash shod with iron, and a heavy tip of black steel. The tip carried a hammerhead on one side, a wickedly sharp beak on the reverse, and a long spike at the very end. Yet Robert still hefted it over his shoulder as easily as he had as a young man fighting a rebellion. He looked back at Ned and Isildur and gave them a boyish grin of immense and drunken happiness while one of the Lannister squires pulled an arming cap over Robert's head of dark hair and tied the knot under his chin. The other squire picked up the King's helm, with its huge rack of golden antlers displayed from its crown.

"Robert" Ned said "You cannot fight like that,"

Isildur looked sideways at Ned and he could see it breaking his heart to have to speak to his best friend in such a way.

The grin died on Robert's face and was replaced by confusion.

"I can still fight Ned, you just watch me knock these fools around," he said, trying to brush off Ned's objections

"Robert" said Ned. Many found Eddard Stark to be cold and distant, yet even in his level tone Isildur could hear the weight of emotion.

"I've watched you grow up with me, I've watched you fight wars for the crown and the realm, but I cannot watch you kill yourself for childish glory," he said at last. Robert's eyes flashed with insult and anger. Before he could lash out, Isildur spoke up.

"Robert, you are an experienced warrior. You know armour. We both know that your harness does not fit properly, you are not properly protected, and you are putting your life and the stability of the realm at risk by riding in this melee," he said.

"Seven Hells, can't a king do as he pleases with his own damn life? I want to hit somebody!" Robert complained.

"And who will hit you back?" asked Ned.

"Anyone who can!" the King replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And if they do and you take a tumble from your horse and break your neck? What happens to the Realm then Robert? With your only heir still a boy?" Isildur snapped.

"Robert, a king has no business in a melee. Leave that for the young men. And there's not a man in the Kingdoms that would risk hurting you, it would ruin the competition," Ned added.

"Piss on that! I thought being king meant I could do whatever I wanted?" Robert said, voice rising in outrage.

"To hold power means you do what you must, not what you wish," said Isildur.

"Oh yes, thank you for the Numenorean wisdom oh mighty Lord Isildur," the King shot back at him.

"Robert, we do not wish to see you hurt," said Ned.

"You think I'll fail? Is that it!? You both know me, we've fought together. There's not a man out there who is a match for me," Robert replied, beating on his armoured chest bravely. No amount of bravado could hide his wince of discomfort from the tightness of his cuirass though.

"That was then Robert, you are not the man you were when you won the crown," Isildur said, his voice rising.

"I am! I can still ride! I can still point a lance and swing the hammer," Robert replied angrily.

"You cannot and you will not!" Isildur snarled loudly.

A quiet fell upon the tent, not a word was spoken. Isildur could feel Robert's anger, thick in the air. The King's blue eyes smoldered with fury.

"I've told my whole damn court that I will ride in the melee today. How will it look if I back out now? You think men will follow a king they laugh at in their cups? Do you think an unmanned king will inspire loyalty or fear? You say that power means that we do what we must? This is what I must do," Robert said at last, his voice cold and calm. Then he turned and stalked out of the tent, his squires following in his turbulent wake.

Isildur sighed and rubbed his brow again.

"Fool, proud fool," he said.

"He has always been stubborn," said Ned.

"As have I. I fear I may have done more harm than good in this," Isildur replied.

"Robert is quick to anger, but quick to forget as well. I shall speak to him by myself, perhaps that would be better," Eddard said.

"Yes, that may be," said Isildur. Ned grimaced apologetically at Isildur and then quickly exited the tent, following Robert.

"When the King has sobered and calmed himself, he shall realize the folly of his words," said Ser Barristan. Isildur turned towards him.

"Aye, I only hope he has not had his skull stove in by then," he said. Barristan chuckled as the two walked out of the now-empty royal pavilion.

With Ser Barristan beside him, Isildur set off through the camp in the direction of his son's tent, picking his way through a forest of colour and heraldry. A strong wind made banners and flags snap in the air, and Isildur heard the thunder roll lowly in the distance again. All around him, knights tossed jests and insults back and forth, squires polished armour whilst grooms braided the manes and tails of caparisoned chargers. To his disgust, Isildur saw one knight elaborately coiffing his hair.

"The knights of summer indeed," he said.

"My lord?" said Ser Barristan.

"Two hundred years ago, a tournament was no gaudy spectacle. It was training for the business of war. Now? Half these men are more actors than soldiers," Isildur replied.

"The young knights always love a crowd, especially in times of peace. Gives them a chance for fame and renown," said Ser Barristan. "Life is strange Lord Isildur, it seems not so long ago that I faced you at the Trident,"

"You fought well that day Ser Barristan, better than any Andal I've ever faced," said Isildur.

"And you still won," Ser Barristan said "I should have chosen my opponent more wisely,"

They passed by the broad lists where the jousts had been held. Servants were pulling up the stakes that marked out the edges of the field and moving those outwards to make the lists wider and squarer, turning it into a battleground for the melee. Threescore of knights would fight in each company, and each conroi would need enough room to ride.

"I shall take your leave now my lord, I shall attend to the king," said Ser Barristan, stopping and bowing courteously.

"You do not ride in the melee Ser Barristan?" asked Isildur. The old knight chuckled.

"Melees are for young men who haven't felt their teeth crack in their own mouths yet, I prefer to keep my skills sharp in other ways," Barristan replied

"Perhaps we shall have to spar, you must have learned a few tricks since the Trident," Isildur said with a smile.
"Come to the yards when the Kingsguard practices and you shall see," said Ser Barristan with a sharp grin of his own. Bidding Isildur farewell, Barristan strode off across the field.

Isildur found Aratan outside of his tent. He was already fully armoured in mail hauberk and coat of plates, his black surcoat reaching below knees. His grey warhorse stood nearby, snorting and pawing the ground impatiently, tied up to a picket line. Aratan was sitting on a stool near the tent flap, sword unsheathed, examining the blade for rust or nicks with a critical eye. He looked up and spotted Isildur as he approached.

"Father," he said, standing and sheathing his sword as he did. "What news?"

"The King will ride. Against all counsel and all good sense, the King will ride. Where is Ohtar?" said Isildur.

"He is off speaking to the heralds about the stakes. He tells me there is some augury to be had in the choice of wood for the stakes they use to mark out the field," said Aratan. The wind rose, carrying a scent of distant rain with it as it blew.

"He has always believed such, and there are times when he does see more than other men. Regardless of whatever signs Ohtar might see, I have need of you son," Isildur replied.

Suddenly, there was a blast of horns from the melee grounds, the signal for the combatants to gather. Isildur cursed, time was short. He untied his son's warhorse from the picket, and then knelt down and quickly gave Aratan a leg-up into the saddle. He handed his son his helmet and shield and a long tourney lance, then took the grey by the bridle and led him towards the battleground.

"Robert will ride in this melee, and you must ride alongside him, even if that means riding alongside the Kingslayer and denying him another chance at you," Isildur explained as they walked through crowds of mounting knights and busy squires running to and fro, fetching swords, lances and shields. Over a hundred knights from across the Eight Kingdoms would ride in this melee, and the air nearly crackled with the nervous energy of dozens of young men hungry for glory. Everywhere Isildur looked he saw heraldry of every kind: A helm on black, silver terns on blue, maple leaves on a field of yellow, a pine tree on white, three griffins on red, a white horse running on a field of green and gold. Heraldic beasts and birds pranced and soared across shields and banners of every colour.

"Who would dare strike the King though? Even in a melee, no one could be that mad," said Aratan.

"I hope you are right, but we cannot count on that. You must ride at the King's side, keep him safe Aratan, no matter how he curses you or what he tries to do, keep him out of the fight," said Isildur.

They arrived at the field, which was thick with a throng of men-at-arms and shieldbearers, the conrois of mounted knights shaking themselves out into two equal companies, one at the northern end and the other at the south. Armour gleamed in the sun, the banners were bright above high crested helms. The stands were already filling up with nobles and smallfolk by the hundred. The noise was overwhelming, the excited chatter of hundreds of people about to watch a spectacle of violence and pageantry. Isildur spotted the Troll, Gregor Clegane, sitting atop a massive black destrier, in the south-company. Across the field, he saw the Hound in the north-company, his snarling dogs-head helm obscuring his face. Many others he saw taking their places, Beric Dondarrion in the south, Ser Loras Tyrell in the north, the Royces in the south, Ser Balon Swann and Thoros of Myr in the north, Lord Mallister and his son in the south. Heralds were raising their voices in argument with knights, as they sought to divide the fighting men up into two roughly equal companies, but many of the men wanted a chance at a particular opponent and were continually switching sides to get their chance. Isildur saw Ohtar pushing his way through the crowds.

"My lord, the heralds tell me that King Robert intends to ride in the north-company," said Ohtar.

"Then the north-company is where I must go," said Aratan. Bidding his father farewell, he trotted off towards the northern end of the field to take his place amongst the others. Ohtar met Isildur's eyes, and then jerked his head to the side. Understanding him, Isildur pushed his way off to the side of the battleground, Ohtar following, the crowds splitting before the Hand of the King.

"What did you see Ohtar?" said Isildur when they had found a quieter spot, a little away from the crowds. The old squire placed his fists on his hips and shook his head.

"The King rides in the north, the northernmost stake was oak," said Ohtar.

"A good strong tree," commented Isildur.

"Aye, but this oak was struck down in a storm, and the stake split right down the middle when the herald went to hammer it down. The western stake was hazel, a hardwood, and sunk deep with one tap of the mallet," the old squire continued.

"Our home was in the west, and the Valar dwell still in the Uttermost West," Isildur said.

"True my lord, but closer than either are the Westerlands, lands of the Lannisters. Now the southern stake was yew, an old knotted piece of yew, and I lost count how many times the herald struck it before it fully sunk. In the east, willow, and when the herald struck it in, water squeezed out of the wood, as if it was weeping,"

Isildur stared hard at the melee grounds. Across the field, he saw the golden antlers of Robert's helm as the king took up position in the centre of the northern company, right in the first row.

"We do not lack for omens. What do you make of this?" he said.

"Hard to say my lord, sometimes I think the whole business with the stakes is an old Andal wives' tale, but there are times when it does forebode things. There is some change coming, I can feel it in my bones," said Ohtar. Thunder echoed in the distance, but closer now. The sky was rapidly greying above their heads. The horns and trumpets of the heralds blasted again from the arena.

"That will be your call my lord, your tourney awaits," Ohtar said wryly.

"And the sooner it is over, the better, I must go. Take care of Aratan for me, will you?" Isildur replied.

"Always do my lord, you can count on that," said Ohtar, and the two men walked off in opposite directions: Ohtar to the north of the field, Isildur to the royal viewing stand where he would watch the melee.

As he ascended the steps of the dais, Isildur glanced towards the other members of the court that were watching the melee that day. Ned was sitting with his daughters, and his look towards Isildur was apologetic. Both of his daughters, finely dressed in Stark grey, were oblivious of their father. Sansa looked as if she was in love with every knight that rode past, her eyes wide and sparkling with excitement. Arya Stark on the other hand seemed bored, and kept glancing about as if she wished to run off and was only held in place by the presence of the formidable septa sitting beside her. Nevertheless, Arya favoured Isildur with a small smile as he passed by. Behind them, Isildur saw the rest of the small council. Baelish and Renly were bandying jests and barbed words back and forth, whilst Maester Pycelle pretended to doze.

Further up, and in the centre of the stands, was the royal dais. Of the three royal children, Joffrey regarded the proceedings with an air of feigned boredom, whilst Tommen and Myrcella watched their father on the field with trepidation. Isildur ascended the wooden steps to his seat, set at the right hand of the empty throne were Robert had sat the day before. His housecarl Cirion was standing behind the chair, hands crossed on the pommel of his sword, and eying up Ser Mandon Moore who stood to his left. The knight was staring back at the housecarl with his pale, fish-like eyes, as if he was a woodsman sizing up a tree he wished to fell. On the other side of the throne was the Queen, her hair brushed out till it shone like spun gold, and a gown of green that matched her eyes and was decorated with the stags and lions of the Baratheons and Lannisters, set in jewels and precious metals in the fabric. She looked as beautiful as ever, yet when she glanced at Isildur he saw contempt and even fear in her eyes. Fear of what? He did not know.

"My queen," he said in greeting, then turned around at the top of the dais and looked out upon the field. He was met by the waiting, expectant stares of a hundred and twenty knights, over two hundred squires, and countless hundreds of noblemen, women and smallfolk, all looking to him for the signal to begin.

The chief herald stood alone in the middle of the field.

"My lord Hand," the herald cried aloud, with a courtly bow "The companies are arrayed for battle, we await your signal," then he turned and quickly ran to the sidelines.

Isildur nodded, and raised his open hand high above his head. The skies above were an iron grey. He looked to the King.

Eru forgive me Isildur thought, and he slashed his arm downwards.

The trumpets blared, then the rumble of a hundred and twenty sets of ironshod hooves roared like an avalanche in the mountains.

Twin heaving formations of iron and men and horses came galloping together across the field. Rows of lances snapped to horizontal. Robert rode in the very centre of the north-company, yet he went before them, like the sea-foam at the breaking of a great wave. He raced ahead, the fire of battle was hot in his veins and he was laughing as he went.

Isildur drew in a sharp breath and the lines struck home.

Horses screamed. Lances shattered. Men flew through the air. The crowds brayed for blood. And then, as suddenly as they had crashed together, two ragged lines rode off again towards opposite ends of the field, leaving wreckage in their wake. Men littered the field between the two companies. Some were groggily trying to pick themselves up, others lay very still. Squires leapt into action, some running to pass fresh lances to waiting hands of knights, others to pick up the men who still lay dazed or dead upon the field.

Isildur spotted Robert amongst those still in the saddle of the north-company. He released a sigh of relief. Despite the wine and the ill-fitting harness, he had survived the first pass intact and still on horseback. The King was swearing and cursing between laughter as his sandy-haired squires ran him a fresh lance. The two companies struggled to turn around their surly warhorses and reform their ranks. To the gasps of the crowd, as soon as some semblance of order had been formed, the companies went charging back again, leaving squires and wounded men to scramble out of their way as the two lines slammed close again. The noise of the impact was deafening.

"Lord Isildur," said the Queen "These things tend to go on for some time, you may wish to take a seat,"

He realized that he had remained standing for the whole first charge, so engrossed had he been in watching the king's ride. Thanking the Queen, he quickly took his seat.

Men were shouting orders and insults as the conrois swung apart again, grabbing another set of fresh lances and then they came rushing together once more. Squabbles and fistfights between squires broke out on the periphery of the field, some trying to secure hostages on behalf of their lords and others seeking to save their man from being taken for ransom. With no regard for any of the men on foot, the companies of knights swung apart and smashed together again and again, the air filled with a hail of splinters as over a hundred lances burst on impact. Through all the chaos, Robert rode untouched.

"How many times are they going to do that? Daft bastards," Cirion mumbled behind him as the companies hit once again with a sickening crunch of metal and muscle.

Now the fighting in the melee waxed furiously as the men abandoned lances and fell into the hard work of sword and mace and hammer. Conrois lashed out at each other with steel. Swords thrust and parried and met in the air, men shouted and spat curses. Though they fought not to kill but to take captives and ransom, the melee was a brutal, grinding fight, and the field was soon trampled to a morass of churned earth by the hooves of the warhorses.

On and on the melee wore. Isildur watched as Ser Loras Tyrell, distinct amongst the other knights in his floral armour, took three men-at-arms captive, first unhorsing them with skilful strokes of his sword and then demanding their surrender from horseback, accompanied by the delighted applause of Sansa and many other noblewomen. There was a gasp of the crowds and then Isildur saw the red priest Thoros of Myr go cantering through the field, his sword blazing green wildfire, horses and men shying away from him as he struck out with the fiery weapon. Ser Balon Swann and Beric Dondarrion were locked in combat, horses circling each other as blades flicked and struck between them.

Through the heart of this maelstrom of iron and muscle, the King rode hither and thither as he pleased, striking left and right with the war hammer. Aratan rode hard by his side, like a loyal hound following his master's steps, warding the king from the thick of the fighting with broad shield and bright sword, striking down any who came too close. Again and again, Robert swore and snarled at Aratan and tried to pull away for the thick of the fighting, but Aratan stuck close by him and kept him out of it. Isildur could plainly see that Robert no longer had the speed or flexibility of his youth, but still he struck with tremendous power, and each man hit by Robert's hammer went down stunned by the bone-crushing force of his blows.

As the first hour of the melee wore on to its conclusion, the fighting had devolved down into dozens of petty individual duels, conrois split apart by battle and men sucked into private squabbles with their rivals. Isildur was beginning to doubt himself. Had he been wrong? Was there in fact no plot upon Robert's life in this tournament? He glanced out the side of his eye at the Queen, and saw that Cersei's gaze was not watching Robert at all but was fixed on her brother as he made a fool out of a knight of the Reach who been rash enough to challenge him. Renly, he noted, was watching Ser Loras as closely as Sansa did. Baelish had the look of a merchant watching the scales. In Joffrey, Isildur saw only an eager bloodlust.

"My lord, look there, at the south end," Cirion whispered.

Ser Gregor Clegane sat unmoving upon his huge horse, a massive greatsword in one hand and the reins in the other. His conroi of Westerlanders had gathered up tightly around him, knee to knee upon their chargers. With a lurch, Isildur realized that he had not seen the Troll in the fighting so far, he had been keeping his men back, keeping them out of the worst of the fighting, keeping them fresh and unbloodied, until they were the only formed body of men-at-arms left upon the field. Now he saw them taking reins in hand and snugging their helmets on their heads.

At the head of his men, Gregor Clegane snarled a bestial cry and then sent them charging, the whole conroi as tight as an iron fist like the one atop his war helmet. Isildur swept his gaze across the field and in an instant he knew. The rest of the men of both companies were scattered, all caught up in individual fights. Aratan was on the other side of the field, dueling with Robar Royce.

And alone, directly in Clegane's path, King Robert wheeled on his warhorse.

Isildur sat up in his chair, gripping the arms of it so hard his knuckles went white. Time seemed to slow. Too late, Aratan saw the coming wedge of Clegane and his men. Too late, Aratan tore away from Robar.

"To the King!" Aratan cried, a ragged conroi of his own forming up around him. Too late, too slow, the distance was too far. They would never arrive in time.

Then, unlooked for, as swift as a speeding arrow, Sandor Clegane rode past the King. A fresh lance was couched under his arm, and the Hound charged right at the centre of the oncoming wedge. He rode straight and unswerving for his brother. Three galloping strides of his warhorse and he was upon them. A single lance, perfectly placed, and Gregor's charge exploded and burst apart. In the carnage of the impact, both Cleganes went flying out of the saddle.

Their horses had come hurtling together head on and now lay stricken upon the field. The Troll and the Hound lay still upon the ground to either side of the wreckage. Squires ran from the sidelines, but to the crowd's amazement Sandor was already struggling to his feet. He pushed his squire back and hauled his sword from his scabbard as he started towards his brother. Gregor's men closed up tightly on foot around their lord, and the grim looks on their faces told Sandor to come no closer. It took six men to bear the unconscious Troll from the field of battle.
Isildur leaned back in his chair and exhaled sharply in relief. Whether Gregor was acting on his own or under orders from his Lannister masters, he did not yet know, but either way his move had been checked and the King remained safe.

Both companies now drew apart again, riding back to the north and south ends of the field. A sort of shocked silence reigned in the aftermath of the charge. The fighting men seemed listless, exhausted, and they drank water and wine in great gulps, breathing hard from the exertion of the melee. The break did not last for longer than a few minutes. Robert drained his wineskin, then tossed it back to his squire and brandished his hammer above his head.

"Back at the bastards!" he yelled out so loud it echoed across the battlefield, then he slammed his visor down and spurred his horse into a charge.

With reluctance, the north-company's conrois formed up and charged again behind the King. The southern company came rumbling up in a ragged line to meet them. For the fifth time that day, the charges of both companies crashed together mightily.

The breather had revitalized them despite the shock of Gregor's charge, and the fighting intensified once more. They rained blows on each other with a renewed vigour, they fought each other tooth and nail. They thrust with swords, beat upon each other with maces and flails, even wrestled and grappled in the saddle. On and on the fighting wore throughout the day, with a noise like a hundred blacksmiths hammering on hot iron all at once, and the sound of the rattling of plate harness was overwhelming.

Aratan fought to stay by Robert's side, but the King rode with reckless abandon into the heart of the fighting. He was struggling to stay alongside the King amongst the currents of battle. Eddies of vicious combat swirled in between them, and they were forced apart. If Robert noticed, he cared not, for the fierce joy of battle was upon him and burned brightly within him as it had not done in many a year. With hammer in hand he smote down one knight and then another, laughing as he did.

Forced further and further away from Robert, Aratan was momentarily submerged by a tide of foemen all around him. With quick strokes of his sword he cut free and burst out from amongst them just as men of his own company rode in to join the fight. Left alone and unfought for the moment, Aratan looked about the battleground to find his King. In the narrowed vision of his helm, he did not see what his father saw from the dais. He did not see Jaime Lannister riding hard towards him. He did not see the leveled lance. Too late, he turned and saw the oncoming foe. The Kingslayer's lance burst upon the white tree blazoned on his shield, and Aratan was thrown from the saddle, falling heavily to the ground.

Isildur was sitting forward in his chair, glancing rapidly back and forth between his son on the ground and the King still fighting on horseback. He was gripping the arm rests hard once again. Aratan quickly got up again, sword still in hand, to Isildur's relief. Jaime Lannister was circling him on horseback, his gilded sword in hand. No words passed between the two of them, the Kingslayer just silently dismounted his horse and stalked towards Aratan with sword in hand. They circled each other as Aratan settled behind his kite shield, leaving nothing for Jaime to swing at except helm and armoured shins.

Tearing his eyes away from his son's fight, Isildur looked back at the King. Robert was swaying in the saddle slightly, though whether he was drunk on battle or on wine alone, he could not tell. The success of his onslaught had betrayed him and now he had punched straight through the lines of the south-company, and was alone and unaccompanied behind them. No one had dared land a blow on him yet.

Yet one knight turned away from the rest of the melee. He was a fighter of the southern company, taller than some and broader than most, and his arms bore a red leopard on a field of green. He saw the King alone and away from the battle, and, perhaps remembering Robert's words at the feast, he spurred his warhorse straight for him. Murmurs ran through the crowd as they watched the Leopard charge, watched him raise an iron mace above his head.

"Turn around Robert, turn around damn you, you wanted this fight now here it is," Isildur muttered as he watched. It was no use. Robert did not see.

With all the speed of charging horse and swinging arm behind it, the mace hit hard on Robert's back. Taken by surprise and addled by the wine, Robert was flung forward and fell from the saddle. The Leopard went galloping past as Robert's startled warhorse ran. The crowds gasped in shock at the man who had struck a king. Even Cersei let out a gasp of surprise. Knights of the Kingsguard made to rush onto the field to the aid of their King.
"No!" yelled the King. He had risen from the ground to his knees, leaning on his war hammer heavily. His visor was up, his face red with exertion and slick with sweat. He waved his Kingsguard back, then stood up. The Leopard was wheeling on his warhorse, looking at the King expectantly with mace in hand. Robert slammed his visor back down and raised his hammer. King Robert Baratheon would not go down so easily.

More gasps and murmurs ran through the crowd as the Leopard charged, still on horseback, against the King on foot. Isildur wracked his mind, trying to recognize the Leopard's arms. Was it a knight of the Reach? The Westerlands? Who was this knight?

Robert swung his hammer at the oncoming foe, but his blow was wide and clumsy and the Leopard shifted in his saddle and easily avoided it. He countered with a swift swing of his mace that struck like a lightning bolt upon Robert's shoulder. Robert cursed and swung again, missing wildly as his opponent went cantering past.

Isildur swept his eyes across the battleground. Aratan was trading blow for blow with Jaime Lannister, the rest of the northern company were scattered across the field in fights of their own. There was no one to aid King Robert. The Leopard was circling just out of Robert's reach. Again and again the mounted man charged the King, over and over again he smote the King down with heavy blows of his mace. Robert's own swings grew slower and wilder as he tried to fight back. Even in well fitted plate armour, the blows of a mace could shatter bones, and Robert's armour did not fit properly at all. With every blow, he got slower, his movements became more pained.

Robert leaned on his hammer heavily, whilst the Leopard wheeled his horse around for another pass.

This must be stopped. King's Servant, King's Friend, Hand of the King, do something! Isildur thought desperately. Again time seemed to slow, he was rising to his feet, he was roaring for a stop to the fight, but if the Leopard heard him above the din of battle, he did not respond.

The Leopard charged again. Isildur knew with a cold certainty that Robert could not take another hit.

There are times during the hunt when the boar finds itself brought to bay, surrounded by a circle of barking hounds and thrusting spear points. In desperation and hatred, the boar will drive itself upon a spear and up the shaft to gore its killer with its last burst of strength. Like a boar at bay, King Robert drove himself into the Leopard's final charge, leaping down the Leopard's throat. And just as he had done to the Leygood lordling all those years ago, he swung for the horse's forelegs. His blow was crude, unsophisticated, swinging his war hammer like a woodsman's ax, but it did its work.

The horse screamed as its forelegs were shattered by the blow. It tumbled hard, tossing its rider off its back in the fall. The Leopard rolled to a halt past his stricken mount and lay very still. Robert approached the fallen knight, limping as he went. The field had gone silent, the melee had stopped at Isildur's command, and the Hand of the King felt a wave of relief wash over him.

But as Robert stood over his fallen foe, suddenly the Leopard lunged one last time. There was a flash of steel, a dagger was drawn, and then Robert cried out in pain. The crowds screamed in shock, pandemonium erupted. Isildur shot down from the dais at a run, his housecarls around him, pushing through the crowds.

The Leopard had bared his fangs, a misericorde dagger. He had thrust up from the ground, thrust above the cuisses and below his tassets, stabbing beneath the breastplate, deep into the King's lower gut. Robert's snarl of rage was like unto a clap of thunder echoing off the cliffs of the Stormlands. He seized the Leopard's hand upon the hilt of the dagger in a crushing grip and force it out of him, dark blood seeping down the steel of his armour. He hurled his hammer aloft and brought it crashing down upon the Leopard's head. With a sickening crunch, helmet and skull alike were crushed. Noiselessly, the knight fell dead.

For a brief moment, Robert stood alone. He was strangely calm amongst all the chaos and shock of the Leopard's treasonous attack.

Then his knees buckled and failed beneath him and he fell over next to his slain enemy.

With a crack of thunder, the rains began to fall heavily over King's Landing, as Isildur finally reached the King. Robert Baratheon lay unmoving, as still as death.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter IX
Vaes Dothrak

The incessant beating of the drums was like a deep throbbing ache within Valandil's skull, driving out all other thought from his mind. The voices of the dosh khaleen chanted out in their droning, harsh tongue. The tent was dim, night was falling outside, and Valandil's eyes stung from the thick smoke of wood and incense. Dothraki women were crying out in keening voices, men were raising their own deeper tones in chant. In the center of it all, calm as the eye of the storm, stood Daenerys Targaryen. A stallion's heart was in her hands. She raised the chunk of raw meat to her bloodied lips and ripped off another piece.

"She has to eat the entire heart?" said Viserys.

"She's doing well," said Jorah.

"Why a stallion's heart?" asked Valandil. Daenerys chewed and swallowed, face pale, breathing ragged, and took another bite.

"They believe it will make the child grow strong and brave," replied Jorah.

"Does it?" said Viserys.

"They say that Khal Drogo's mother devoured the heart ravenously, still warm from the stallion's body," Ser Jorah said.

Valandil looked at Drogo. The khal sat on the other side of the ring of chanting Dothraki. He was resting his thickly muscled arms on his knees as he watched his khaleesi eat the heart, his brown eyes unreadable. Even now, Valandil found there to be something unsettling about the barbarian warlord. How many lives had been crushed beneath the hooves of his khalasar? How many innocents had they sold into thralldom? How many men had he slain? How many women had he defiled? How many more would suffer if Viserys unleashed this horde on the Eight Kingdoms to reclaim his throne?

What am I doing here? What would my father say? Valandil thought disquietly. Then he remembered the cold stare of his father when the Greyjoys had been slaughtered, and he forced the thought out of his mind.

He looked at Viserys, Viserys with his gaunt face and sunken eyes, skin burnt and silks ruined from the journey across the steppe. Viserys Targaryen, the Third of His Name, rightful King of the Andals, the First Men, the Rhoynar and the Numenoreans. Viserys with his arrogance, his temper and his refusal to learn or grow. Viserys, the failure of all of Valandil's efforts and hopes. Viserys, a dragon only in his avarice and selfishness.

What sort of king will you be if Drogo gives you your throne? Valandil mused. He turned his eyes back to Daenerys, surrounded by her chanting, frenzied people.

Every step taken on the road to Vaes Dothrak seemed to have strengthened Daenerys. She spoke Dothraki better than Valandil did, rode almost as well as the khal, and in her eyes it was as if an inner fire had been kindled. The riding had left her lean and muscled, yet not in a hard and worn way like the women of the Dothraki, she still had the aching Targaryen beauty she had from the first day Valandil had seen her in Pentos. Now though, her striking violet eyes looked out from a fair face tanned golden by the sun. She was no longer the princess Valandil had seen at her marriage to the khal. No longer was she a frightened, anxious girl, now she carried herself as a proud khaleesi of the Dothraki.

If Tar-Rhaenyra could become Queen over Aegon, why not Daenerys over Viserys? He thought. She had the strength for it, the spirit and force of will, though it was hidden deep within her. Valandil saw the spark within her that could be fanned into a great flame.

He looked around the crowded hall, full of Dothraki, chanting, crying aloud, and stamping their feet in time with the beat of the drum. In their eyes he saw love, and adoration, and worship. He remembered the crack of the whip on the backs of the thralls. He remembered the scream of the girl the night of the wedding, all those months ago.

If her fire is kindled, whom will it consume? He wondered.

"What is the crone saying?" asked Viserys, as one of the dosh khaleen rose her croaking voice above the rest to cry out words in euphoria. Jorah grimaced and translated:

"As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his hordes covers the earth, men in number like the stars, swords shining with fresh blood. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name. None shall stand. All shall fall. He shall trample down the world beneath the hooves of his khalasar. The prince is riding! The prince is riding! He is the Stallion Who Mounts The World!"
The old woman was trembling, looking at Daenerys as if she were a god, with awe and terror in equal measure. Valandil felt a chill in his bones.

"She's going to have a son," Jorah said. Viserys seemed taken aback.

"He won't be a real dragon, not a true Targaryen," he said, as if trying to defend himself.

Pale with the effort, Daenerys choked down the last bite of the stallion's heart. She stood up from her knees. The chanting stopped. Drogo sat forward and watched her closely. Even with the little Dothraki he had learned, Valandil understood her words.

"A prince is riding inside me!" she cried out to the crowd "And his name is Rhaego!"

The Dothraki took up the chant in their many voices. "Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego!"

The air almost seemed to vibrate with their cries.

The slightest smile tweaked the lips of Khal Drogo's imperturbable face. Daenerys' face glowed with happiness as she looked at her husband. The enormous khal rose from his seat and walked to the center of the tent. The khaleesi stood on the edge of the platform, looking down on her khal. Her eyes shone. He took her in his enormous arms and picked her up, carrying her in a wide circle around the tent as his warriors called out his son's name.

"They love her," said Viserys.

"Today she truly is a queen," Jorah replied. Valandil glanced at the Beggar King. A shadow of anger and envy crossed his face. With his mouth set in an unhappy twist, Viserys swiftly left. Valandil did not try to stop him.

Drogo set Dany down on her feet again. His blood riders gathered up around them. Torches were kindled, an orange glare flickering in the evening air. In solemn procession, they filed out of the tent. Daenerys and Drogo, his blood riders, the chief men of Drogo's khalasar, other khals and khalakkas. They would ride to the Womb of the World, the sacred lake of the Dothraki, for the rest of the ceremony. Valandil did not follow, he had no more taste for such profane rituals. Some things were meant for the eyes of the Dothraki only.

It had taken nearly a month to cross the Dothraki Sea. The grasslands had been vast beyond his imagination; it seemed truly endless and the sky above so enormous it could make even a son of Numenor feel small. The khalasar had traveled swiftly, slowed only by the slaves on foot and the sick, and elderly in their carts. Those thralls too weakened by age or the cruelty of their masters to keep up were left behind for the wolves and hrakkar. So the journey had passed, with the horde churning up a great cloud of dust as hooves uncountable pounded across the steppe.

Vaes Dothrak was a city unlike any Valandil had ever seen. It sprawled lazily upon the plains; ancient and imperial. It had not the grandeur of Annuminas or Braavos, nor the bustle of King's Landing or Oldtown. It was a city far vaster and more spacious than any he had ever been in. It's streets of packed earth were broad and breezy. Its halls and mansions were made of wood and hide and woven grass. Jorah told him that Vaes Dothrak was so large so it could accommodate the return of every single roving khalasar at once and have space enough and to spare. In this sacred place, even the usually quarrelsome Dothraki were at peace, for all Dothraki were of one khalasar in Vaes Dothrak, and to carry a sword was forbidden. Yet the road to Vaes Dothrak was lined with statues and monuments of a thousand conquered cities and nations; the broken gods and heroes brought back to Vaes Dothrak to boast of Dothraki victories. Even in this peaceful city, Valandil could not forget the brutality of the people he found himself amongst.

The sun rose early the next morning, a clear horizon that promised another dry, hot day. With pipe in hand, Valandil sat outside of the small earthen hut he had been given. It sat alongside the Khal's enormous hall of earth and logs and canvas, which loomed above all the smaller tents and yurts clustered around it. He opened a small leather wallet, in which he kept a few choice treasures. There was a small engraved portrait of his family that brought a smile to his face, a phial of Numenorean cordial that could sustain a man's strength for many days, flint and steel and a pouch of galenas, his pipeweed. Valandil grimaced as he looked at the contents. His galenas was running out. Sighing, he took a modest pinch of what remained to fill his pipe, then lit it. Leaning back against the side of his hut and stretching out his long legs, he started to blow smoke circles contentedly, and he sat and smoked a while in thought.

A long, piercing cry broke his reverie. It rose and fell mournfully in the high airs. He looked up. A shadow was circling above Vaes Dothrak. Valandil immediately recognized that it was an eagle, a great eagle.

Has it been following us across the whole Dothraki Sea? He thought.

It soared effortlessly with only the occasional stroke of its broad, powerful wings. Again its mournful cry broke the air. It was circling directly above.

Suddenly, with a third cry that was loudest of all, the eagle tucked in its wings and plummeted towards the ground. Valandil shot to his feet. All around the hall, Dothraki were shouting in surprise and fear. The great bird plunged towards the earth like a falling star. It would crash straight through the canvas roof of the khal's palace.
At the last moment, with a final shriek so loud it was deafening, the eagle spread its mighty wings and soared above the hall. Gusts of wind buffeted Valandil's clothing and cloak as those wings carried the eagle easily aloft once more. If bird it truly was, it was greater than all other birds that flew.

With a last long call, the eagle flew swiftly away, disappearing into the west.

Silence reigned over the hall, many Dothraki men and women staring with slack jaws towards the west. Slowly, with much muttering and cursing, they began to return to their own tasks. Valandil exhaled and brought his pipe to his lips again.

"A friend of yours?" said a familiar voice. He turned and saw Ser Jorah standing there. Jorah's eyes flicked towards the eagle-shaped broach that secured his cloak.

"I cannot say. It is a sign I deem, but I know not what it forebodes," replied Valandil.

"It was an eagle the last time as well, and it flew into the west just the same," said Jorah.

"Eagles are sacred to the Powers, and sacred most of all to the Elder King," Valandil mused.

"The gods?" Jorah asked. The Dunadan shook his head.

"Nay, not gods, but great in their own right, and servants of the One God," said Valandil. "I feel that we are called to the west,"

"Perhaps an omen of success?" suggested Jorah. Valandil looked around at the many thralls hurrying to and fro around the khal's palace.

"A Targaryen king indebted to a Dothraki warlord for his crown is not a happy prospect Jorah," he replied. The old knight chuckled.

"Do you truly think Viserys will claim the Iron Throne?" Jorah said. He began to walk towards the forward end of the hall, which opened onto one of the city's wider dirt roads. Valandil followed alongside him.

"He is the heir, lamentably," he replied. Jorah laughed, almost bitterly.

"Was Aegon the Conqueror the heir of any Westerosi throne? Was Robert the heir of Aerys? Men don't take thrones by right, they take them by force," Jorah said.

"Viserys will never sit on the Iron Throne, not with the Dothraki," Valandil agreed.

"The Dothraki respect only strength. Viserys has neither strength of arm nor strength of will," replied Jorah.

The entrance of Drogo's palace loomed to their left. It had no door of wood or iron, but rather a large canvas flap, embroidered with images of rearing red stallions to match Drogo's own red warhorse. The flap was tossed open by a pair of slaves and Daenerys exited, followed by her handmaidens and a pair of Dothraki warriors. The khaleesi stopped and frowned at Valandil's pipe. Quickly, but regretfully, he emptied its contents and put the pipe away.

"Princess," he said, bowing his head.

"Khaleesi," Jorah echoed with a bow of his own. She smiled slightly.

"I shall go to the market today I think, will you accompany me Ser Jorah? Thorongil?" she asked. Her tone was more command than request. The two men looked at each other briefly.

"Of course Khaleesi," Jorah said before Valandil could speak. Jorah fell into step with Daenerys, whilst Valandil followed amongst the guards and handmaidens. The khaleesi's belly was beginning to grow great with child, yet she could still walk as strongly as before, though slower now.

Along the edge of the city was a long, broad agora that served as the western market. Its many sunlit avenues were lined by overhanging trees, whose drooping limbs provided cool shade from the heat of the day. This great market was filled with stalls, occupied by traders and merchants by the hundreds. Any merchant caravan was free to cross the Dothraki Sea to sell their wares in Vaes Dothrak, so long as they kept the peace and did not profane the Dothraki sacred places. Merchants from across the world came to buy and to sell in Vaes Dothrak. They came from Bravos and Volantis, Qohor and Myr, Lys and Pentos, and even as far away as the Eight Kingdoms. The air was filled with the calls of the merchants hawking their wares, calling out in the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities, in the Common Tongue of Westeros, and in the harsh, guttural Dothraki tongue.

"I bring the finest silks of Pentos! Only the very best that Pentos has to offer!"

"Volantene wine! Wine of Volantis! I sell the nectar of the gods!"

"Fruits from the Reach! Melons! Plums! Apples! Grapes! Dried! Candied! All the most succulent fruits!"

The sheer diversity of their wares was boggling to Valandil. The merchants came not just to sell goods to the Dothraki, but to exchange goods between each other, for Vaes Dothrak's location in the centre of the Dothraki Sea made it a crossroads of the eastern continent, where merchants of all kinds and of all diverse nations met. There were spices and herbs, furs, wool, cottons, cheeses, smoked fish and meats, wines, brandies, beers and ales. There was gold jewelry and ornaments from as far away as the Westerlands. There were perfumes and carpets, tapestries and musical instruments of all shapes and sizes. And there were animals; goats, sheep, and donkeys.

Above all other things there were slaves, always slaves. It seemed that wherever Valandil traveled in Essos, there were men in thralldom or something like it. The wealth of the Dothraki was not just from the looting of conquered kingdoms, nor were all of the hostages they took held in servitude to the khals. Many of them were brought to Vaes Dothrak to be sold to the slavers of a dozen cities. And slavers brought their own to sell in return to the Dothraki. There were strong slaves for working, to maintain Vaes Dothrak itself. There were civilized, educated slaves, skilled in metalwork, healing, commerce or languages, to offer all those things the Dothraki men were too ignorant or too proud to learn. And there were fair-skinned girls of Lys, to offer those men pleasures beyond that of the marriage-bed.

Children of Iluvatar were not meant for servitude he thought sadly as he watched a girl sold.

At that moment, Valandil heard something he did not expect. A voice, yelling out in the Common Tongue, but with the accents of Gondor in it. The clear, fair voice of a Dunadan. He turned towards it. All he could see were merchants. Then he heard the voice again:

"Goods of the Eight Kingdoms! I bring wares from Gondor! The North! The Riverlands! Dorne! The Vale of Arrryn! Find it all here!" it said.

Valandil quickly excused himself from the Khaleesi and Jorah and, before either of them could ask where he was going, he followed the voice. He crossed beneath the boughs of the trees to another aisle of the market, lined by merchant stalls and overhung with colourful awnings of canvas. A smell of spices and perfumes filled the air. There he found the source of the voice: There was a Dunadan amongst the traders. He stood at a stall of his own, surrounded by Andals who were taking crates of goods from a cart that sat behind it. He was tall and black haired, and skin tanned gold by the sun, but he had the unmistakable look of a Numenorean.

"Hail! A star shines upon the hour of our meeting, countryman!" Valandil cried, greeting him in the Elven tongue. The trader's sun-creased face broke into a sudden smile, teeth shockingly white against his dark tan.

"A fellow Dunadan! In Vaes Dothrak of all the places; here is a happy meeting!" the trader replied.
They clasped forearms and embraced, fellow travelers far from home, caught up in the unexpected joy of finding a kinsman and speaking together in their own tongue.

"I am Galdor son of Baran of Pelargir," the trader introduced himself, releasing Valandil. Valandil dearly wished to tell Galdor who he was, to hear news of home, but he knew it would not be wise to reveal himself.

"Thorongil of Minas Ithil," he said, with some reluctance about the lie.

"How long you been abroad?" asked Galdor.

"Nearly a year and a half now, and yourself? What brings you out here?" replied Valandil.

"I departed Pelargir several months ago, been traveling all through the Free Cities, a very profitable venture for my family," said Galdor.

"You must have some news of home then," said Valandil, eagerness barely restrained. Galdor made a thoughtful noise, scratching a bearded chin. Out of a pocket he pulled a wooden pipe. Valandil's eyes lit up. Galdor smiled as he noticed.

"Been a while since your last smoke kinsman?" Galdor said jovially, filling his pipe as he did.

"Nay, but I'm almost out of leaf, I had despaired of finding anymore!" replied Valandil.

"Then you are in luck Master Thorongil! I happen to have some bales from home in the cart. Let us share a few leaves and smoke together, and we will talk of home, you and I!" said Galdor with a broad smile.

Ignoring the dirty looks from his Andal companions, Galdor quickly retrieved a few leaves of galenas from his wagon. Valandil smelled the deep, fragrant aroma as he and the trader filled their pipes. They shared flint and steel to light the leaves.

"Fine leaf, very fine," said Valandil, breathing out a ring of smoke. Galdor smiled with pipe in mouth.

"From the Reach. The finest galenas grows around Goldengrove," he said. "So what can I tell you about Gondor?"

"Anything, anything at all, I just yearn for any tidings of home," replied Valandil.

"When I left, things were much as they have been. The fields are rich, the berries are sweet, and the cattle are fat. Summer's end is coming I deem, they have had some snows around Fornost and Lake Evendim," said Galdor.

"The long summer brings the deep snows they say," said Valandil.

"It shall be a long winter if that is true, but perhaps not a harsh one. Rarely have we ever seen such bounty," said Galdor.

"So what news from Pelargir then?" Valandil asked. Galdor smoked a while and then said:

"Do you know of Hallacar, the Lord of Pelargir? And of his daughter?"

Valandil knew them well. Hallacar was a liegeman of his lord father and Pelargir was the chief city within Ithilien. The broad-shouldered old Lord of Pelargir with his fierce iron-grey beard was the High Captain of the Ships of Gondor and a common guest at Minas Ithil. His long-standing project was to secure the betrothal of his daughter Nessanie to one of Isildur's sons. Nessanie shared her father's ambitions and in particular had always sought after Valandil himself, to the young man's dismay.

"I know of them," Valandil said.

"Before I left, the word in Pelargir was that the poor Lady Nessanie had locked herself in her tower and cannot be made to come out," said Galdor.

"What? But-but why?" asked Valandil, dismayed, swallowing hard. An uncomfortable feeling of guilt was creeping up his neck.

"No one knows, some say that some fell mood is upon her. The whole city was whispering of it when I left," replied the merchant.

"Surely there is something other than that?" said Valandil, wishing to change the topic.

"Well," said Galdor, smiling round his pipe. He seemed to be enjoying the chance for gossip "The King was on the road to Annuminas"

"The King? Truly?" said Valandil sharply.

"Truly. I ran into them myself on the road to White Harbour. Banners flying the royal stag, and Tar-Robert himself on a great black horse leading them,"

"What was his errand in Annuminas?"

"I cannot say for I did not ask, nor did the King deign to speak to a humble trader like myself. Some royal visit to the Lords of Gondor I would guess. They say that the King had a close friendship with Lord Isildur from the war," said Galdor.

Valandil knew that much to be true. He had ridden at his father's side in the war. Though the forces they brought to Robert's side were small, just Isildur and his sons and a small band of housecarls, Valandil's father rose high in Robert's esteem. A ghost of a smile drifted across his lips. Those had been good times, when he had fought at his family's side to overthrow a wicked king and avenge good men unjustly murdered. That had been before everything changed, before the Fall of Pyke. Valandil's smile died quickly.

"And the word on the road after the King passed was that his Steward had died of a sudden sickness,"

This came as a surprise. Old even during the war, Lord Arryn had always been hale and hearty. He had been a good man, loyal and honourable, and Valandil prayed that Eru had taken him quickly and painlessly.

"Plague?" was all Valandil managed to say.

"Perhaps, or something of the sort. But if I were to guess, I would reckon that the King was coming to Gondor to find a new Steward," said Galdor.

"There's never been a Steward of our people in all the years since my grandsire landed from the Downfall" said Valandil. It was only half a lie. His grandsire was Elendil himself, but Galdor need not know that.

Galdor shrugged and blew out a smoke ring.

"Perhaps it is time that a King come seeking our counsel then," the trader said.

"Who do you think he would choose?" asked Valandil, though he well knew the answer.

"Lord Anarion would be my choice, if I were the King, but then I am not," said Galdor.

"Or perhaps he only wants the counsel of our lords in the selection of a new Steward. There is no wiser man in the Eight Kingdoms than Lord Elendil," said Valandil.

"You'll get no argument from me on that account," Galdor agreed.

Valandil could not say how long he spoke to the trader from Pelargir. The sun had passed its zenith and begun to sink when finally Jorah came to fetch him, for the Khaleesi wished to move on to the Eastern Market. It had been an unexpected and welcome pleasure to once again hear the voice of a fellow Numenorean and converse in the familiar tongue of his homeland and his people. They embraced again when Valandil departed, and Galdor gave him a great gift: A small bag of galenas, for which Galdor earned profuse thanks and deep gratitude.

Jorah and Valandil rejoined the Khaleesi and her guards as they crossed a broad, dusty road that ran down the centre of Vaes Dothrak and separated the two markets. Jorah threw a heavy leather purse into Valandil's hands. It jingled as he caught it.

"Payment from Illyrio, for our services rendered," Jorah said. "And a handsome one at that. That's your share,"

Valandil opened the bag and peered inside. The faces of gods and rulers looked back at him from silver coins. He closed it and tossed it back to Jorah.

"Hold on to it for me for now, I have no taste for silver today," said Valandil.

Jorah gave him a wry grin as he tied the purse to his belt.

"A great swordsman you may be, but you're terrible at this sellsword business," Jorah said. "A real sellsword would slit your throat if you gave him a chance to take your share,"

"Then I am fortunate neither of us are good sellswords," Valandil said with a grin of his own.

The western market had been bustling and busy, but its sights and smells had been familiar to Valandil. He had traveled in Westeros and the Free Cities, there was nothing there to surprise him. The eastern market was something far different, a place that dealt in things dark, strange and exotic. As Valandil followed Daenerys' khas into the market plaza, suddenly a loud trumpeting echoed in the air. He looked up towards the ear-splitting noise and saw a strange sight. A man with the pale skin of Qarth seemed to be floating in the air behind the tops of one of the trees. The ground itself shook and trembled beneath Valandil's feet. Then what seemed like a long grey sinuous serpent emerged from behind the tree, headless and yet moving in the air. With rumbling steps, the rest of a vast beast stepped into Daenerys' path. Valandil's eyes widened at the strange sight. It was huge, like a great grey hill with four legs as thick as tree trunks. What looked like a snake was a long snout that swung as the creature walked. Vast ivory tusks shone in the sun, and a pair of large ears flapped on either side of a massive, proud head. And behind the enormous beast came two smaller ones in single file, identical except in size, each holding on to the tail of the one leading them with their strange snout. A man sat in a sort of wooden tower atop the great animal's back.

"An elephant!" Daenerys said, delighted. "I've only seen them in books before!"

The elephant was just the first of the wonders of the eastern market. Merchants came from the most distant lands of the east and brought with them goods both marvelous and dangerous. There were silver cages full of manticores. There were men who could charm serpents with music. There were odd birds of colourful plumage. There was no Common Tongue here, nor even the Valyrian of the Free Cities. Here the air was alive with the strange tongues of Qarth, Ghiscar, Asshai, and even more distant lands. Valandil saw men who contorted their bodies into impossible shapes, men who swallowed swords and breathed fire for the delight of the passing crowds. There were spices so hot the smell of them made Valandil's nose burn, there were silks so fine a man could see right through them. The animals for sale here were strange and foreign: Elephants, camels, black and white zorses of Jogos Nhai, apes and monkeys, scaled basilisks from the jungles of Yi Ti. Yet, for all that the eastern market was foreign and different from the western market, it still bought and sold slaves in great numbers.

There was magic in this market too, or those who claimed to possess it. Alchemists sold smoky potions and elixirs and tonics they claimed would bring wisdom, good fortune, transmute lead into gold, restore virility or any other effect a man with gold desired. Apothecaries sold bear liver and dragon teeth, rhino horn and wolf paw. In some stalls there were sold heavy leather-bound tomes, written in unknown languages, which promised all the secrets of sorcery to those who could decipher them. The Dothraki looked on these things with lips curled in disgust and disdain.

Valandil found himself falling further and further behind the others, surrounded by the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the eastern market. He was looking at an animal dealer's cage full of monkeys when someone called out to him.

"Isildur's Son," said the voice, old, old and dry like a dead tree in a desert.

He looked down and saw that it belonged to an old man, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. His skin had the look of old parchment. His eyes were large, milky-white, they stared without seeing right into Valandil. He had only a sparse few white strands of hair around his ears. His thin, fragile arms grasped at a huge, dark tome that sat in his lap.

"Isildur's Son," the old man repeated, his voice like the cracking of stones.

"I am… How do you know that old man?" Valandil replied, glancing towards Daenerys and Jorah, who browsed further up the aisle. They did not appear to have heard him. The old man smiled; an ugly thing full of yellowed teeth and cracked lips.

"A blind man can see many things, Isildur's Son, if he knows how to look," he said.

"I see the line of your fathers and your fathers' fathers, back, back all the way to Huor and Tuor and Hurin and Turin and the Edain of old. I see the line of your sons and your sons' sons, or perhaps your daughters' and your daughters' daughters. I see the strands, weaving forth and back, together and apart, and who can say whose is whose?" the old man laughed, cawing like a crow.

"You're mad," said Valandil, and he turned to leave, but he felt something hold him there.

"Perhaps I am, or perhaps you are, or perhaps we both are, or neither of us are, or maybe we all are," said the old man, smiling his awful smile again.

"I must be mad to still be listening to you," said Valandil.

"Or wise enough to know when to listen, yes Isildur's Son must be, but perhaps you need to know how to listen," said the old man. Valandil furrowed his brows.

"How to listen?" he said.

"It starts when you stop," said the old man.

"Stop what?" replied Valandil.

"Talking!" and the old man cackled his crow's laugh again. Valandil narrowed his eyes. He was beginning to tire of the madman.

"Now you've begun to listen. When you lose your sight you may begin to see," the old man said before Valandil had a chance to say anything. The elder stretched out one of his arms, leaning forward as if he were a tree trying to move one of its branches, and he pointed a long, bony finger at Valandil, chanting out loud:

"What is gold does not always glitter
What is over is not always past
What is old may not wither
What is young may not last"

He leaned back again, grasping his huge book with talon-like hands, smiling yellow once more.

"Not everything is as it seems. What you scorn may be perilous. What you fear may not be your enemy. The dangerous road you may need to tread. What you desire you may need to forget. Remember these things Isildur's Son, and remember to listen,"

He sat there and spoke no more.

"Who are you?" Valandil said at last. The old man said nothing, just stared with those pale, unsettling eyes. Eyes that saw nothing and yet seemed to see everything.

"Who are you?" Valandil demanded again, more forcefully this time.

"He is madman Thorngil, he speaks nonsense to vex men, waste not your time with him," said a Dothraki. It was Rakharo, one of Daenerys' bodyguards. He looked down on the old man with undisguised contempt, then spat upon the ground at the old man's feet. The old man said nothing, he just kept staring straight ahead as Rakharo led Valandil away.

"Who is that man?" asked Valandil.

"I know not. He came to Vaes Dothrak in the time of my grandfather's father. He sits there every day and every night, never moving, speaking only nonsense" said Rakharo.

When they found Daenerys and Jorah once more, the khaleesi was frowning. One of her guards was speaking to an ashen-faced Asshai'i. The man was shaking his head.

"Even in the Shadowlands?" Dany said, almost in disbelief.

"Dragons are all dead Khaleesi, it is known," said the Dothraki, Jhogo. Daenerys sighed as if disappointed.

"Your ancestor Aegon brought the last of the dragons to Westeros when he conquered it. When the Targaryen dragons died, so too did dragonkind," said Jorah. They were following one of the shaded lanes of trees in the eastern market, heading back towards the godsway that divided the western agora from the eastern.

"It is very sad, isn't it?" Daenerys said, melancholy.

"Sad Khaleesi? But dragons wicked, evil beasts. It is good they are dead," said Jhogo.

"My brother told me stories about dragons when I was just a little girl. I knew our dragons had died long ago, but somehow I always thought that maybe somewhere dragons still lived, wild, free, and maybe some day I would see one. Viserys always said that nothing could be more wondrous than seeing a dragon," she replied.

"Forgive me my Princess, but your brother knows nothing about dragons," said Valandil. He thought back upon every dragon his father had ever told him tales about. Glaurung, Worm of Angband, that laid low the fair Nargothrond. The nameless wyrm that broke the gates of Gondolin and set that fair city ablaze. The great Ancalagon the Black, terrible foe of Earendil and the Black Enemy's last and most awful weapon. A world without such destructive beasts seemed a better one to him.

A faint smile graced Daenerys' lips.

"I had hoped that maybe he wasn't wrong about dragons. I suppose I will never know. It is yet one more thing about which my brother knows nothing," she said. Anyone else might have sounded bitter saying such words about their kin, but Daenerys Targaryen simply stated it, a fact and nothing more.

"One of Illyrio's trade caravans is in the western market, perhaps we ought to send His Grace back to Pentos?" Jorah suggested.

"He'll never go without his army, and he couldn't lead an army even if my lord husband gave him one," said Dany. She was silent for a moment.

"Thorongil, Ser Jorah, could the Dothraki conquer the Eight Kingdoms?" she asked suddenly, as if it were a question that had been on her mind for a long time.

"With your brother leading them?" asked Valandil.

"With Khal Drogo leading them," she said, very firmly. The implication was clear.

"The Dothraki have never crossed the sea, they fear any water their horses cannot drink," said Jorah.

"But if they did," she said insistently. Valandil looked at her and in her purple Targaryen eyes there was something hard and fierce gleaming.

"With a horde like this and a khal like Drogo… It is possible, Khaleesi," he said. How he wished in that moment that Daenerys was not a khaleesi of the Dothraki.

It would be hard to notice for the unobservant, but Daenerys Targaryen carried her head a little higher and walked with a little more purpose that day.

Night came swiftly on the Dothraki Sea. The sun descended over Vaes Dothrak in a reddish blaze. As the evening fell and the sky darkened, Khal Drogo's slaves fed great bonfires outside of the Khal's palace, burning bright and hot and sending shadows dancing in the night. Within the hall, the air was thick with smoke and laughter. The khal had ordered that a great feast be held to honour the conception of his son.

The khal's great hall was long and broad, and barely furnished. Its roof was canvas, open in places to the night sky, and it walls were woven grass. Stools and benches were the only things of wood in his hall, the cooking pots and spits the only things of metal. Fires burned in pits in the middle of the hall, from which came a savoury smell of stews and soups and roasting meat. The slender bodies of dancers were silhouetted in the firelight as they moved in tune with beating drums.

All this Valandil watched from a seat of honour at the end of the hall. He was amongst khals and khalakkas and kos, the guests of Drogo. Jorah sat to his left, and far to his right was Viserys, sullenly quiet and swaying like a man half in his cups. Valandil glanced further to his left. Daenerys sat at the very end of the hall, beside an empty chair that belonged to the Khal. She was laughing at some joke of one of her handmaidens, her smile bright and warm even in the smoky darkness. She looked happy, she looked at home. He smiled at that as he filled his pipe for a smoke.

The only one absent from the feast was the Khal himself, but that was not for long. The slaves tossed the cloth doors open and in from the night strode Khal Drogo. The bells in his hair tinkled softly with each step he took. His almond-shaped eyes gleamed darkly. The music stopped as the Khal walked up the hall, followed by his bloodriders. The pelt of some large white animal was tossed over his shoulders. He came before Daenerys with it and knelt before his khaleesi. He laid the pelt across her lap. Valandil recognized it now: The skin of a hrakkar, one of the white lions of the Dothraki Sea. A magnificent gift.

"A silver cloak like your silver hair, o moon of my life," the Khal said. His hand caressed Daenerys' face affectionately, and he kissed her forehead, then took his seat beside her. With a clap of his hands, the dancing and the music resumed.

Wine flowed that night like rivers. They were fed hearty stews and thick soups and good black bread, and roasted meats, pork and beef, mutton and goat. The night seemed to wear on and on, and Viserys drank more and more as it did.

Drogo held court at his feast that night. A broad space before his seat was cleared away and to it came many men. He called his friends before him, his most honoured warriors, his fellow khals, and gave them rich gifts. To each of his bloodriders he gave an arm-ring of heavy red-gold. To his favoured kos he gave arakhs of good steel and double-curved bows. To Khal Jommo, who had proclaimed Rhaego the Stallion That Mounts The World alongside the dosh khaleen, Drogo gifted a bridle of rich leather, decorated with gems. His generosity seemed unlimited that night. Yet for all the gifts that were offered and received, Viserys remained in his seat, uncalled for and unacknowledged, and his mood grew blacker with each passing moment.

Emissaries too came before Drogo at the feast. Fellow khals came to promise Drogo their help or ask for his aid against their enemies. Messengers came from cities and nations far and wide, seeking the Khal's friendship. There were Pentosi with forked beards, bringing chests of tribute in gold and silver. There were envoys from Braavos and Volantis, Qohor and Myr, richly dressed but still bowing and scraping before the Khal. They were all offering him tribute in wealth or slaves or both, and all asking him to spare their cities and instead attack their enemies. If Drogo was amused by his, his imperceptible face did not show it. He merely thanked them for their generous gifts and courteous words, and said nothing about where his horde would ride next.

The night wore on, and the fires grew dim, and the moonlight shone through the roof of the hall. Drunk on wine and happiness, finally even the raucuous Dothraki grew tired. Valandil was about to rise to stretch his legs and head back to his hut when one last messenger entered Drogo's hall.

He was tall, taller than the tallest. His hair shone like burnished gold. His eyes were clear, bright and blue. A noble brow and a nobler face. His head was held high. He did not bow, he did not scrape, he did not prostrate himself before the Khal. His gaze bored straight into Drogo. Jewels flashed in the firelight on his neck, on his fingers, on his arms. His clothes were alive with colours, rich purples and deep golds, bright greens and fiery reds. He walked up the length of the hall with long strides and a hush fell over those who watched him. Suddenly, amidst all their celebration, a feeling came upon them, and they felt like misbehaving servants whose master had come home. Here was no ordinary emissary. Here was a lord amongst men, and the shining of his eyes and the twist of his lips and the lift of his chin held a wordless power of command, and none that sat there could not help but feel its potency.

"Hail Drogo, son of Bharbo, mightiest of all Khals" the messenger said, and his voice was as rich and melodious as music made for gods. He bowed courteously to Drogo, though any who looked upon them would think that Drogo should have bowed to this man. Drogo nodded for him to continue. A hushed silence fell over the crowds, even the fiercest of Dothraki warriors were held entranced by this man.

"I am the Mouth of Umbar," he said and he smiled. His smile was like that of a benevolent master for a foolish but beloved servant.

"I bring greetings from my master, Ar-Azulakhor, the King of the Numenoreans, the King of Umbar, the Great King of Kings who rules over Kings, Anointed by Melkor, the Lord of all Men, and of all the Seas, and of all the Earth," he said. Valandil's eyes widened. He sat bolt upright, stiff as a deer that has seen a tiger. He recognized that tongue. His breath caught in his throat and he felt like icy daggers had plunged into his stomach.

Khal Drogo nodded again for the Mouth of Umbar to continue.

"The Great King of Kings has heard many tales and many songs of your strength and bravery, mighty Drogo," the Mouth of Umbar said, and his voice was sweet with admiration.

"But even the strongest warrior must have friends upon the battlefield, and even the strongest tree may fall before the storm. So let us speak together, you and I, Dothraki and Umbarian, and we shall speak as friends,"

He smiled again, as one who has seen a dear friend whom had not been seen in many years.

"Umbar is the heir of Numenor, the greatest kingdom that ever was, and like Numenor of old, Umbar is fated for greatness. Melkor Himself has bequeathed unto us His dominion, for we are His chosen people, and we shall have dominion over all lands and all kingdoms, and all the races of men. Out of the downfall of Numenor has come Umbar, and we have set our feet upon the earth and we will take it as our rightful possession,"

He spoke now as a lord, as a master, invincible and irresistible. What courage and defiance dwelt in the hearts of each Dothraki in that hall seemed to die away. Just the previous day the dosh khaleen had proclaimed the Stallion That Mounts The World, but now their prophecies seemed to ring hollow and false in the face of Umbar. Valandil dug his fingers into his leg.

"Those who stand before us will be swept away, like sand in the wind. We are terrible to our enemies, mighty Khal, but we are generous to our friends,"

His voice was a promise, a promise of mercy, kindness, gifts, friendship. Hope was kindled in those who listened.

"Your armies are great and your arm is long indeed, you could be an honoured friend of Ar-Azulakhor, mighty Drogo. Swear yourself as our ally and you will be made into the greatest Khal that ever was, a Khal that will rule over all Khals. You will ride alongside Ar-Azulakhor himself, and your standards will be seen and the thunder of your hooves will be heard on fields of battles at the ends of the earth. You will ride with us to lands in the farthest east and distant west where no khal has ever ridden before. With us you will lay waste to jeweled cities and great kingdoms, and the choicest of the plunder and most beautiful of the women will be yours. This we promise, and this shall be yours, if you but swear yourself as our friend and ally,"

He paused. All eyes turned to the Khal.

"What say you?"

A strange thing happened then. Laughter. Khal Drogo was laughing, a deep and mirthful laugh. The spell was broken. Soon the Khal's bloodriders began to laugh, then the other khals and kos, and soon every Dothraki in the hall was laughing with them. Drogo said something in the Dothraki tongue too quickly for Valandil to follow, and a slave-girl translated it.

"The Khal says: The Stallion That Mounts The World can do all these things, so what need have we of your Khal? None, we think," said the slave.

A shadow passed over the Mouth of Umbar's features, a look of the most hateful contempt. It lasted only a moment but Valandil saw it all the same. It was quickly replaced by a friendly look of amusement, the look of a parent towards a child's foolish words.

"Think hard on this offer, Khal Drogo. Not all are offered the friendship of the King of Kings. Ar-Azulakhor has much to offer, for he can bring low even the mightiest lord, or give crowns to even the meekest," the Mouth of Umbar said. He cast his piercing blue eyes around the room and they seemed to rest, just for a moment, on Daenerys, and again on Viserys.

With another courtly bow, the Mouth of Umbar took his leave.

Valandil exhaled sharply and looked at Jorah. The old knight's eyes were full of questions.

"Who was he?" asked Ser Jorah.

"I don't know Jorah. That which is over but is not past," Valandil said, and he remembered the words of the old man of the market. The air inside the hall felt stifling. He needed to clear his head. Excusing himself, Valandil quickly rose and left.

The air outside was cool and a breeze was blowing. In the sky above, a tapestry of stars shone palely. The moon seemed very white and very clear. Valandil leaned against the wall of his hut, breathing hard, the earthen mound cold through his clothes. His legs felt weak and there was a pounding in his chest, as if he had seen some wraith of the dead.

"You are no Dothraki," said a voice, cold and cruel.

Valandil turned around slowly. The Mouth of Umbar stepped out of the shadows of Drogo's hall. The two Numenoreans stood facing each other in the moonlight, hands empty, shoulders squared. The Mouth of Umbar's eyes were two cold chips of blue-ice.

"Nor are you," Valandil replied.

"Of course not, you and I are of a higher breed. I had not thought to meet any of my kin in this barbaric place," said the Mouth of Umbar.

"We are not kin, King's Man," said Valandil.

The Mouth of Umbar laughed. It was a hollow, mirthless sound.

"You must be an Elf-friend. Truly this is the last place I expected to find one such as you," the Mouth said. "We did not think we would find you anywhere outside of the Eight Kingdoms. What errand has brought you to this miserable place?"

"No errand. I am a friend of the Khaleesi," Valandil said.

"You seek their service then as well? Perhaps that Elendil is not as much as naive I thought he was. It is a fool's errand though, these savages are good only for fighting each other. There are other, more useful servants to be had," the Mouth replied.

Valandil closed his hands into tight fists.

"You are surprised that I am here? I suppose your fathers were so arrogant to assume that they were the only ones to survive?" said the Mouth.

"Eru should have banished you to the Void itself for what you did to our home," Valandil snarled.

"What we did!?" the Mouth snarled in return. "Remember, kinsman, if the lies of Elf-friends have not clouded your mind too much, who was it that destroyed great Numenor?"

"The wretched creature that whispered lies in the ears of our King and brought the ruin upon us," said Valandil.

"It matters not what you believe, kinsman. Melkor delivered us up out of that dark day. A new land he has given to us. It was His mercy that brought you here. All the lands of the earth have been promised to us, we have only to reach out our hands and take it," said the Mouth of Umbar.

"You will find, King's Man, that the promises of the Black Enemy are faithless and hollow. They will turn to ash in your fingers," Valandil shot back. The knuckles on his fists were white.

"Ash is what Gondor shall be by the end of this, Elf-friend, and you will see if the Valar will save you then. I spoke truth to the Khal, though he was too stupid to hear it. The day draws near where we shall declare our dominion. To those who defy us, we shall bring death and ruin such as these barbarians have never imagined. Think hard on whose side you wish to stand," said the Mouth of Umbar. His eyes gleamed with a hunger as he spoke and his lips were twisted in a sneer of cruel command.

He melted back into the shadows and was gone.

When dawn broke over Vaes Dothrak the next day, the Mouth of Umbar was nowhere to be found, and Viserys Targaryen was gone.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter X
King's Landing

The forges burned hot and the hammers rang like bells in the shop of Tobho Mott, master armourer. Outside on the Street of Steel, a cold rain was falling in curtains, splashing upon the slick cobblestones.

Inside the smithy, Gendry Waters paid no heed to the weather. The heat of the fires was on his face as he put the finishing touches on his finest work yet: A bascinet helmet which he had wrought into the shape of a bull's head. With great care he chiseled away at the visor of the helmet, giving it the facial features of a bull. His fellow apprentices and the journeymen smiths were busy at work at their own anvils and forges, but they kept glancing over to him and his helmet. He smiled at that. After all, it was the other apprentices that had inspired him to make this helmet.

It had begun a few weeks past in a quarrel over helmets with Tomas, an apprentice around the same age as Gendry.

"There's no better helmet than the barbute, you can see out of it, you can breathe in it, and it protects you," Tomas had said.

"You only like the barbute because it's just as ugly as you are. It's just a stupid metal pot. Any idiot can make a barbute, it takes skill to make a bascinet," Gendry had replied. He far preferred a bascinet with a full visor over a barbute.

And so the argument had went, on and on, for the rest of that day, until Master Mott and every other armourer in the smithy was sick of hearing it. Finally Tomas had called Gendry a "bull-headed bastard who can't even make the helmet he brags about," and that had made up Gendry's mind. He would make a bascinet helmet and he would make it in the shape of a bull's head, to stick Tomas' words down his throat.

At first the other apprentices had doubted him. Willem said he was wasting his time. Pepin thought that master Mott wouldn't allow Gendry to take on such an ambitious project. Little Arryk, the youngest of the apprentices, didn't think that Gendry could do it. He had shown them all wrong.

In his free hours in the evenings, Gendry had looked over the designs for bascinets in the books in Master Mott's study. He could read only a little, mostly he looked at the drawings and sketches. Tobho Mott had smiled at that, calling Gendry a "most diligent apprentice". The design he settled on was what his master called a "great bascinet", with an elongated visor which he could fashion into the shape of a bull's muzzle and nose.

He had begun by forging the helm itself. Hours of hammering in the forge, shaping and forming it, and quenching it in cold water to harden the steel. By the end he had a simple skullcap with two long cheekguards and an open face.

"That's your bascinet?" Tomas had sneered. Gendry said nothing, he just kept continued his work.

The horns had come next, two pieces of steel he curved so that they would deflect blows to the side instead of catching them on the head. These he welded onto the crest of the helmet.

Finally he set the visor upon it, attached by rotating pivots to the sides of the skullcap. Carefully he bored breathing holes through the flared nostrils and bared mouth of the bull's head. Slits he added in the fierce eyes of the bull, for vision.

When all was done, he held up the finished work. It caught the firelight and gleamed dully. The steel was unpolished and the craftsmanship was rough, but he was well-pleased by the results of his labour.

"A bull's head helmet?" said Master Mott. Gendry glanced over his shoulder and saw the master smith standing behind him, inspecting his work.

"Yes master," said Gendry, handing over the helmet. The armourer handled it carefully, feeling the steel, evaluating it with a critical eye.

"Well done lad," Tobho Mott said with a small smile.

"Tomas! Where's that barbute you were working on?" the master armourer called loudly over the sounds of the hammers.

Tomas dutifully brought over his work. It was a heavy steel barbute, with long cheek guards and a wide eye slit. Tobho Mott inspected this with the same care he had examined Gendry's helmet with.

"Put it on. Yours too Gendry," said Master Mott. Tomas donned his barbute and Gendry pulled his helmet over his head. It was confined and quiet within the bascinet, though not quite as stifling as he expected. A crowd of apprentices was beginning to gather.

"Now who can tell me why I always recommend a visored helmet for the men who buy our armour?" Tobho Mott asked them.

"Because you can charge a higher fee for it?" said Pepin. The master armourer smiled at that.

"Very good Pepin, but there's something else," he replied. He reached out and poked his fingers into Gendry's visor. Inside the helmet, the metal tapped lowly. Then he turned to Tomas and quickly jabbed his fingers into his eyes.

Tomas recoiled, swearing and cursing in pain, covering his face with his hands.

"That wouldn't have happened if you had added a visor you stupid ox," Master Mott explained. The apprentices laughed.

"Now you'll see all sorts of open-faced helmets out there and people choose them for all sorts of reasons, some good and bad, but when you're an armourer you're in the business of keeping knights alive. If your knight gets killed wearing something you forged for him, he won't exactly come back to seek your services again and he won't recommend you to others either. So have some foresight and add a visor you daft bastard," said Tobho Mott.

"Y-yes master Mott," said Tomas. He wrenched off his barbute and unhappily rubbed his eyes. Gendry smiled to himself behind his visor then removed his own helmet.

"Now back to work you lot!" the master said "The tourney is ending today so we're going to have a lot of repair jobs in the next day or two"

He paused and looked around the crowd of his apprentices and workers.

"Where's Arryk?" he asked. Silence. A nervous cough in the back. Tobho Mott sighed in exasperation.

"Where is my nephew?" he repeated more insistently.

"He went to the tourney!" blurted Willem. Gendry sighed. Willem could never keep a secret.

"The tourney? I expressly forbid it and he went to the tourney?" said Mott, the beginnings of anger in his words. The wordless looks on the faces of the apprentices were as good as a confession. Master Mott sighed.

"What will I do with that boy?" he said, rubbing his brow. Then he shook his head as if to himself and sent the rest of them back to work.

"All of you! Back to the forges!" bellowed Holman, the steely-haired journeyman smith who had been Master Mott's chief assistant and right-hand for as long as any of them could remember. He had fists like hammers, arms like steel bars and a voice that blustered and roared like a huge set of bellows.

As a "reward" for their good work on the helmets, Holman sent Gendry and Tomas out to the sheds behind the smithy to retrieve more coal and iron for the day's work. Each grabbed a wheelbarrow and ran across the small, rain-spattered courtyard that separated the smithy from the sheds. To their right and left loomed master Mott's house and their own dormitories, the upper storeys leaning over the courtyard and pouring rainwater from their eaves and shingled roofs. The cold rains sent a shiver down Gendry's neck as they matted his black hair to his head.

They loaded their wheelbarrows down with armfuls of wood, coal, iron, tools and other necessities for the smithy.

"Well done on that helmet," Tomas said with a grudging respect. Gendry looked at him and cracked a smile.

"And yours was fine work, even if you had your eyes put out," Gendry said. Tomas chuckled and gave him a good natured punch in the shoulder.

When they finished gathering what was needed, they made to wheel them back to the smithy again. Gendry grimaced as he looked out on the sheets of rain pouring down.

"I hope Arryk doesn't stay out long in this, it's not good for the little one," he said.

"Aye, he'll catch himself a cold he will, and then be sniveling to us for days about it," Tomas said. Despite the words there was an affection and worry for the boy in his voice. Little Arryk, bright eyed with his mop of blond hair, was a little brother to all of the older apprentices.

They trotted back across the courtyard through the rain and into the heat of the smithy. Just as they were unloading their wheelbarrows though, they heard the voice of their worries.

"Ee's dead! Ee's dead! Ee's dead!" yelled Arryk, suddenly dashing in from outside. His face was pale, his arms and legs were trembling from the cold. He was wearing only a thin tunic and pants, and both were soaked right through.

All work stopped when the lad ran in. Towering Holman pushed his way through the other smiths to Arryk's side.

"Back up! All of you back up! Give the poor lad some air!" he yelled "Willem! Go get some blankets and dry clothes!"

Gendry looked down over the shoulders of the other apprentices at Arryk. The boy was shivering dreadfully and he seemed so very small. His eyes were wild, he couldn't stop shaking.

"'Ee stabbed 'im, he did, I saw it! I saw it!" he said, half-ranting. He kept on repeating the phrase, looking around at all the others with wild eyes.

"Calmly now lad, who was stabbed?" asked Holman with a gentle voice. Willem returned with the blankets and Holman's huge hands wrapped them around the small boy.

"The King!" Arryk replied. Murmurs ran through the crowd. There was a jolt that ran down into Gendry's stomach and he leaned forward to listen more closely.

"I was at the tourney, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know I wasn't supposed to, but I was," Arryk explained. He was breathing deeply, beginning to calm. Then the words came out all in one rush:

"They was all fighting out, all at once, and the King was there! He had a big hammer and he was hitting knights down! And then one knight came after him, he had a big red cat on his shield, and he knocked the King off his horse! And then the King knocked him off his horse! And he stabbed the King! I saw it! Everyone was screaming and there was a tall man shouting and the Queen was crying! I saw it!"

"Calm yourself little one, it's alright" Holman said sternly. Though Arryk was a lad of nearly eight, strong Holman lifted him as if he were a babe, taking the dry clothes that Willem had brought in his other hand. More murmurs were running through the crowd. To Gendry, it seemed as if the world was spinning. He wondered who would dare to strike a King.

"I'll take him to his uncle and get him settled. The rest of you: Back to work! We don't know nothing here, and it don't matter whether the King is alive or dead, you've still got work to do," said Holman, and then he carried little Arryk away.

"How can he expect us to keep working when we just heard a thing like that?" said Pepin as soon as Holman was out of earshot.

"But who would attack the King? And why?" said Gendry. He remembered he had seen the King once, riding off into the Kingswood with a spear in his hand and all his hunters and hounds behind him. He had been a fat man, yet in his broad shoulders and wild black hair and glinting blue eyes Gendry had seen something of the warrior he had once been. He remembered that the King had winked at him from his horse when he saw him staring from the street.

"I bet you it's that Lord Isildur. He's a sorcerer I hear, he doesn't ever age and that's unnatural I tell you," said Willem.

"That's not true, he ages just like anyone," said Gendry.

"How do you know? You don't know anything about them Gondorish," replied Willem.

"Common sense. They must have children just like anyone, so if they never aged then eventually there would be way more of them than of us, but there isn't, so they must age and die like anyone, even if it takes them a long time," said Gendry.

"You don't know nothing about the Gondorish, who knows what strange things they get up to?" said Willem. Gendry rolled his eyes.

"Well I tell you what I do know, if we don't get to work Holman will tan our hides, so we ought to get to it," he said.

The others agreed and they quickly went back to stoking the bellows, shoveling coal, or working on whatever project they had for the day. Yet even as Gendry worked until his arms ached, always in the back of his head he wondered about what had happened at that tourney and who would strike a blow against King Robert. Such a thing was treason of the highest degree.

"Concern yourself not with the affairs of high lords my lad, for they are proud and quick to anger. Honest work is better for you and me," Holman told him at the end of the day. But he couldn't help it, he had never heard of anyone even daring to think about attacking the King himself.

The next day, Gendry waited and listened for the coming of the criers even as he worked away in the forge yet none came. He had expected them to come to announce that the King lived or had died. The Red Keep sat broodingly, secretively, upon Aegon's Hill. The heavy rain gradually dwindled away into a persistent chilly drizzle, punctuated now and again by low rumbles of thunder from the iron-grey clouds. Despite the rain a deep silence had fallen over the city, as if every man, woman and child was waiting for word just as Gendry did. The morning steadily passed, and Gendry listened to the other apprentices whisper and wonder who could have struck down the King and why.

Rumours were swirling along the alleys and in the taverns of the city. Some said it was Gondorish treachery, others thought it was the Queen, others thought it was foreigners from across the narrow. Some said the King was dead, others that he was a cripple, and others still that was asleep and could not be awakened. As he listened to the talk, Gendry idly wondered why everyone seemed to know someone who knew these things for fact.

As the bells of Baelor's Sept rung out the first hour of the afternoon, they finally had word. The criers came forth from the Red Keep and on every street of the city they shouted the news:

"The King lives!" they yelled to the crowds "The King lives! The gods be praised, the King lives!"

But when the people asked who had committed the crime or what would be done or how bad the wound was, the criers would say no more than that the King was alive and recovering from his wound. Then they returned to the castle as if they expected the rumours to die in an afternoon.

The rumours did not die that day or the next, or the third. Gendry heard them. He heard them in the smithy while they worked. He heard them at the supper table. He heard them in the taverns and he heard them in the streets. Some thought that the Hand of the King was working sorceries on King Robert, others thought that the Queen was poisoning him, and some suspected the Queen's brother of some vile plot. The talk was inescapable.

Four days passed slowly after the criers announced that the King still lived. Gendry struck his hammer heavily upon the hot metal. It glowed with every blow, sparks flying. Pepin was on the bellows, thickly muscled arms beaded with sweat as he stoked the fires. The breastplate of one of the tourney knights was held in Gendry's tongs. The knight had taken one too many lances to the chest in the tourney and a long crack had opened up in the surface of the cuirass. Gendry was welding it shut and filling the crack with new steel before Holman would put the finishing touches upon it. Looking up from his work, Gendry glanced around the smithy. Holman wasn't at his forge as he usually was. He was over by the entrance, talking to someone. The man was cloaked, a hood pulled low over his face. They were both pointing towards Gendry and Pepin.

"Who do you suppose that is?" Gendry said to Pepin, voice loud to rise above the din of the smithy. The other apprentice shrugged.

"Man in need of an armourer I would think," Pepin replied.

"Shouldn't he be up talking to Master Mott?" said Gendry, but before Pepin could speak Holman was bellowing in their direction.

"Gendry! Get over here!" he yelled.

Gendry dutifully handed his hammer and tongs to the other apprentice and went over, wiping his hands on his apron. The cloaked man was tall, very tall, and his hood was pulled down so low that only a bit of his lower jaw could be seen. He didn't say a word to Gendry, he just stood there as if oblivious to the chilling rain.

"You're wanted up at Master Mott's house, off you go," said Holman, jerking his head towards the tall building that served as both the master's home and his shop's front.

"But why would-"

"Don't ask questions lad, when the master calls you just go," Holman snapped. He was not used to being questioned by apprentices.

"And don't forget to wipe your damn boots!" the journeyman yelled when Gendry was halfway across the courtyard.

Gendry wiped his boots on the lintels of the door before he stepped inside. A grey half-light filtered in to the broad hall from square windows. He looked around. The only sound he could hear was the steady noise of raindrops upon the roof.

"Up here lad, this way," said Master Mott. He looked up and saw his master standing at the top of the stairs. Master Mott was well dressed in one of his finer tunics, black with asilver hammer pins upon his right and left sleeves. This was puzzling, Gendry knew he usually only wore that to receive the richer patrons of the shop.

Tobho Mott led Gendry to a tall oaken door at the end of the hallway. Through a window he glimpsed the Street of Steel below, busy with people despite the rain. Somewhere in the distance, there was an echo of thunder.
Master Mott opened the door upon a room, a dining room but its small round table had been pushed into the corner. As Gendry entered he saw three men, cloaked just like the one in the courtyard, but their hoods were back and their heads were bare. He recognized the first immediately.

He was here with the Hand of the King too… Gendry thought as he met the glowering stare of Lord Stannis Baratheon. Stannis looked at the armourer's apprentice as if he were a callow boy that had done something to Lord Stannis' daughter.

Where Stannis was balding, the other man had long dark hair, with strands of grey beginning to show. He stood to the side of Stannis and his long solemn face betrayed nothing, no feeling, no thoughts. He simply stared at Gendry, coolly contemplating him.

It was the third man in the room, however, that transfixed Gendry. He sat in a high-backed wooden chair while the others stood to either side. Yet even sitting, Gendry could tell he was far taller than his companions. He might have been the tallest man Gendry had ever seen if he had been standing. There was something about him unlike the others; a lordliness of such power and presence that it could be felt simply by looking upon him. His hair was dark, but cut short and simple. It was the eyes though that caught Gendry and held him as if in a vice. Grey eyes set in a pale, stern face. Eyes that were bright but not youthful, ancient but not aged. Those eyes were as sharp as a blade and as deep as the sea. That gaze struck the apprentice and he felt it like a hammer blow to his chest.

"Here he is my lords, the boy you asked for," said Master Mott.

"Tell me you name," said the man with the grey eyes. His voice was deep, strong.

"Gendry Waters, milord," Gendry answered, staring at the floorboards intently. Already he was feeling uncomfortable.

"He may be a bastard but that's no concern of mine. He's a good lad, and he works hard," said Tobho Mott.

There was a moment of silence. The three men exchanged glances.

"Leave us," said Lord Stannis. Master Mott looked taken aback.

"Yes my lords," the master armourer said after a pause. He bowed his head and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Left alone with the three lords, Gendry felt abandoned somehow. He felt as if he was alone in a den of dragons.

"Have you guessed to whom you speak?" the man with the grey eyes asked. Gendry shook his head.

"You have declared your name, I shall tell you mine. I am Isildur Elendilion," he said. Gendry's breath caught in his throat, his heart raced. Isildur son of Elendil, the Hand of the King, was sitting in Master Mott's dining room. Quickly Gendry remembered his courtesies.

"Milord Hand," he said, stammering only a little, and bowing low.

"Lord Baratheon you have already met I am told," Isildur said. At this Stannis grunted an affirmative.

"And this is Lord Stark," he continued. Lord Stark nodded at Gendry as the apprentice glanced at him.

"I am at your service, milords," Gendry said, still staring intently at the floor boards.

"Show me your face," Isildur commanded. Unwillingly Gendry looked up and met those sharp grey eyes once more. They seemed to be searching for something.

"Lord Arryn was here before, was he not?" asked Isildur.

"Yes milord, he was, with Lord Baratheon," said Gendry.

"And what did Lord Arryn have to say when he came here?" inquired Lord Stark.

"Just questions is all milord. Asked me how I liked it here, if I was treated well, if I remember anything 'bout my mother," Gendry replied. He remembered the old Hand of the King. He had seemed a kindly man, though what he was doing asking questions to an armourer's apprentice Gendry could never tell.

"What do you remember about your mother? Do you recall who she was? What she looked like?" said Isildur. The question seemed to be of great importance to him and he stared searchingly into Gendry.

"Not much... She died when I was little. She was a tavern maid. Used to sing to me. I remember she had yellow hair," he said. The lords exchanged glances again. Stannis gave a small nod to the others, barely noticeable but Gendry saw it.

"And do you know who your father was?" asked Isildur, his voice not unkind.

"Some man I guess, like most of 'em," A hint of a smile passed over Lord Stark's face and Isildur chuckled at the remark.

"Well spoken. You may go Gendry, we would speak more to your master. Wait outside the door," the Hand of the King said.

Gendry bowed again and backed out of the room, glad to be away from the questions and the stares of the lords. Master Mott was waiting outside the door. He gave Gendry a questioning look, but before the apprentice could speak, Lord Isildur was calling Tobho Mott. The master armourer grimaced as he closed the door behind him.
He waited. It seemed like an eternity he waited in that hallway. On the other side of the heavy wooden door, the voices of his master and the lords were muffled. He tried to make out the words but couldn't. For a moment it seemed like they were speaking in raised voices, but that did not last and soon they spoke quietly again. There was another rumble of thunder.

The door opened. Master Mott stood with a look on his face as if he meant to apologize.

"Come in Gendry," said Lord Stark. Once again he stood before the three high lords and once again there was that feeling like he was alone, trapped, surrounded by a pack of wild dogs waiting to tear him to pieces.

"Do you enjoy your trade Gendry? Are you happy in this place?" asked Lord Isildur. He was sitting forward, staring intently at the apprentice.

"Yes milord, it's good work, I am very lucky to work for Master Mott," replied Gendry.

"He's one of my best apprentices, he's a good lad my lord," Tobho Mott said. His tone was strange. He seemed to almost be begging for something.

Lord Isildur sat in silence. His eyes flicked from Master Mott to Gendry and back.

"That is regrettable, but the hour grows late and we must do something," he said, more to the other lords than to Gendry and his master.

"Gendry, you do not work for Master Mott anymore. You shall be a man of the King's Host," Lord Isildur told them.

"W-what?" said Gendry, shocked. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened.

"My lord I must protest, he's my apprentice, I've had the lad since he was a child," Master Mott said, beginning to raise his voice. Lord Isildur gave him a hard look and Tobho Mott's objections died in his throat.

"The King's Host has need of armourer's apprentices as well Master Mott, as I'm sure you well know," said Lord Stark.

"But milord, why? Why me? What do you want?" said Gendry, forgetting his courtesy in the rush of confusion and emotion.

"Watch your tongue boy, this is the King's Hand you are speaking to," snapped Lord Stannis sharply.

"One day Gendry, when you are a man, much shall be explained to you. For now, gather your things and say farewell to your friends. After some time, Lord Stark's men will come to collect you. You are to tell no one that we were here or why you are leaving. In the Host, you are to do as you are told. Do you understand?" instructed Isildur.

"But-" Gendry said.

"Do you understand?" Isildur repeated, more sternly this time.

"Yes milord," said Gendry.

"That is good," the Hand of the King said. He stood up. He was one of the tallest men Gendry had ever seen, but he was not spindly or gangly. He was well-proportioned, his shoulders were broad and every move he made suggested great strength and a natural grace.

Isildur pulled his hood up over his head, and the other two lords did the same.

"Master Mott, you have my thanks for the good care you have taken of this boy. Apart from his uncourteous speech, he has grown tall and strong. You shall be well compensated in coin for this. I shall pray that Aule the Craftsman blesses you and your forge. May you ever find happiness in your labour, and I hope we shall meet again in better times," the Dunedain Lord said, smiling. Tobho Mott just nodded speechlessly.

Gesturing to his companions, Lord Isildur strode out of the room. Gendry heard their footsteps going down the stairs. The silence after they left was immense.

"Gendry," said Tobho Mott. The look on his face was stricken. He raised a hand and squeezed Gendry's shoulder.

"You've always been a good lad Gendry, a master couldn't ask for a better apprentice," he said weakly.

"Why are they doing this? What do they want with me?" Gendry asked.

"I don't know. When the high lords play their game of thrones, it's always folk like you or I that suffer in the end," Master Mott replied. He sighed as if very tired.

"Tell the others that I am sending you to the King's Host to work as an armourer, you'll make a good wage there," he said. Gendry didn't know what to say. He didn't want to leave. Master Mott's armoury had been all that he had known since he was small.

"Arryk won't understand," Gendry said.

"It will be hard on him. It will be hard on you. It will be hard on all of us. Such is life in this city," said Tobho Mott, and he muttered curses against lords and nobles.

Of all of them, Pepin and Willem understood the best, or thought they did.

"We're your friends Gendry, you can at least tell us what has happened," Pepin said to him, the evening of the next day.

They were in the dormitory. Gendry was sitting on his bed, putting his clothes and what money he had into his pack. Master Mott had gone out to a leatherworker and purchased the haversack for Gendry. He would not send his apprentice away with only his clothes on his back and what little he could carry.

"Master Mott said that I would make a good living as an armourer for the King's Host, and that he was sendin' me away to them, that's all," said Gendry. He badly wished to tell the others about the lords and what they had said, but he remembered the sternness of Isildur's words and that unbearable glance of his eyes, and always he held back.

"That's ballocks Gendry, who were those men in hoods?" asked Willem suspiciously.

"Smiths from the Host, looking for apprentices to help 'em with their work. They got a whole army's worth of weapons and armour to take care of now don't they?" Gendry said. Neither of them seem satisfied by the explanation.

"We ought to go with you, a man should have friends beside him if he's going away to war," said Pepin

"Master Mott doesn't want one of his apprentices to leave let alone three," said Gendry. He put on an irritated voice but he was glad for the concern.

"And there he ain't no war. We'll just be marching around scaring uppity lords into obeying the King, that's all," he added.

"Someone knifed the King, Gendry, who knows what's going on out in the Kingdoms?" said Willem.

In the end it was another four days before Lord Stark's men arrived. They came in the early hours of the morning, driving a cart down the Street of Steel. Two heavy-set carthorses pawed the cobbled road impatiently. The rain had stopped at last, but the sky was still a sullen grey which matched Gendry's mood. The cart was heaped with sacks and bags and a few wooden trunks. Two men sat at the reins. They were unshaved but their hair was cut short. Both were wearing tunics that had been dyed red, and cheaply dyed from the looks of it. A royal crowned stag was worked in black thread upon the breast of each tunic. Gendry noticed a short sword sheathed at the side of each man.

"You Gendry? The bastard armourer's 'prentice?" said one of the men, the older of the two by the grey in his beard.

"I am," said Gendry. He glanced behind him. Tobho Mott and little Arryk were standing by the door, beneath the carved knight statues that marked Master Mott's armoury. The young boy smiled sadly at Gendry.

"Right then, throw your bag up in the cart and fall in," the man said, pointing a thumb behind him. Gendry looked behind the cart. A loose column of men and boys, some so young they had no hair on their cheeks and others so old their hair was all grey, stood behind the cart. They looked back at Gendry with many eyes.

Keenly aware of the staring, Gendry threw his pack in the back of the cart. His bull's head helmet rattled inside the sack. Then he took a place near the rear of the gaggle. One of the men on the cart shook the reins, the other cracked a whip, and with a low groan and a clatter of wheels, the cart started away. Gendry and the others followed it on foot. He took one last look behind him and saw Arryk waving before they turned the corner and he lost sight of the shop.

The Street of Steel ran up Visenya's Hill, and at the top Gendry could see the Great Sept of Baelor looming above them with its seven towers. One of the bells was ringing out the morning. The loud tolling echoed across the city. As the cart clattered along the street, more men and boys came out to join them. They threw sacks and bags full of whatever they owned into the back of the cart and fell in with Gendry and the others.

At the top of Visenya's Hill, there was a broad paved square from which one could look out over the city. Miles of shingled and thatched roofs reached out in every direction, and in the distance Gendry could see the streets below, twisting and turning, cutting back and forth. The tang of sea air was drifting up from the bay.

From the center of that square, the Great Sept leapt up like a mountain rising from a grassy plain. Even from outside, the Great Sept made one feel like sinking to their knees to praise the gods. Gendry looked up over yards of masonry and stained glass, pillars and vaults and walls of immense thickness. Seven tall spires surrounded the sept, and elegant arches sprung from each spire to the central building. Seven doors were set in a circuit around the building. Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Stranger and Crone, each guarded their own door. All of this was surmounted by a huge dome, gleaming with gold, as rich and decorated as the High Septon's crystal crown. In front of the Great Sept, Baelor raised a stone hand in blessing. His marble eyes stared knowingly and benevolently at Gendry as they passed.

Down, down the hill they marched, along the Street of the Sisters, and across the city square, and then further along the same street. It ran straight between the Great Sept and the old Dragonpit. The pile of luggage in the back of the cart grew larger and larger, and the column of recruits behind it grew longer and longer.

"Oi, what's your name?" said one of the younger men who joined them. Gendry looked him over. He had sandy hair and a pock-marked face but his smile was friendly enough.

"Gendry, yours?" said Gendry, extending his hand.

"Edwin, Edwin Thatcher," the sandy-haired youth replied, taking Gendry's hand.

"What brings a thatcher to the Host?" asked Gendry.

"Me pa had seven boys already, ain't no place for me at home and I ain't about to take the black either. Honest pay and honest feed in the King's Host there is. How about you?" said Edwin.

"My master sent me to them, said I would be well paid for my skills. I'm an armourer's apprentice," said Gendry.

"Armourer's apprentice? Now that's a right proper trade, that is. Wish I had been born an armourer's boy instead of a thatcher. Hit away on the iron all day and charge them lords an arm and a leg for it," Edwin said.

"Say, does an armourer's apprentice need an assistant? I'd like that much better than being a pike-pusher," the thatcher asked.

"Armourer's apprentice's assistant? I don't think they'll go for that," Gendry laughed, and Edwin joined in.

"Nah, but was worth a try. I'm a deadshot with a stone though, I can hit a squirrel's eye from thirty paces I tell you, maybe that'll count for something," Edwin said.

The cart clattered up the slopes of Rhaenys' Hill. To their right ran the stinking slums and narrow alleys of Flea Bottom, filling the air with the stench of piss and shit and unwashed clothes. The din of the crowded streets was overwhelming. There was the sound of men arguing, children laughing, babies crying and women trying to calm them. Somewhere a man was shouting "Hot rats! Fresh hot rats!" above it all. Gendry blushed profusely as old whores, with flabby stomachs and straw-like hair, looked at him with hungry eyes.

They turned northwest then and put Flea Bottom to their backs, and headed over the shoulders of Rhaenys' Hill. As they drew nearer to the walls and to the opposite side of the hill, the poorer parts of the city fell away. Stately manses with high iron fences and fragrant gardens took their place. Gendry did not fail to notice that nobody joined their motley company in these parts of town. Soon they were at the walls, which stood tall and strong, massive and impregnable at the edge of the city. A gatehouse was set in that wall, and the Old Gate yawned out of it. Its formidable portcullis was raised and the heavy ironshod doors were flung wide open. Goldcloaks stood clustered around the gate, leaning upon their spears, watching those coming and going with bored eyes.

Hooves suddenly clashed loudly on the cobblestones.

"Make way!" yelled someone behind them.

The cart was pulled over to the side of a house and the recruits scrambled clear. A column of mounted men, armed and armoured all in steel, thundered up the road. They were riding hard. Their cloaks were all of crimson and a lion pennant floated above their heads. Gendry only got a glimpse at them before they were gone. He saw that the man leading the riders was armoured all in gold and gold was his hair and his face was grim. He rode like a man on an urgent errand.

The recruits stared after the horsemen curiously for a moment, until they disappeared in dust in the distance. The soldiers on the carts yelled at them to continue on.

It took them nearly half a day walking northwest from the city before they reached the camp. They walked over hills and across valleys, beside fields of grain and barley, down long dirt lanes lined with trees. The afternoon was dwindling away. Gendry's legs were sore and the soles of his feet were protesting. He supposed he would get used to marches.

Then, as they emerged from the trees into wide open fields of grass, they saw it. It was an unsightly as an open wound. A ditch had been dug in the earth, and on the inner slope of it rose a mound of earth, and atop of that a rough-hewn wooden palisade. Above the gates of that wall, a golden banner fluttered, bearing the royal stag sigil.
"Home sweet home my lovelies," said the grey-haired soldier, smiling with the few teeth he had.

The stench, even from a bowshot away, was overwhelming. It was every bit as bad as Flea Bottom but far more powerful. As they drew near, they heard the trumpeting of horns, men shouting commands, the din of smiths working, the bleating of sheep, all the sounds of an army encamped.

A narrow drawbridge crossed the ditch. At the end, near the gates, stood a guard. He wore a broad-brimmed helmet and carried a fierce looking halberd.

"Who goes there?" said the guard.

"It's me and Tom, up from the city. We're bringing threescore of fresh lads for the Marshal," said the grey-haired soldier.

"Aye I see that, in you go fellows, smartly now, the Marshal is out and about," the guard said, waving them through.

"Who's the Marshal?" asked Edwin as they walked through the gates. Gendry looked upwards. More guards were on the parapets of the wall. They wore the same kettle helmets, and carried heavy crossbows and halberds of their own.

"Don't know. Lord Stark I think," said Gendry.

"Who's Lord Stark?" asked Edwin.

"Don't know. Some high lord of somewhere I suppose," said Gendry.

A single dirt road ran up the camp from the gates, dividing it in two. On either side of the main road were long rows of tents and pavilions, many rougher shelters and lean-tos, and dozens of newly built wooden huts and halls. The noise was constant, the smell was constant. Everywhere there were soldiers, thousands and thousands of them. They wore tunics and gambesons, some undyed and others in the same cheap red as the soldiers on the cart. Many had the same sort of helmet as the guards on the walls, others iron skullcaps or half-helms with nasal bars. In broad squares they marched and drilled, yelling out responses to the screamed commands. Their pikes, as tall as trees, swayed like grass in the wind as they wheeled and reformed. They passed target ranges filled with the rattle of crossbows as men shot at the marks. There were stockades filled with cows and sheep and coops of chickens. Workshops were set up under open pavilions, and craftsmen hammered away on leather and steel. Gendry saw wives and even children, to his great surprise. The camp of the King's Host was like a ramshackle city unto itself.

At the centre of the vast camp, they came to a single broad square. The dirt was hard-packed, as if it had been walked upon by many feet. At one end there were pavilions, larger and of richer cloth than the others. In front of them stood three standards. One was of jet-black, and upon it a white tree and a field of seven stars and a silver crescent moon rising above it. On the other side, a grey direwolf ran upon a field of white. In the center, taller than either, the golden banner and black stag of the King.

The cart came to a halt before a raised wooden dais. The grey-haired soldier stood up and turned around.
"Right you lot, we're going to take the cart over the side of the square. Hengist, your master-at-arms, will take care of you now. Listen to him and then you can come get your things. Hengist, they're all yours," he said and nodded to a soldier standing by the side of the square. He was short and squat, with shoulders and a neck like an aurochs, and face like a toad, and a bald head that seemed as red as if he was out in the sun all day. He carried a short staff in his hand.

The moment the man on the cart finished talking, the air exploded with shouting.

"FORM UP YOU SHITEATING MAGGOTS! FORM UP! YOU WILL FORM A STRAIGHT FUCKING LINE BEFORE THE CAPTAIN ADDRESSES YOU!" screamed Hengist, his face turning a red to match his scalp. Before the others knew what was happening, the burly soldier was amongst them with his stick.

He never stopped screaming oaths. Nor did he stop swinging his stick. He dealt out bruises and welts with it, men and boys yelped with pain and Hengist only screamed louder and laid into them harder. Gendry shuffled back amongst the others, trying to line himself up shoulder to shoulder with them.

Edwin, however, was not so lucky. Before long he was the only one standing out of line.

The master-at-arms bore down upon him like an angry bull.

"Who in the Seven Hells do you think you are you little cunt?" Hengist bellowed.

"Er-" Edwin stammered, unsure of how to answer.

"What is your fucking name, boy?" the soldier demanded.

"Uh, Edwin Thatcher, ser," said Edwin nervously. Gendry tightened his fists.

"Do you think, Edwin fucking Thatcher, that a gods-forsaken thatcher's boy can stand out of line in front of the fucking Captain?" growled Hengist. When Edwin had no answer, Hengist drove a fist sharply into his gut. The blow looked like it could have felled an ox. The young lad dropped to his knees, crying out in pain. The master-at-arms raised his stick high.

"Leave him alone!" yelled Gendry. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself stepping out of the line.

Hengist whirled on him and stormed over. He was shorter than Gendry but far broader and his every limb was corded with thick muscle. He thrust his face to within inches of Gendry's. His small eyes were burning with anger.

"And who in the hells are you?" he asked

"Gendry Waters," Gendry said.

"Well bastard, let this remind you to hold your fucking tongue around your betters," he replied.

With the suddenness of the wind, Hengist whirled his stick around his head and slammed it onto Gendry's shoulder. Pain shot down his arm and through his neck and back. It felt like tongues of flame beneath his skin. He cried out as he flinched away from the master-at-arms. There was a sharp crack of wood. When Gendry looked back up, he saw the man holding only half of his stick. The other half lay in the dirt. He had broken it in the fury of his blow.

"Give me another!" Hengist yelled, throwing away the broken half. A younger soldier, a servant or squire, ran up from the edge of the square, and brought another staff.

With more screaming and oaths and the occasional sharp blow, the men were formed into a rough block, five rows deep. Gendry found himself in the second row, looking up at the wooden dais as a tall man climbed its steps and turned to them. He furrowed his brows. It was Lord Isildur standing there. As he looked closer though, he realized this man was not the Hand of the King. He was slightly shorter, a bit more youthful in the face, but otherwise the resemblance was uncanny. Same short dark hair, same pale, stern face.

"I am Aratan Isildurion," the man said in a loud voice.

"I am a Captain of the Host. I have been charged by the Lord Marshal with your training. You have come to me as farmers, stableboys, bricklayers, bakers, fishermen, and potters. Wherever you have come from, whatever trade you learned, here you shall become soldiers,"

He looked at them like he was studying each and every man there. His gaze seemed to linger on Gendry as if he had seen him before.

"King Robert rules over Eight Kingdoms. He rules over eight great houses and hundreds of lesser ones. He rules over the lives of countless men from Dorne to the Wall, and what keeps brother from turning against brother? What keeps neighbour from fighting neighbour? What keeps the strong from preying on the weak? The King's Peace,"

In some distant drill square, a master-at-arms was screaming at men to stay in step.

"To defend that peace, to defend the King and his realm, that is our purpose. Whether you hail from the North or the South, East or the West, the cities or the villages, all of us share in that purpose."

A command had been bellowed. A hundred men filled the air with roaring as they leveled their pikes. In his mind's eye, Gendry could see the bristling hedgehog of steel points.

"Here you will put aside your past lives. Whether you were honest men or cowards and cravens, I care not. Here you are soldiers of the King,"

Aratan paused. He folded his hands behind his back and smiled slightly.

"From this day forward, you are servants of the Iron Throne. You are protectors of the Crown. You are the guardians of the King's Peace. You are men of the King's Host!"

His voice was powerful but fair to hear. As he listened, to his own surprise, Gendry found himself stirred by the words. The eyes of the others glittered as they looked on the Captain. He looked so tall, so strong, so assured. He spoke of duty and honour and service to the Throne and seemed to make it live for recruits who had come only for bread and coin. Their spirits raised at the sound of his voice and the shining of his eyes. Here was a captain that men would follow, even into the darkness of battle and war. And strangely, Gendry found himself feeling that he could follow this captain too.

Then Captain Aratan nodded to the master-at-arms, and as he descended the dais the spell was broken. Hengist strutted in front of them like a rooster in a farmyard.

"That's the Captain," he growled out "He's one of the damnedest best men in this whole fucking army and if any of you give him less than his due honour, I swear to all old and new gods I will kill you,"

Hengist barked a sharp command. They turned to the left. At another word, they marched off. The master-at-arms circled them like a sheepdog around a herd, biting at the legs of his charges. He swore and cursed them and screamed for them to walk in time with each other, and he struck those who did not stay in step. More than once, Gendry felt the sting of that stick. They filed past the cart and grabbed what little belongings they had brought.

They were marched down one of the side roads of the camp. More pavilions rose to their right and left, their walls rolled up so they were open on all sides. There were clerks there with inky fingers and long scrolls. Every name of each new man had to be taken down, and each man had to sign his name or make his mark. And slowly and carefully, the clerks explained to the men how much they would be paid for every month and what food would be allotted to them and the circumstances for drawing pay and so on and so on. It made Gendry's head hurt. He had never been fond of figures and sums.

They were marched on to the crude sheds that served as armouries for the camp. Gambesons they took there, and tunics with the black stag on their chests. Some were dyed the same cheap red as they had seen, others were undyed brown or grey or tan. They were given helmets too, and stout hobnailed leather boots that laced up to their shins. They were girt with short swords and daggers. Gendry looked over the sword in his hand. The blade was not much longer than a man's forearm, it was almost a longer dirk more than it was a short sword. It was heavy, doubled-edge, with a crude metal bar twisted into a figure eight to guard his hand. Old Holman used to call such short swords "cat-skinners". Gendry judged it that it was unsophisticated, rough work, made by a smith more interested in quantity rather than quality. Yet its edges were sharp and the steel was sound and there was something pleasing about the weight of the weapon.

The evening meal was served in a long, roughly built wooden hall that smelled heavily of cooking fires. There was a stew, not a fine meal but Gendry thought it certainly beat bowls of brown. With it the cooks served black bread and beer.

"You lads new?" a burly man asked Gendry as he and the other recruits sat down at the tables to eat. He had a piggish face and fists that looked like they could crush rocks.

"Aye, just up from King's Landing today," said Gendry. The man laughed.

"Oh Hengist is gonna have his fun with you, mark my words," he said with a yellowed grin.

Edwin sat down across from Gendry at the table. Their bowls of stew were steaming hot, and they both took long drinks from their mugs of beer.

"Thank you… For that business with the master," the thatcher's boy said awkwardly as he put his mug down.

"Don't mention it," said Gendry.

"You might have saved me, he was going to beat me dead I swear," replied Edwin.

"I said don't mention it," Gendry insisted with a smile.

"Your arm hurt?"

"Eh, it's not so bad. I've had worse," Gendry rubbed the place where Hengist had struck him. It was bruising already.

A tall, thin, gangly young man around Gendry's age walked up next to them. He had the smirk of someone who thought themselves clever.

"Mind if I join you kindly folk?" the youth asked, and then did before either of them could answer. His long brown hair brushed over black eyes.

"You certainly are a big fellow aren't you? We may as well have hitched you up to the cart on the way, the other horses wouldn't even have noticed," he said to Gendry.

"You always start telling jokes before you even know someone? You know if I was someone else I might want to knock your head in for saying something like that," Gendry replied.

"Ain't I lucky that you're you then? Of course I'm always lucky. Lucky Lann they call me,"

"Do they now?" said Gendry. He was already tiring of 'Lucky Lann'.

"That they do. Lucky at dice, lucky with coin, lucky with women," he flashed a grin.

"If you're so lucky what are you doing here then?" asked Edwin.

"I was lucky enough to bed a farmer's daughter back in my village, beautiful as a dream she was with great big tits and skin like cream. And then I was lucky enough to have a place to run to when her father ran me out of town for being lucky enough to put a baby in her belly," Lan said, still grinning. He laughed as if impregnating the girl with a bastard was just a joke. Gendry frowned at him.

"How about you fine sers? What brings you to this fellowship?"

"My name is Gendry, I'm an armourer's apprentice,"

"A fine honest trade, but you fine honest tradesmen are always so dull," said Lann.

"And I'm Edwin, Edwin Thatcher. Got no place at home so I'm here,"

"A man after my own heart," Lan flashed his grin again. "And how find you the soldier's life? Better or worse than you expected?"

"Perhaps both," said Gendry.

And so, amongst bricklayers and farmers and liars and thieves, Gendry began his time in the King's Host.

 

[EricD]

Chapter XI
King's Landing

Isildur awoke with Ohtar gently shaking his shoulder. The chamber was dark and the candles had burned low. It smelled like herbs and boiled wine, blood, and corrupted flesh. The moon was already sending silver light through windows that opened onto an inky black sky. Isildur rubbed his eyes and looked up at his squire's scarred face.

"It is late my lord, you should retire. Robert sleeps still," Ohtar said.

"I dreamed of Lyanna, Ohtar," said Isildur. He had fallen asleep in a chair by King Robert's bedside.

The wounded king lay in heavy slumber. He had wavered between waking and sleeping, between living and dying. For how long? Isildur could not tell anymore. The hours and days since Robert fell had blended together. Days, weeks, Robert could have been on the edge of death for an eternity for all Isildur knew.

Not dying though, not yet, he reminded himself, a reassurance as he looked on the King's pallid face and shrunken cheeks.

Years of decadence and gluttony seemed drained out of Robert, but they had not left him unmarked. His skin lay in loose jowls upon his chin and his neck. It looked like a man who had suddenly taken a fast that he would not break. His eyes had sunken deep into his face. He looked strange, still fat yet oddly gaunt despite it. What life and vitality he had had before the wound was gone. Even when he awoke, he spoke in a thin, weak voice and could eat only broth. Still the King held on though, stubbornly and fiercely he clung to his life, and it seemed to Isildur that his breathing was growing stronger and he was waking up more often now than before. Yet still he seemed very fragile.

"Lyanna? Lyanna Stark?" said Ohtar, drawing his master away from Robert's bed.

"Yes, she stood there over Robert, and she begged me, begged me to save his life Ohtar," Isildur rubbed his eyes. It had been a long time since he had felt such weariness. His limbs felt leaden. His face bristled with black stubble.

Ohtar opened the door. On the other side stood Cersei Lannister, wearing only an evening gown. Golden curls lay upon bare shoulders. Her green eyes widened in shock when she saw them. She looked like she did not expect them to be here at this hour, and she looked like she had been weeping not long ago. She was alone.

"Isildur," she said, her voice surprised and unsure.

"Your Grace," he replied, equally unsure. He had not seen her in days, and she had never come to visit Robert before.

"I… I came to see my lord husband, to see if he is well," Cersei's voice grew steadier as she spoke.

Isildur said nothing, he just stared at her, contemplating her. There was a storm of conflicting emotions written across her face. He stepped aside and let her into the bed chamber.

Cersei Lannister stood stiffly there, looking at her husband, her King, the wounded man before her. Her breath caught in her throat. She said nothing. Isildur closed the door behind her, leaving the King and Queen to the silence and the night.

"Was that wise my lord? To leave her alone with him?" whispered Ohtar after they had passed Ser Meryn and Ser Arys, who stood guard in the hall. They descended the long stone stairs of Maegor's Holdfast. Torches sputtered on the walls, lighting their way and casting flickering shadows on the walls like phantoms of the past.

"Whatever else she may be, she is his lady wife," Isildur replied.

"But my lord-"

"She slept beside him for many nights before this and did not slit his throat. She will not now," said Isildur.

They headed towards the Tower of the Hand. The air was cool in the courtyard and still smelled of the rain. The moon was not yet full but it shone bright in the sky. Isildur cast his eyes northward and spied Earendil's Star gleaming brightly. Somehow that gave him comfort.
"You will have to hold court soon, Robert cannot," said Ohtar. They climbed the broad stairs to the door of the Hand's Tower. Isildur sighed.

"Yes, I will. The grievances of the great and the small will not wait for Robert to mend," he replied. He had no wish to sit on that cursed iron chair.

The heavy doors opened with a push and a strong creaking of hinges and they passed inside.

"The Andals will not like seeing one of our folk upon their Throne," remarked Ohtar, shaking his head.

"No, they shall not. Many already look on me with resentment in their hearts. Best to do it quickly, so they will not think that I relish or desire that seat," Isildur said in a tired voice.

Ohtar kept his tongue for a long while. They climbed the spiraling stairs towards the Hand's bedchamber in silence. When they reached the top, Earendil's Star was shining brightly through the north window. Ohtar finally spoke then:

"It should have been your throne,"

The words hung in the air for a moment. Isildur stopped. Ohtar was behind him. He slowly turned around to face his squire.

"What did you say?"

"The throne should have been yours to begin with, my lord," Ohtar said. There was no jest in his words.

"Ohtar…"

"Are you not heir of a royal line? Yours is the blood of Elros and Earendil!"

"The line of Elros has no claim to the throne of Westeros. We lost our right to kinghood when Numenor was cast down. We swore our allegiance to Aegon long ago," Isildur reminded him, his voice hard.

"We swore allegiance to save our people from dragonfire. The dragons now are withered and dead and their bones are crumbling. And the dragon-lords are banished across the sea, you overthrew them," said Ohtar.

"Robert overthrew them," Isildur said. He couldn't believe what Ohtar was saying.

"Yours is the higher lineage my lord, you and your father both, yours is the greater right. You and your kin are the greatest men living in the Eight Kingdoms, why should you bend the knee to any king of these men of the twilight? You who were born of Numenor! Robert lays near to death, his heirs are illegitimate. Stannis would be just but a hated and unloved king with no sympathy in his heart, and Renly would be beloved but he is weak-willed and weak-minded. You have it in you to be king, a true king, strong, just and wise. Reach out your hand and take the crown, my lord, I beg you. It is your right," Ohtar urged him, stepping forward. His voice was low, intense, impassioned by what he was saying.

"Eru Himself cast our people down for our wickedness and pride Ohtar, I remember, I was there, and so were you. And tell me my friend, why did we find ourselves in this place when we fled that doom?" asked Isildur. Ohtar fell silent.

"It is a punishment," the son of Elendil said. "Or I have always felt it to be so. I long ago guessed that we were banished here, where we can do no more harm to the lands we knew and the people we tormented,"

"Or perhaps we were sent here as a blessing to the men of the twilight, perhaps we were meant to land here," said Ohtar.

"I will notbe a usurper Ohtar! I will not be another Pharazon!" Isildur growled. There was a hard, sharp edge to his words. Ohtar stood and blinked, taken aback, realizing what he had said. His eyes and scarred face turned deeply sad.

"Forgive me my lord, I spoke hastily and stepped beyond my place," the squire said, dropping his eyes. He looked back up at his master, and then clasped his hand to his chest and bowed his head in salute.

"My lord, I have been with your family since your father and I were young. I swear, where you lead I will follow, forgive me for words spoken in foolishness,"

Isildur's frown softened. Faithful Ohtar, only wanting what he thought was his lord's due honour, only trying to do what he thought was best. Ohtar had been a young man with their father, Isildur remembered Ohtar playing with him and Anarion when they were just boys, carrying them around on strong shoulders and teaching them how to sail in the bay. He had squired for Elendil for so many years, only to become Isildur's squire in turn, ever loyal to the Lords of Andunie. He saw then; Ohtar did not speak out of ambition or lust for power, but out of love for his lord. Isildur reached out and clasped his squire's shoulder.

"Ohtar, dearest friend, you are forgiven. We must not speak of such things though, I am the King's Servant, an Arandur, not the King's Heir, nor the King himself," he said. Ohtar smiled weakly.

"I meant what I said though my lord, you would be a great and splendid king, a king such as this land has never known," the squire said.

"Think it if you must, but we cannot speak of such things. Not while Robert and his brothers live. Not unless every house in Westeros begged me to be king and every other heir was dead or mad or evil and cruel would I consider taking that crown for my own," Isildur replied.

"As you will, my lord,"

"Good, let us consider that settled and speak no more of it. I will retire now. In the morning announce that I will hold court in five days' time, if Robert has not mended by then,"

"Aye my lord, will there be anything else?" asked Ohtar.

"Yes, inform Lord Baelish that he is summoned to be my chambers tomorrow, I would speak to him about his bookkeeping,"

Ohtar left him in his bedchamber. Moonlight poured through open windows, and Isildur felt a cool breeze as he undressed. It felt good after the heat and stuffiness of Robert's chambers. Papers and scrolls were strewn across the table. He glanced over them briefly. The long lists of sums and figures that Baelish had recorded did not add up with what Isildur knew about the state of the treasury. He sighed, laying down on his bed and staring up at the bare ceiling sleeplessly. Baelish was corrupt or incompetent or both, but that was the least of Isildur's worries at the moment.

They were not able to identify the knight who had attacked the King. They knew him only by his arms: A snarling red leopard on a green field. Robert's last blow had crushed the Leopard's head, helm and skull and face alike, to a bloody pulp beyond even the Silent Sister's skill at embalming. He had been a younger man, lean and muscled with the scars of a freerider, yet the heraldry of a knight. After much questioning of the tourney knights, it was Cirion who had finally found his name: Ser Albar Vortimer. Once a knightly house of ancient honour in the Reach, the Vortimers had sided with the Targaryens in the rebellion and were nearly wiped out but for the infant Albar. Though the last heir of his house, he was impoverished and lived as nearly a hedge-knight. Had he struck down the King as revenge for his family? Isildur could not say, and the mangled ruin of Ser Albar's skull had no answers.

Stannis had returned too on that awful day. He had been glad of the dour Lord of Dragonstone's return at first, hoping to finally get answers for Stannis' absence, but those answers were what most troubled him. Stannis had told him what seemed at first to be a mummer's farce, but Stannis Baratheon was not a man to lie or even to jest. The King's sons and daughter, not the King's children at all but misbegotten products of incest. They were the children of the Queen and her brother the Kingslayer, or so Stannis had said. Isildur and Ned had thought it impossible at first, but then Stannis had started showing them the King's bastards. All of them mothered by women of yellow or red hair, all of them black-haired and blue-eyed as their father, even the daughters.

It was the last one, the armourer's apprentice, which had convinced Isildur that Stannis was speaking the truth. He had sent that boy to the King's Host, near at hand for the trial to come but where he hoped the Queen would not be able to find him. Others he sent to Rosby, some to farms outside of the city. Few enough went when commanded, but some did. He hoped that they would be safe. It was the armourer's boy though that was the real key, he was the oldest and his resemblance to a young Robert was uncanny. When Robert had mended, he would call them back to the city and show them to the King. He would reveal the truth then.

But what will Robert do when we tell him that his wife has cuckolded him with her own brother? What will Lord Tywin do when we reveal his daughter's incest? Isildur thought. He was troubled and sleep did not come easily.

He dreamt a dream that had plagued him for many years. He was in Ithilien, but it was not as he knew it. The trees were dead and full of shadows. The river Sirhun was before him, and though in life it flowed quickly here there was no current. It was as calm and silent as a mirror of silver glass. He waded out into the river till he stood with the still waters around his waist.

Then he saw it. A white boat, fair to look upon, glowing with a pale light like the light of the moon. It bore neither oars nor sail yet it moved slowly and surely down the River. The sight of it brought a deep sadness in his heart. On a bier on the boat lay a tall man. His face was an image of the face of Elendil, but older, more lined with cares. His hair and his beard were long and white as snow, and they had been combed out and arrayed on his chest and shoulders. A sword was clasped in cold hands on his breast. He wore clothes of fine linen. It was Amandil, Isildur's grandfather.

"Grandfather! Grandfather!" Isildur said in a voice that sounded like it was far away "Where do you go Grandfather? Where did the seas bear you?"

Amandil's funeral-boat glided away, leaving not even a ripple in the water. More followed. All were dressed in the same white linen, all laid out on the same fair white boats. Their faces were peaceful and beautiful but cold and dead. There came Miriel, Isildur's cousin, whom Ar-Pharazon had forced into marriage, and his sorrow deepened beyond words when he saw her. Tears stung his eyes. Many more came. Friends, kinsmen, family, all lost to him over the course of a long life. He saw Lyanna Stark on a bed of roses. He saw his mother and he wept aloud. It was the last one though that rent his heart in two.

She lay on the last and fairest boat of all, and her bier was the highest, and her face the most peaceful. Long black hair spread out around her. Eyes he knew to be the most beautiful blue he had ever seen were forever closed. Firiel, his wife, taken from him by the Greyjoys.

"My love!" he cried out, stricken by the sight "Come back, my lady, come back! Do not go! Your sons need you! I need you!"

Then a shadow fell over the sunlight and the ground shuddered and there was mighty roaring sound. He turned and there was the great wave. It was vast as a mountain and swift as the wind, crashing down and drowning all life beneath cold, black waters.

He awoke suddenly with a loud knocking on the door. Cirion's voice called to him:

"My lord, there is a black brother of the Night's Watch begging to see you, he says it is urgent,"

He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up.

"See him to my solar, I must dress," he replied. As he pulled a shirt of light linen over his head, he looked out the window. It was dawn, or would have been if the sky had not been covered by a veil of gray clouds. In the east the world was beginning to lighten, but the night sky still held on in the west.

The man of the Night's Watch was short, and his face was craggy and could not be called handsome. He looked weather-worn, like a man who had seen many hard miles in his life. The phrase 'black brother' sprung to Isildur's mind. The man's hair and beard were both black, the same black as his eyes. His clothes and cloak were black too, but ragged and faded to gray in many places. They were spattered with mud and dust and his hair was matted to his head by sweat and rain.

"My lord, this is the man, Yoren of the Night's Watch. He asked for you urgently," said Cirion. He nodded to his housecarl, and Cirion left the room.

"May I offer you some food? Something to drink? You look as if you have ridden hard," Isildur said.

"Yes my lord, on the wings of a storm," said Yoren grimly. Isildur furrowed his brows.

"A storm? What news from the Wall?" he asked.

"Nay my lord, not the Wall, the Riverlands. Near a week now I been riding to get here, damn near killed my horse to do it. The Old Bear, he always said you were a man of honour," Yoren replied.

"What has happened in the Riverlands?" said Isildur.

"It was Lady Stark, my lord, she's taken the Imp hostage,"

"Valar have mercy," The bare-faced rashness of the action shocked him. He had always known Catelyn to be a peaceful woman, though strong-willed. He remembered the dagger in the night. He also knew that, though Tyrion Lannister was only a dwarf, Lord Tywin would suffer no slight to the honour of Casterly Rock. Armies would ride.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"Near a week ago. She took him hostage at the Crossroads Inn. I set out as soon as she rode away with him, but there were dozens of others who saw it. I tried to outrun 'em but they'll be on my heels. The whole city will be talking about it by breakfast, and there are other places nearer than King's Landing," said Yoren.

"And ravens' wings are swifter than horses' hooves," Isildur said darkly. He remembered an old Westerosi saying he had heard before: Dark wings, dark words.

"Aye my lord. The Lannisters know what happened already, I would put money on it. There were many heading west, hoping maybe for some of that gold that Lord Tywin shits," replied Yoren.

"Why did you bring this to me?" Isildur asked.

"I heard the King got himself stuck in some fool tourney, and telling the Queen would only make it worse. The Night's Watch ain't never taken no part in the quarrels of you lords, but we honour the King's Peace same as any. You're the only one who can protect it now," A man of the Night's Watch was not one to mince words.

"I thank you for this Yoren, you have my gratitude. If there is any boon that is in my power to grant you…" said Isildur. The black brother had done him a great service in doing this.

"A bed would be a nice change, and some hot food. Let me have the pick of your dungeons and maybe look over some of the boys of that Host you're raising," Yoren said.

"You shall have it. Speak to my son Aratan at the Host's encampment, he has men for you," replied Isildur. He called for Cirion. The captain of the housecarls appeared at the door in an instant. He ordered that Yoren be given a room in the Tower of the Hand, and food as soon as the cooks could be wakened.

"And summon Mablung to me. And when the Queen and the Kingslayer have awakened, summon them as well, and send a rider for Lord Stark" he added. Cirion bowed his head and Yoren followed him out of the solar.

Isildur sat down at his desk heavily, head in his hands. He looked back out his window and saw that the overcast skies were lightening. He knew how Tywin Lannister would see this. No house that claimed nobility could allow another house to seize its kin at will. Tywin would demand retribution and he would extract it from the Riverlands and all of Catelyn Stark's family; Tully, Stark, and Arryn. Isildur understood this well, he had once led the White Fleet against the Greyjoys for such a reason.

But the oathbreakers did not stop with taking captives, he thought with hatred. Isildur's sword through Balon Greyjoy's heart was too kind a death for the 'Lord Reaper'

War would come, just as Robert had said. If he could stop it, he must. But how? Lady Stark believed that Tyrion had tried to kill her son. Tywin could say to be defending his family from the aggression of the Starks, but his own daughter had placed Lannister children of incest as the King's heirs. Did Lord Tywin know that?

I will summon them to court, the Lannisters and the Starks, and Robert must sit in judgement, he decided. Who would Robert favour though? His childhood friend was a Stark, but he was married to a Lannister.

An adultress who cuckolded him with her own brother, he thought miserably. King's Landing truly was a pit of rats. He wished for no more than ride away to Gondor. He yearned for Minas Ithil and the moon glinting on the Sirhun. He yearned for his sons; sombre Elendur, and merry Ciryon, and young Valandil. Yet the Lannisters remained here, and Isildur had never yet left a foe in command of the field.

A thought struck him suddenly. He quickly went to his chest and drew forth the palantir. Isildur placed it on his desk and then stood so that he faced north, and he looked deep into the black crystal of the Seeing Stone.

Soon he was soaring over King's Landing and the lands north and west and south spread out beneath him. He flew to the north, following the Kingsroad. The inn at the crossroads sat beneath him, small like a child's toy. He gazed north. To Winterfell? If Lady Stark could reach Moat Cailin then her captive would be beyond even the long arm of Tywin Lannister. But there were many leagues to the Neck and Lannister riders would be on the roads. On a guess, he turned east towards the Vale of Arryn. Lysa Arryn ruled there for her infant son, he remembered. And there, on a pass in the Mountains of the Moon, he saw what he was looking for: A small party of riders, distant beneath him, yet when he looked closer he saw that one was a dwarf and was riding as if his arms were bound. Bands of mountain tribesmen were following on all sides. They were nearing the Bloody Gate.

Mablung came to him just as Isildur was putting the palantir away. He was one of the oldest of Isildur's housecarls, tall, lean and rangy like a wolfhound, with a worn face that looked like granite weathered by the wind.

"You were a ranger, were you not?" asked Isildur as soon as Mablung stepped into the solar.

"Yes my lord, spent forty years in the wilds," Mablung replied. The rangers of Gondor wandered the wildernesses and the Wolfswood, hunting wildling raiders and criminals and dangerous beasts alike.

"I have an urgent errand for you Mablung. I want you to take four or five of our men, rangers like you, you're to ride hard for the Vale of Arryn. Lady Stark has taken Tyrion Lannister hostage, and she is heading to the Eyrie. You are to find them and return them to the city with all haste. Depart as soon as you are able, this errand requires the utmost speed. War will come if you fail," As he spoke, Isildur brought out a piece of parchment and quickly wrote a royal warrant commanding Catelyn Stark and Tyrion Lannister to come to court. He sealed it with the Hand of the King's own seal, then folded it carefully and gave it to Mablung.

"As you command, my lord," Mablung said. He was not one to ask questions of his lord's commands. He placed the warrant carefully in a pocket by his heart and then quickly left.

Cirion returned sometime after Mablung. He found Isildur at his desk, writing many letters in a quick hand.

"My lord, the Kingslayer has left the city. He headed north with twenty men," the housecarl told him. Isildur looked up from his writing and sighed deeply.

"It seems all things go ill today. And the Queen?" he said.

"Her guards would not let me see her," replied Cirion.

"Of course," Isildur said wearily. He quickly put a final signature on the last letter.

"Take these to Maester Pycelle, for Winterfell, Riverrun, the Eyrie and Casterly Rock. Make sure you watch him send the birds," Isildur trusted Pycelle less and less with each passing day. He had to be someone's puppet, and the way he defended the Lannisters in the council did not sit well with Isildur.

Ned came thundering up into the courtyard on horseback late in the morning, near noon, his rouncey slick with sweat from his hard ride. Eight of his guards rode up in his wake. Isildur watched from a window as the Lord of Winterfell vaulted down from his horse and ran up into the Tower of the Hand. Isildur met him in the Small Hall.

"What's she done?" Eddard asked urgently, without preamble. Isildur told him.

"Gods… Why would she go and do a thing like that?" wondered Ned.

"You well know her suspicions. Tyrion Lannister may be a foul lecher but I think he is not the Lannister behind this," Isildur replied.

"What will you-"

"I'm sending some of my men to summon them back to court. I promise you Ned, we will resolve this," the Hand of the King told him.

"What will happen to Catelyn?" asked Eddard. Worry for his lady wife was written as plain as day across his long, solemn face.

"No harm will come to her my friend, I swear to you, but she must return Tyrion and make amends to the Lannisters. If not, it will be war. How stands the King's Host?"

"Unready, and inexperienced," Ned seemed distracted by his fear for his wife, but Isildur could tell that he was telling the truth and it did not comfort him

The day passed slowly beneath clouded skies. The Red Keep was as silent as the grave. Isildur went and checked on Robert shortly after midday and found him resting. Ser Barristan told him that Robert had been awake that morning and spoken with Tommen and Myrcella. He seemed tranquil and his breathing was easy. Isildur did not relish the notion of what the King would find when he was finally well again.

When he returned from Maegor's Holdfast, he found Lord Petyr Baelish waiting for him. He wore a green doublet trimmed with silver, tight around his waist, with a gray-green half-cloak secured by a silver mockingbird pin at his throat. He looked at Isildur with his customary mocking half-smile.

"My Lord Hand," Baelish said, bowing with exaggerated courtesy. Isildur narrowed his eyes. He wished to be rid of this arrogant fool but they still had business to settle.

"Good day to you Lord Baelish. We have matters to discuss," Isildur led Lord Baelish through the entrance hall of the Tower of the Hand. In the Small Hall, beneath high-vaulted ceilings, his housecarls sat at luncheon, all in black surcoats and black mail.

"You Dunedain have such a dull taste in colours. All blacks and whites. One would almost suspect you can't see colour at all. Or perhaps it's only you, you are quite old I understand," Lord Baelish said lightly, but there was a barb in his words. Petyr Baelish rarely said anything without some insult or verbal jab.

"They are the colours of our fathers and our house. I do not think you have a better reason than that for your choice of sigil," Isildur said, nodding towards the mockingbird broach.

"Oh I have always felt a kinship to the mockingbird. Such a clever bird, so many songs to sing," Baelish replied.

Isildur led him to the audience chamber, adjacent to the small hall. It was not as grand as the audience chamber of the King's Council, but it was quiet and out of the way. He offered Littlefinger food or drink.

"Oh I couldn't, I'm to sup with Lady Tanda later and she sets a very fine table. She's trying to wed me to her daughter of course, and I've no interest in that cow, but I could never say no to a good rack of lamb," said Baelish, still smiling as if all the world was his own private joke.

"I wonder then, Mockingbird, if you might sing me a song about the Realm's debts?" said Isildur, leaning back against a desk. The desk was strewn with old scrolls and ancient tomes with cracked leather bindings.

"Only what you already know. We're six million gold dragons in debt, our Robert doesn't enjoy counting coppers," Baelish's words were easy, relaxed.

"In debt to whom?"

"Oh the usual suspects. Tywin Lannister, the Faith, the Iron Bank, some particularly wealthy traders," said Petyr Baelish flippantly.

"Hm, I find that interesting because the Realm has been in summer for nearly ten years now. The fields are ripe, the cattle are fat, and everyone is rich… Everyone it seems except us," said Isildur.

"The Master of Coin finds the money, the King and the Hand spend it. You know how Robert loves his feasts and tourneys," said Littlefinger. A flicker of a smile touched Isildur's face. Despite himself, he was looking forward to this.

"Curious, then, that the Mad King left vaults flowing with gold and silver, and Lord Arryn kept the Realm solvent for many years, and under you we are six million in debt. I find that very curious indeed. Do you know what these are?" He gestured to the books behind him. Baelish glanced at a title on one of the tomes.

"Aegon's Book of Judgement? Ponderous reading my lord, are you having trouble sleeping?" he said.

"Need I remind you of its history?" said Isildur.

"It might be interesting, you are a piece of history after all," Baelish quipped.

"Aegon the Conqueror had this book made when he set his kingdoms in order, recording the lands of each house, their value and how much tax they would owe him," replied the Hand of the King.

"I remember now, but there hasn't been a royal survey since-"

"Aegon the Fifth, I know, it took my men some searching in some very deep places of the castle to find it, but it is recent enough as a Dunadan reckons things and it told me what I needed to know," said Isildur. Baelish stiffened where he stood, realization seeming to dawn upon him.

"At the end of a ten year summer, should we be six million in debt? I think not, not unless Robert was holding tourneys every week. And you have been claiming a tenfold increase in revenue in your accounts. Where has that gold come from? And where is all our gold going? Someone, it seems, has had their fingers in our purse," Isildur said.

"These things happen. You put enough money through a tax collector's fingers, eventually they'll start thinking it's theirs. No helping it really, you realize this when you work in the treasury, but I will make some new appointments if it'll comfort your old heart," said Littlefinger lightly. He made to leave as if the matter was settled.

"That will not be necessary Lord Baelish. You may return to the Fingers," said Isildur. Baelish turned back to him slowly. All trace of his smile was gone.

"Why would I do that? My duties are here and I can hardly take the mint with me," he said.

"You will not have to. You are dismissed. Thank you for your service to the Realm, you may return to your home," Isildur did not allow himself to smile but inside he felt a grim satisfaction.

"You cannot dismiss me, I assure you, I am the Master of Coin," said Littlefinger.

"And I am the Hand of the King and we will find a new Master of Coin. If I had my will, Lord Baelish, you would be rotting in the dungeons for corruption, but because I can only prove that you are incompetent I will merely dismiss you. Consider that a blessing," Isildur said. His voice was stern and he stared into Baelish with a hard glint in his gray eyes. Littlefinger recoiled briefly, and then recovering he spread his arms wide.

"Come now, I'm an intelligent man, you are an intelligent man, let us speak plainly," he said, voice friendly. "You seek to defeat the Lannisters, yes? He who would oppose the Lannisters would do well to reach out to other friends, influential friends, friends like myself,"

"Why would I need your friendship" Isildur said, suspecting some trick and seeing a gleam of mischief in Baelish's eyes.

"Oh because I know things. I know what you know. I know that the Queen knows that you know. You know that I know and I know that you know that I know, and we know that the Queen knows that we know and the Queen knows we know it," Baelish said, seeming pleased by his clever words.

"I tremble before your great knowledge," Isildur said drily.

"Perhaps you should. I am a very knowledgeable man and a very knowledgeable man is very dangerous. Let me keep my place on the Council and I can be of great service to you, my lord" said Baelish. He spoke smoothly, flatteringly. Isildur had heard speech like this before, honey-tongued and wise-seeming, by something far greater and far more terrible than Petyr Baelish. He was not deceived then, he was not now.

"If you know, then what would you advise?" asked Isildur carefully, testing to see what Baelish was actually aware of.

"You plan to put Stannis on the throne. Oh don't look so surprised my lord, you think no one has noticed you riding around hooded and cloaked and speaking with Stannis and Stark so often? There is a wiser course though. Joffrey is young, weak, pliable, let him take the throne and rule through him, and if he gets defiant then we can be rid of him and put Renly on the throne. You can see much in the minds of men, but I have my own ways of seeing, I know much of what goes on in this castle, and I'm one of the wealthiest men in the city I assure you. Together, my lord, with my gold and your strong arm, we can deal with the Queen and any Lannister," Littlefinger said, smiling like a cat that was watching a mouse squirm in its claws. He offered a hand. Isildur did not take it.

"No Lord Baelish, I will not. I ought to throw you into the sea, truly, you are a treacherous, petty man who would sell his own mother to slavers if it profited him. Now be gone, go back to the Fingers and consider yourself lucky I have only stripped you of your office," he said, slowly to let Baelish hear every word. Littlefinger's smile disappeared and a black look twisted his face.

"Then let me share some counsel with you, my lord, from one knowledgeable man to another: In this game it is foolish to spit in the face of one who would aid you. Perhaps one day you shall learn that, and you will regret the lesson," he spat the words harshly. Whirling on his heels, Lord Petyr Baelish strode out.

As the days passed, the clouds blew away and were replaced by a sweltering heat. Isildur soon missed the rains. The sky was clear and cloudless and the sun beat down on the city relentlessly. The air was humid and still, muggy and oppressive. Men and women alike wore their lightest linens and silks and sweated even in those.

The city seemed strangely silent in those days, like it waited for something. It matched the apprehension Isildur felt. He could feel the storm that Yoren spoke of, brewing in the air. The ravens flew, bearing his letters to Starks, Lannisters, Tullys and Arryns. He commanded them, by royal decree, to not call their banners, to keep their armies at home, draw no swords and shed no blood, until Isildur could resolve the quarrel between the Starks and Lannisters. He told himself many times that there were many miles and many dangers between King's Landing and the seats of the great houses, but he felt in his heart that he would get no answers. He spent hours in his study pouring over maps, tracing routes from the North to the Riverlands, from Casterly Rock and the Eyrie to Riverrun, pondering upon whom would march first and where would they bear their steel.

What will you do? What can you do? He asked himself, over and over. The King's Host had only existed for a few months, they were still inexperienced and unblooded. Isildur's own hosts and vassals were in Gondor, hundreds of miles away. He could call upon the Tyrells and Baratheons, but would it come to that? And would they come if called? What if they did? Surely Tywin would not be mad enough to destroy his house against all the great powers of the realm?

Though his mind was troubled by omens of war, Isildur was glad Robert still rested much of the day. Under care he slowly grew stronger. Grand Maester Pycelle assured the Hand that he could take care of the King, but Isildur assured him in return that he would take care of it personally. Robert woke more often now, though he tired easily. One day he awoke and immediately called out in a loud voice for meat and beer, and Isildur felt a flicker of hope within him. The King's face was still pale and his flesh hung from his bones loosely, but he was mending.

Then one afternoon, unexpectedly, the Queen summoned the Hand of the King.

Her hair was shining and her eyes gleamed as green as a spring morning. She wore a long dress, silk and velvet, red and gold, the Lannister colours. Perfect lips smiled with perfect teeth when she saw him. She was beautiful, there could be no other word for it, golden like a goddess. Cersei Lannister stood on the south battlements, the sea and the river gleaming behind her. Beneath them, the earthy scent of the castle gardens drifted up.

"Your Grace," he said in greeting, bowing his head.

"I wondered, Lord Isildur, if you might walk with me in the godswood? Your people are fond of forests I am told," she said in a voice like music.

She led him along the wall. Cersei's guards followed distantly behind her. Her hips swayed within her dress as she walked. Isildur was wary, this all seemed very suspicious. She had never spoken to him much and she had always seemed wary or contemptuous of him before. Why this now?

The godswood was an acre of shade and cool amidst tall red walls of stone. Cottonwoods and alder trees and ancient oaks laced together to form a canopy of green through which streamed golden rays of light. A merciful breeze, the first in days, rustled the leaves. Cersei left her guards at the stairs. They walked in a silence, watching each other out of the corner of their eyes, waiting for the other to speak.

They came to stand beneath a tall elm tree when the Queen finally stopped walking and turned to Isildur. Green boughs spread all around them. She looked down, and then up to meet his eyes, with fear and pleading written on her face.

"Isildur, I… I am worried," she said. He raised an eyebrow. He had never spoken to him so personally before.

"What burdens your heart, Your Grace?" he asked her.

"My lord husband has been gravely wounded by a traitor. We have never been close, he and I, but I fear for his life… I fear that my life and the lives of my children are not safe," she said. She seemed small, vulnerable; she was something very precious. He stared at her, cool gray eyes meeting bright green. He had often found that silence could draw forth what words would not, and so it was with Cersei Lannister.

"There are many in the city who wish me ill, who wish my children harm, and many who desire the Throne for themselves… Or me for themselves. I am just a woman, my husband was my shield and armour and without him I am laid bare. I need protection, Isildur," she took a step closer to him.

"And what about your father?" he asked.

"He is in Casterly Rock, hundreds of leagues away. You are here," she stepped closer still.

"Your husband lives still, Your Grace," Isildur said.

"For how long? The gods could take him from us at any time, I need to know that my children are protected, that I am protected. Be kind to me Isildur and you will have my gratitude; and I can be kind to you," Cersei reached out to him, grazing her fingertips against his arm, promising things with the lightest touch. Isildur understood.

He looked at her and smiled.

She raised a hand to caress his face.

"Have you ever been in love?" He took her hand gently but firmly in his and put it back down at her side.

"Yes," she said, still maintaining the sad green eyes regarding him. He saw the confusion though.

"I met my wife when I was young, so young, even by the reckoning of your people. We met in a forest not unlike this one, near my home. She was singing in the glade and I saw her and thought that Tinuviel herself had come upon the earth again. We married young, for love, and she gave me the four best sons that any father has ever had," his smile was genuine now at the memory. Remembering that day amidst the leaves of Andunie brought a warmth to him, and a feeling of longing and loss too deep for any words.
He looked back at her. Cersei knew now what he was saying and it did not please her.

"She was taken away from me, from her sons, and no one can ever again be to me what my Firiel was," he said, in words of bittersweet sadness.

She raised her chin haughtily.

"You would refuse a queen?"

"Firiel was my queen, not in Armenelos or Nargothrond or Gondolin was there ever such a queen, and though you are beautiful, I would refuse you and any woman on this earth if it would bring her back to me,"

A shadow had fallen on Cersei Lannister's fair face. She did not look accustomed to rejection.

"Your Grace," he said gently "Out of respect to your honour, and my love for Robert, I will speak of this to no one, but I will not forget it. Do not insult your husband in this way again, or I will have to tell him of this,"

"And what of his respect for my honour? What of his insults to me? How many bastards has he put into the bellies of whores?" she spat, suddenly hateful.

He looked at her with a deep sadness. Oh Cersei Lannister he thought Fair you are amongst queens of this realm, but cold and brittle as ice. I wish your life had led you somewhere far away from here. He knew that she would try to persuade him to side with her. He knew what her methods would be.

Yet for all her lies, for all her ambition and falsehoods and crimes, he could not find it in himself to hate her. He knew he must defeat her, but all he felt when he looked on Cersei Lannister was pity.

"He has not been as kind to you as a man should, but he is the King, and he is my friend. Remember that well, Your Grace," he told her.

He left her there, standing amongst the elm boughs.

The next day, dawn came pale and bright on a day that Isildur had dreaded. It could be delayed no longer. He would have to hold court in Robert's place. As he went to the council meeting of that day, the Iron Throne seemed to almost stare at him as he passed it. Afterwards, Isildur could not recall much of what was said or done, his mind was elsewhere and the matters of the council seemed trivial. At least, he reflected, he did not have to put up with any more of Baelish's voice.

When Ohtar opened the door, he found his lord standing on the balcony of the bed chamber. He was looking out over the city. Isildur knew from the sound of the heavy footfalls that it was his squire. The sky was reddening as afternoon wore into evening.

"Ohtar," he said.

"My lord, they await you in the great hall," the squire said.

I shall bear this burden only a little while, until Robert shall recover and be strong enough to take it up once more, he thought as he turned around.

"Bring me my silvered mail, and the high-collared surcoat, and have ten of my housecarls be made ready," he commanded. If he had to sit upon the Iron Throne, he would at least look worthy.

With Ohtar's help, Isildur donned a hauberk of mail that had been burnished till it shone black and silver. Over this he wore a black surcoat, with the white tree and the crescent moon in silver thread and the stars gleaming with jewels. On his shoulders, his squire placed a long white cloak, and he fastened it with the eagle broach he was accustomed to wearing. Isildur girt himself with Narsil at his side. Somehow the presence of his father's great sword at his hip was a comforting thought.

From Isildur's chest, Ohtar drew forth a circlet of mithril. A white stone was set in its front. His father had brought the Elendilmir, ancient crown of Andunie, out of the Downfall. He had taken the Jewel of the Elf-friends as an heirloom of his house, but this was not it. Two crowns alike in appearance but lesser in craft he had commanded made, one for each of his sons, so that all may know a lord of the House of Elendil when it was worn. This crown Isildur set on his brow.

His housecarls awaited him downstairs, in the proud and sombre garb of the Guard of the Tower of the Rising Moon. Their finest mail they wore, black as jet, and black surcoats with Isildur's sigil upon their chests. Each had a grey cloak and a silver broach shaped like a many-rayed star. Spears were in their hands and swords at their belts, and a gleam of mithril flamed from high helms. They formed double-files, five on each side, and followed their lord silently.

The heavy doors of the Great Hall were opened and Isildur was met with a host of faces. The late-day light poured brightly through stained glass windows, leaving long shadows on the marble floor.

"Lord Isildur Elendilion, of the House of Elendil, Lord of Minas Ithil, and the Hand of the King," a herald cried loudly as they stepped into the hall.

The hall was silent, but filled with people. Lords with the sigils of a dozen noble houses, noble ladies in silks, knights in mail, commoners in what patched finery they could muster. All standing, lining the hall beneath the tapestries where dragon skulls once hung. Yet as Isildur walked the length of the Great Hall, he could almost feel the empty eyes of dragons upon him. He heard faint whispers as he passed. He saw looks of wonder, of awe, even of fear. The Iron Throne stood forbidding and empty, fangs of steel reaching out to him.

The only people who sat in the Great Hall were members of the Council. They were seated upon the dais, on lesser wooden chairs to each side. Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys to the left, Lord Renly and Lord Stannis to the left. Renly sat with the account-books in his lap, looking annoyed that he had been given them until a new Master of Coin was appointed.

The Kingsguard lined the great hall. The Ironguard, in their black plate trimmed with white, stood by their mute Brother-Captain Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice. A pair of knights of the Redguard stood in the gallery looking down, watching the Hand of the King approach the dais. Out of the corner of his eye, Isildur spotted Ser Barristan Selmy watching him with grave eyes.

Finally, he stood before the throne and stood before the crowds. Hundreds of eyes looked up at him. His housecarls spread out at the lowest step of the dais, standing still as carven statues. The mithril of their winged helmets caught the sunlight and blazed like fire. Isildur took up the Seat of Kings.

"In the name of our King, Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and of the Rhoynar, and of the Numenoreans, and of the First Men, Lord of the Eight Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lord Isildur, the Hand of the King, shall hold court. He shall sit in judgement and hear the petitions of the peoples of the Realm. Let all who would speak before the Throne come forth," boomed the herald.

It was, Isildur reflected as the hours passed, a deeply uncomfortable chair. The Throne was full of razor edges, ribbons of metal and barbs of iron still sharp despite the centuries. It was said that it had taken fifty nine days to forge it, heated in the furnace-breath of Balerion the Great Wyrm. One could not even lean back fully in it, or else they risked cutting themselves on the jagged points and steel spikes. Aegon had once told Isildur that a King should never rest easy on his throne.

Arrogant as an old dragon, I hope this accursed throne cut him deeply Isildur thought.

The petitioners came, by themselves or in pairs or in whole groups. Lords bickered over who owned what land and which villages, rival heirs brought competing claims to castles and holdfasts, noble ladies accused each other of libel and slander. The Guild of Bakers wanted a royal charter commanding that no baker could work in King's Landing without membership of the guild. Two farmers argued, in front of the Hand of the King and the whole court, over the ownership of a certain cow until Isildur threatened to have it cut in half unless they shared the animal.

"And that's why we shouldn't let the smallfolk into the court," muttered Renly after the peasants had left "You listen to their problems enough and soon enough they start thinking we're here to solve everything for them,"

A group of merchants came forward. They bowed reverently before Isildur. Their clothes were rich, rings glinted on every finger and many of them were fat.

"My Lord Hand, we are the Honourable Company of Venturing Merchants," announced one who stood forward from the rest, the most overweight merchant of the lot. He bowed, a gesture of some difficulty with his girth. "We seek your leave to mount a trading expedition beyond Qarth to the Jade Sea and Asshai-by-the-Shadow. We have assembled seven ships to make this journey, and we would request an escort from the royal navy. If it pleases you, my Lord Hand, the Crown will share in our profits,"

Isildur remembered that Baelish had mentioned this.

"Lord Stannis, you are the Master of Ships, what say you?" he asked.

"Your company has not asked for royal ships before, what need have you of our galleys?" Lord Stannis questioned the man.

"The Summer Sea has grown dangerous of late, my lord, ships are disappearing and people whisper of pirates and raiders with black sails, we wish only to guarantee to safety of our crews and wares," the merchant answered.

Isildur shifted upon the throne. Black sails, a disquieting thought. Anarion's warning echoed in his ears.

"I can spare you two warships to travel with you, no more," said Lord Stannis. The merchants bowed again and thanked them for their generosity.

The sun was waning and the shadows were lengthening in the Great Hall by the time Isildur finished with the court. He had had to cajole some people, coax others, force agreements with stern words in some cases, he had arbitrated and judged and made royal commands. It was much like sitting in judgement from his high seat in Minas Ithil, but here he could feel the eyes of the Realm upon him.

The herald was stepped up to announce the end of the court, when the doors of the great hall were flung open. Before Isildur's eyes, a grim band of women and children and a few men filed in. They were escorted by a party of goldcloaks.

"Forgive me my Lord Hand, these people have come from the town of Sherrer, they say they must speak to you," said the leader of the goldcloaks, a broad-shouldered young man with a scar across his eye.

"Court is concluded, they will have to return another day," said Grand Maester Pycelle in irritation.

"No Grand Maester, I shall listen to them. Come forth! What has brought you here?" Isildur asked.

They turned their gaze down at the sound of his voice. Hesitantly, a gray-haired old man stepped forward. He was wringing a hat in his hands nervously. He had the eyes of a man who had seen horrors.

"My folk have elected me to speak for them, Your Grace," he said.

"It is the King's Hand you are addressing, not the King," interrupted Pycelle.

"That is enough Grand Maester. You may speak," Isildur said.

"Milord, we come to you to beg for your help, we had to travel hard to get here, and I brought all my folk because we hope that together you'll listen to what we have to say: The town of Sherrer is no more," the old man said. There was a sound of a child weeping in the back.

"What? What has happened?" the Hand of the King asked.

"Raiders, milord, they came down on us, hunnerds of them, out of the west. It was the small hours of the morning and we was just going about our business, milord, if you follow me. Our men were out in the fields working, and I was just drawing water out of the well when they came, milord." He paused, eyes watering, and for a long moment there was silence in the hall, as if the memory was too terrible to speak. Then he continued, slowly:

"They rode us down, hacking and slaying everyone they saw and shooting us with crossbows and sticking us with lances. I saw 'em chase a boy across a field, poking at 'em with spears, making like sport out of it. They covered our animals and our children in pitch… Then put a fire to them," his voice cracked and he stopped and wept. Isildur felt anger building as he listened to each word.

"They took our women… And then when they was done they took them again. Our lord came riding out of his holdfast to try and save us, a right proper knight was Ser Garlan, milord, but they killed him and his men and those of us that managed to get into the holdfast saw 'em cut his head off and carry it around on a spear, and then they set a fire to our homes, our granaries, our fields, they burned everything,"

Isildur's knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of the Iron Throne. None that stood in that hall could not feel the growing wrath of the son of Elendil.

"Common brigands most likely," said Pycelle, dismissively.

"Even common brigands must be brought to the King's Justice, that is the law," said Lord Stannis.

"You talk about the law an awful lot for the Master of Ships, brother, perhaps we ought to trade?" quipped Renly.

"Enough!" Isildur snarled out harshly "Let the man speak,"

"They wasn't thieves, Your Grace," said the old man, wiping tears from his eyes.

"This is not the King, it is the King's Hand, the King is resting," Pycelle intoned ponderously.

"They didn't take or steal nothing, they only killed and burned, milord," the old man went on as if he didn't hear the Grand Maester.

"These raiders, did they carry any banners? Did they carry any badges or sigils amongst them?" Isildur asked.

"Yes, milord, they carried a big yellow flag with dogs on it, and there was one amongst them, their leader I think, taller than a foot than any man I've ever seen milord, and he had a fist on his helmet. Saw 'em cut men in two. Saw him take the head off a horse with a swing of his sword!" the man answered.

Whispers spread through the hall as lords and knights heard what he said. Isildur knew in that instant that this was the work of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Troll.

"My Lord Isildur!" cried a young and fair voice. Ser Loras Tyrell stepped forth from the crowd. He was even more slender outside of his armour, almost willowy. His doublet was a deep green and covered in studs shaped like golden roses. His hair was elaborately coiffed and hands that had clearly seen much care and attention rested on the jeweled hilt of a longsword.

"It is the work of Ser Gregor Clegane, it can be no other! My lord, I beg your leave to ride to Ser Gregor's keep and bring vengeance for Sherrer to the Troll!" the Knight of the Flowers declared boldly. More whispering in the back of the halls. Isildur raised a hand to silence it.

"Ser Loras, I agree with you that this is the work of Ser Gregor Clegane. Ever has he been a murderous and brutish man. And while I commend your courage, the task of bringing him to justice shall fall to others," said the Hand of the King.

"But my lord-"

"Enough, Ser Loras," Isildur warned. With a petulance that reminded Isildur of how young Loras Tyrell truly was, the knight stepped back into the crowd.

"Ser Gregor Clegane is an anointed knight, a bannerman with a keep and lands of his own, why would it profit him to turn brigand?" asked Pycelle. Quick to defend the Lannisters, Isildur noted, like a dog rushing to its master's aid.

"Sherrer is a town in the Riverlands, and the Riverlands are the holdings of House Tully, Catelyn Stark's house," said Lord Renly, implications in his words.

The court did not whisper, now they murmured. Again Isildur raised his hand and silence fell. He looked down on what remained of the people of Sherrer. A young girl was on her knees, staring, not at Isildur but through him. They had been robbed, robbed of family, of friends, of their homes. He remembered a wife and two young children, laid before the throne wrapped in red cloaks to hide the blood. He remembered the faceless ruin of what had been an innocent boy. He remembered the monstrous Troll that walked in the sun which had done this. As he looked upon the people of Sherrer, he knew what he must do.

"People of Sherrer, it is beyond my art and skill to restore your homes or bring your dead back to live. In times of horror, we can only remember that the Death is the Gift of Men and not our Doom. All I can offer you is justice, justice in the name of King Robert," he said in a voice so strong and clear as had seldom been heard in the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

"Once, long ago, Torrhen Stark the last King of the North, he told me that in the North they believe that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. We Men of Numenor do not hold with the traditions of the North. However I cannot in good conscience ask any man to face the Troll That Walks in Daylight on my behalf. I shall ride forth to hunt down this monster who calls himself a man and bring him to justice!" he paused briefly, then raised his voice and spoke even louder:

"In the name of King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and of the Rhoynar, and of the Numenoreans, and of the First Men, Lord of the Eight Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm; I, Isildur Elendilion, the Hand of the King, do hereby denounce and attaint the false knight Ser Gregor Clegane, and sentence him to die. I strip him of all rights and titles, of all lands and holdings, and I declare him an outlaw of the Eight Kingdoms, along with all who have shared in his crimes. Let any freeman put him to death if they are able, and let none shelter him lest they wish to share in his fate,"

"My lord, this is a drastic action, we ought to wait for King Robert to recover," urged Grand Maester Pycelle. Isildur fixed him with a hard stare. Pycelle fell silent.

Isildur scanned the shocked and awed faces of the court for any who might assist him. Ser Loras was too young and inexperienced despite his skill. He needed someone older, more dependable. He spotted a familiar looking man, one with a reputation for honour that had acquitted himself well in the tournament.

"Lord Beric Dondarrion," he said. "Assemble seventy mounted men. You will accompany me on this errand,"

"As you will, my lord Hand" replied Lord Beric.

The Hand of the King stepped down from the throne and led his housecarls from the hall silently. He knew that the whisperers and the eyes watching him would relay his message to Casterly Rock as surely as any raven.

That ought to ruffle Lord Tywin's mane, he thought with a certain grim satisfaction.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter XII
The Marches of the Westerlands

Seldom had any sight been more welcome to Ser Jaime Lannister than seeing the low rolling mountains and foothills of his homelands. After many days of hard riding, north, then south and west, after many close shaves with freeriders of the Riverlords, traveling all night and all day and suspecting eyes in every hedge along the road, he was finally approaching home.

Ser Jaime and his company, twenty of his personal guard, rode along the hard-packed dirt of the river road, through open meadows and shaded forest. His men swayed in the saddle, looking listless and aimless, and their horses glistened with sweat and breathed heavily. Jaime was tireless. He felt driven onwards relentlessly. A long arm of mountains marched away to the north. To the south, another arm of lower foothills. On the road before them, the two arms narrowed and came together, like a funnel, leaving only the narrow pass where stood the fortress of the Golden Tooth. Jaime smiled. Once he was at that castle, he would be beyond the reach of Tullys and Starks.

Father likely already knows, and once we raise our banners then we can remind them all that Lannisters pay their debts Jaime spurred his horse on to a trot. His company followed behind him, riding briskly towards the pass.
Damn Catelyn Stark, damn that she-wolf bitch thought Jaime hatefully.

She had taken his brother captive. The nerve of that still galled him. Did the wolf forget its place? Did it forget that it was dealing with lions? Somewhere deep in his mind though, Jaime felt guilt for his brother's captivity. It hadn't been Tyrion that had been in that tower with Cersei…

This all would have been so much simpler if that boy would just have died Jaime thought.

But taking Tyrion captive? That was unacceptable. At first Jaime had had a mind to rush off to make old honest Ned pay for his wife's crimes. Stark was old, slow, he wouldn't be able to keep up with Jaime, no one ever could except Ser Barristan.

And Aratan, and that debt too will be paid, in time he reminded himself.

Of course Cersei had begged him not to attack Lord Stark, not while he had an army around him and Aratan Isildurion at his side.

"We're Lannisters," she had said "And Lannisters don't act like fools,"

She sounded uncannily like their father when she said that. That had disturbed Jaime more than he would like to admit, and not just because of the things he and Cersei did.

She had convinced him though. At least not to attack Lord Stark. Yet he still couldn't just stand by and let Catelyn Stark of all people take her brother in captivity. Though Cersei had pleaded with him to stay, he had ridden out of King's Landing as soon as he had gotten twenty of their men together, with horses to spare. They had galloped north from the Old Gate with one thought on Jaime's mind: Getting his brother back.

The great race north from King's Landing had exhausted both horses and men. They thundered up the kingsroad for the crossroads as fast as their mounts would carry them, beneath an iron-grey sky. Ever Jaime was in the lead, his men trailing behind. He rode until he felt like he would fall from his saddle, then they would snatch a few moments of rest and a few bites of food by the roadside before he would force his men to ride more. There were grumblings amongst his guards at the grueling pace he set, but none dared to question Jaime.

"My lord, we will kill the horses if we keep up like this," Tregar had told him during that ride.

"Let the horses die, if we do not catch Lady Stark then you will have to reckon with me," Jaime had replied, and Tregar fell silent at that.

They swept up to the Inn at the Crossroads like a swift wind from the south. Jaime remembered the inn from their journey from Winterfell. He didn't recall the name of the old crone who ran the inn, but he did remember her awful sourleaf-stained teeth. Tregar had wanted to torch the inn as retribution against the innkeeper for allowing an insult to House Lannister to occur there, but Jaime had no patience for that. He only wanted to know where Lady Stark had taken Catelyn.

"She said she was riding north, milord, for Winterfell," the old lady had said, her eyes terrified at the shining steel of the drawn swords behind Ser Jaime.

"Good, that wasn't so hard now was it? If you've lied to me, you'll be hanging from the sign of your own inn," he had told her, mounting his horse as he did.

It had taken three days of hard riding and the death of two of their horses before Jaime realized he had been played false. North of the crossroads, no one had seen sight or sign of his brother or Lady Stark or indeed any groups of riders anywhere. The sleepy villages and holdfasts they passed were full of nothing but peasants minding their own business.

Jaime's wrath had burned hot and he wanted to ride back to the inn and watch that old woman strangle on a rope.

"Maybe Catelyn took Lord Tyrion to Riverrun? It is closer than Winterfell," Tregar had suggested. The Kingsroad stretched out north before them, countless miles beckoning. Jaime could follow it to the end of the world if he had wished, but there were more urgent matters at hand.

"Riverrun? No, that's too close to Casterly Rock. She would want to get somewhere far away from the other Lannisters, but where? If not Winterfell then…" that is when the realization him like a thunderbolt. "The Eyrie,"

"The Eyrie, my lord? But why there?" asked Tregar.

"Because Lysa Arryn is the she-wolf's sister, and because it would take an army to pry Tyrion out of there," said Jaime, and he cursed Starks and Tullys and Arryns bitterly.

He heard his father's voice in his ears: The lion does not allow itself to be insulted by any lesser beast. Not by the salmon of the rivers or the falcon of the vale or the wolves of the north.

"What can we do then, my lord?" the captain said.

"Go get an army," Jaime replied simply.

And they rode. They headed till they hit the Green Fork, and then followed it south to the Ruby Ford. From there came the second stage of their great race, west across the Riverlands. They cut across country wherever they could, through rolling hills and across broad grassy plains and farmer's fields. They kept their banners furled and their shields covered in the lands of the riverlords, it seemed unwise to display the lion of Lannister when a Tully had taken a Lannister captive. Jaime could not remember ever having ridden so far, at such speed in his life. More horses died from the unforgiving pace but their need for haste was great. Jaime did not ride forth from King's Landing only to be captured by some riverlands bumpkin that called himself a lord. They rode until the men nodded their heads and slept in the saddle. They avoided villages and holdfasts and kept off the road wherever they could. First they traveled directly towards Riverrun, then cut south and west to swing around it and avoid any Tully patrols. They swept across the river at a gallop, the Red Fork foaming round their horses' knees.

Now their journey was nearing its end, at last. By dusk, they would be at the Golden Tooth. Jaime smiled at that. He would allow himself a full night of rest in a proper bed before pressing on to Castlery Rock. They would not need to be so swift once they were safely behind the mountains. If only Cersei awaited him at the Tooth. He found himself yearning for the feel of her, to be with her, in her, whole.

Yet even thinking of Cersei, he could not stop worrying about Tyrion. Their dwarf brother had never been the favourite of the family, Tyrion had never gotten along with Cersei or with father, but he was still Jaime's brother. Brothers are supposed to protect each other. He felt like he had failed to protect his brother.

He set these thoughts aside and spurred his horse into a canter. Hooves pounded on the road behind him. With the mountains coming closer, casting deep dark shadows across the land from the setting sun, they entered the pass.

Night was deepening when they reached the Golden Tooth. The immense fortress loomed ahead, unclear in the blackness, yet vast like a mountain giant. Distant torches blazed on the ramparts, pinpricks of light in the darkness. And below the Tooth's high walls, fires. Thousands of fires. Fires as uncountable as the stars themselves. Around the fires, the shadowy figures of men and horses and tents. Jaime's eyes widened in shock and then he smiled again, his famous smile that cut like a knife's edge. His father had come forth from Casterly Rock, and he had brought the west with him.

All weariness vanished from Jaime in that moment. He commanded his banner to be unfurled. The night was growing dark yet the golden lion was dimly visible in the blackness. He led his men down into the camp at a gallop, smiling broadly, his golden hair floating in the wind of his speed.

All around him passed men wearing the sigils of all the houses of the Westerlands. They cried out to him in many voices as they saw him.

"Lord Jaime! That's Ser Jaime!"

"Ser Jaime has come!"

"Hail Ser Jaime!"

"The war's about to start, you're almost late milord!"

"The Lions of Lannister are with us now!"

He laughed and called out back to them.

"Hello my brave boys! The Young Lion has arrived!"

Jaime reined his horse up in front of a pavilion. In the torch light, he saw that it was decorated with the brindled boars of the Crakehalls. A tall man strode out of the tent, hearing the commotion. His hair was long and his face bristled with whiskers almost like the brindles of a boar.

"Ser Jaime!" boomed Ser Lyle Crakehall, smiling with a mouth that lacked a few teeth.

"Good to see you Strongboar," Jaime dismounted and the Strongboar caught his hand in a grip that could crush bone.

"We worried that the damned wolves would have fallen on you just like your brother," said Lyle.

"Much obliged that you came to war for me," Jaime replied.

"I came to war to have a damn good fight at last. I haven't had a good fight in years Jaime. Not having a fight is like not getting to fuck, you get all backed up, need to get it out," the Strongboar laughed. Jaime smiled at that. He had always known that Ser Lyle Crakehall would fight anyone, anywhere, at any time, for any reason.

"Think this will be a good one Jaime? I missed out on fighting the Ironmen last time 'cause of that damned Isildur, he finished 'em off too quickly!" said Ser Lyle.

"Lyle, if this goes the way I think it's going to, you might get to fight Isildur himself," Jaime told him.

"That would be worthy of the songs!" Lyle grinned.

"Where is my father? I've ridden far and hard and I must speak to him,"

"He's up at the castle, with your uncle,"

The Golden Tooth was the seat of House Lefford, and of Lord Leo Lefford, whom Jaime remembered as a dour and unpleasant man who rarely laughed. Yet above the portcullis, it was the lion of Lannister that floated there, and men in the red cloaks of his father's personal guard welcomed him in the courtyard when he dismounted.

"Tregar, see that the men rest and are well fed, they've earned it," Jaime commanded.

"Yes my lord," Tregar replied gratefully.

Some of his father's men led him into the keep, through the hall, up a long staircase. Their torches flickered in the chill air. They led him to Lord Leo's study, and flung the door open. In the firelight of the study, familiar faces rose to greet him.

They stood around a table strewn with maps. There was tall, lean Ser Addam Marbrand and his father Lord Damon, and next to them was sombre Lord Quenten Banefort. Across the table from Lord Banefort was Lewys Lydden, Lord of the Deep Den, with his badger sigil on his surcoat. Lord Roland Crakehall stood as tall and robust as his son the Strongboar, and Lord Leo Lefford looked as sour as if he had swallowed a lemon. And standing near the head of the table, balding and portly as ever, Ser Kevan Lannister smiled at Jaime.

Next to Uncle Kevan, there he stood. The Great Lion, the Lord of Casterly Rock, the Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West.

"Father," said Jaime in greetings.

"Jaime," said Lord Tywin Lannister. He did not smile to see him. Jaime knew that Father never smiled. Yet in the slightest movements, the minutest twitches of his father's drawn, stony face, he could see something like… relief? Satisfaction?

"How did your journey fare?" Tywin asked. Jaime idly wondered when he would start balding as Lord Tywin had, and if he would still be as muscled and powerfully built as his father when he reached his father's age.

"Oh the usual tiring days on the road, dusty, hot, nearly ran into Tully freeriders once or twice, just another happy summer ride in the Riverlands," Jaime replied, flashing his smile. Father's face was not moved.

"You must be weary from the road. My lords, we shall continue our business tomorrow when my son is rested and may join us," Lord Tywin commanded.

"But my lord, we still have many arrangements," but before Lord Lefford could finish his objection, Tywin Lannister turned his head and stared at him. He did not scowl, he did not snap or snarl or demand silence, he simply looked at him. Lord Lefford said no more.

One by one, the lords and captains of the Westerlands filed from the study, nodding to Jaime or clapping hands on his back in greeting as they passed. Soon only Jaime and his father were left in the study. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth.

"You know Father, it's the funniest thing, I was just riding home to get an army and here it is," Jaime said.

"Tyrion left us no choice," Tywin replied.

"Catelyn Stark left us no choice," Jaime said. He would not see his brother blamed for the crimes of his captors. There was a flicker of gold-flecked green eyes. Small, barely noticeable for any other than Lord Tywin's own children, but Jaime could see it plain as day. Father had never approved of Jaime's closeness to Tyrion.

"It was Tyrion that was fool enough that get captured by a woman," Tywin said in a voice of correction. Not angry, nor gentle, simply stern enough for Jaime to know the rebuke when he heard it. "But his foolishness is of no matter, Catelyn Stark will pay for this foolishness, she will pay with that which is dearest to her,"

"You mean to march then?" Jaime said. The corners of Lord Tywin's mouth twitched, not a smile, never a smile, merely a twitch.

"We cannot allow rebellious northerners to take a brother of the King captive at will," he replied.

"Brother of the King?" And then Jaime realized what his father was saying "Oh I see, very clever way of presenting it, but surely I don't need to remind you that the bitch's husband is our Robert's bosom companion and Marshal of the King's Host?

"And Cersei is his wife, and all of his children are half Lannister, and you and Tyrion are his brothers, and I am the father of his wife and grandfather of his children. We are a part of the royal family," Lord Tywin said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

They are your grandchildren father, but not by Robert, Jaime thought.

Jaime considered the brotherly love of Robert and old honest Ned. Seldom had he ever seen a stronger bond between men who did not share blood. Stannis and Renly were Robert's brothers by birth, Tyrion and Jaime were his brothers by marriage, but Ned Stark was his brother by choice. For once, Jaime thought his father might have it wrong.

"Not a part he's very fond of, admittedly," Jaime replied. King Robert had never hidden his distaste for the Lannisters. Not that Jaime could blame him really. Robert was surrounded by Lannisters, and Cersei would be cold in bed for anyone but Jaime. If he were in Robert's place, he'd probably get sick of Lannisters himself.

"It doesn't matter whether he's fond of us or not, if he wishes to be respected as king he must enforce upon his lords that the royal family is untouchable. And we must do the same for our house, we must get your brother back," Tywin said.

"I didn't realize you cared for my brother's life," said Jaime. There was the twitching of the mouth again that was the closest Father came to a bemused smile.

"He is a Lannister. The least of the Lannisters perhaps, but one of us, and I will not allow the Tullys or the Starks or anyone to hold him captive with impunity. I will remind them why the rains weep over Castamere," Tywin's words were not spoken in anger, there was no threat in them. He merely said it as fact.

"What about-"

"You are weary Jaime, you ought to rest from the road," Lord Tywin instructed. After many years of living at Casterly Rock, Jaime had become well accustomed to how Father would give his children commands. The heavy thud of armoured boots behind him confirmed it.

"Show my son to suitable quarters for him, see that he is fed, and summon him promptly tomorrow for the council of war,"

The guard led Jaime to a room in a high turret of the Tooth. Out the window, he could see the thousands of campfires spread out beneath him, like a tapestry of small lights. Men moved in the camp, shadows around the fires.

An impromptu meal was been laid out for him on the table, and he ate ravenously. There was a round loaf of bread that tasted as if it had baked earlier in the day. There were cold meats and a half a wheel of ripe cheese, and some dried fruit as well. To wash it down, a mug of good brown ale. It was simple fare but delicious. He had had little but hardtack and dried meat for a week at least, with the occasional apple snared from a passing tree on the road. Jaime hadn't realized how hungry he had been. He had eaten many fine meals in his life. He had sat at feasts and festivals, he had eaten meals by the finest cooks in the South and the North and even Gondor, but rarely had any meal tasted as good as that late supper at the Golden Tooth.

He barely managed to get his travel-stained clothing off before he collapsed gratefully into bed. Jaime didn't even have time to appreciate the softness of the pillows or the crispness of the sheet. Sleep was immediate, deep, and dreamless. His last thoughts before slumber took him were of Cersei.

Jaime awoke in the morning to the sounds of an encamped army. Men shouted and laughed, dogs barked, horses neighed and called to each, and armourers rang hammers off of blades and breastplates. He looked out the window as he pulled a fresh tunic over his head. An ocean of colour and heraldry stretched across the pass. All the sigils of the lords of the Westerlands fluttered in the wind. Jaime smiled. Even as a grown man, the sights of his father's banners could still bring a thrill to his heart.

When he had donned a clean doublet and trousers, he went to depart his chamber. He found one of his father's guards at his door.

"Milord, Lord Tywin instructs that you shall sit at the council of war today," said the guard. Jaime raised an eyebrow at him.

"This morning?" he asked.

"Yes milord, Lord Tywin was very clear," said the guard.

"Later, after I have broken my fast," Jaime smiled easily.

"But milord,"

"They're not going to go to war without me, I can assure you," Jaime said.

What he didn't tell the guard was where he intended to break his fast. He rode out of the gate of the Golden Tooth and headed down into the camp. Tents great and small stretched out in all directions, from the unmarked ones of freeriders and sellswords to the huge and richly decorated tents of lords, like canvas palaces with armour and shields hung out in front of their door to display their sigils.

Jaime quickly found the company he sought. Lyle Crakehall was outside of his tent in shirt and riding leathers, laughing loudly at some joke of thick-necked Ser Peter Plumm. One of the Strongboar's servants was frying a tantalizing-smelling breakfast of bacon, sausages, fried beans and eggs. Nearby stood Ser Addam Marbrand, smiling at the laughter. He wore a surcoat that bore the burning tree of his house.

"Good morning to you my lord," called Ser Addam when he saw Jaime vault down from his horse.

"Oh don't get all courtly on me now Addam," Jaime replied. Addam extended a hand in greeting and Jaime took it and then pulled the heir of Ashemark into a hug.

"It'll be good to have you at our side when we ride out to whip the Tullys," Jaime told him. Ser Addam grinned. Lord Damon Marbrand's eldest son had been a page of Casterly Rock as a boy, he had grown up with Lord Tywin's children, Jaime's only constant companion other than Cersei.

"When are we riding out Ser Jaime? I want to kill somebody!" announced Lyle.

"You always want to kill somebody Strongboar," Jaime replied. He pulled up a stool and sat down next to the cooking fire.

"Of course! There's nothing better!" Ser Lyle laughed, sitting down in a stool of his own.

Lyle Crakehall was built every bit as strong and fierce as the boar that was his sigil. There were few men in the Eight Kingdoms that Jaime wasn't sure he could defeat in a fight if he had too, and the Strongboar was one of them. Not as fast as Jaime, nobody was, but immensely strong and dangerous, with arms that looked like they could break a man's back.

Ser Peter Plumm, his face as red as a tomato, was of a different sort. He too was a big man, but more portly than and not as muscular as the Strongboar. Jaime wasn't deceived by the appearances though, Ser Peter was tremendously strong as well, if not quite as much as Ser Lyle. If it ever came down to a fight though, Jaime's gold would be on Ser Lyle Crakehall. He was also sure that he could beat Ser Peter if he needed too. There weren't many of his father's knights and bannermen he couldn't defeat in a fight if he had to.

Glancing over at Ser Addam Marbrand, Jaime wasn't entirely sure. He knew he could beat Addam, he'd done it many times in the sparring yard when he was young. But even then their bouts were often close. Since they were boys, Addam had grown his copper-red hair out to his shoulders. Long legs made him a good horseman and long arms gave him many advantages with sword in hand. It might be a close one, but Jaime was sure his speed would tell if he ever came to blows with Addam. That seemed unlikely though. They had been friends and rivals at Casterly Rock when they were young, but as Addam had grown he had become as loyal to Jaime's family in his own way as Uncle Kevan was to Jaime's lord father.

Ser Addam sat down next to Jaime, and handed him a plate of food hot from the fire.

"Speaking of the fighting, does your lord father know who will be in the field against us? He was tight-lipped at the council last night," said Addam.

"The riverlords at least I think, we'll have to humble Lady Stark's family," said Jaime.

"Serves 'em right if they were stupid enough to mess with Lord Tywin," laughed Ser Peter.

"It was my brother who was taken captive, Ser Peter, you'd best remember," Jaime said.

"Whatever they did to raise Lord Tywin's ire, we'll give them a damn good thrashing and be home in time for the next harvest," Peter replied.

"What of their allies?" asked Ser Addam, ever the soldier.

"The Starks I think, old honourable Ned will hardly just let his wife's home put to the torch. The Arryns too perhaps, if Lysa isn't so mad as to allow her sister to go to war alone, but you never know with that woman," answered Jaime.

"A woman with thousands of swords at her beck and call, now there's a terrifying thought," said Ser Peter.
Jaime had to agree. For all that he loved Cersei, the thought of her commanding armies was an uncomfortable one.

"Bah, the more foes in the field, the more glorious the victory," declared Ser Lyle.

"Or the more total the defeat. We'll have to keep eyes on the northern roads," said Addam, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

Jaime shrugged, and dug into his breakfast. He was soon ignoring the conversation of the others entirely. He had almost forgotten the joy of a hot meal in the morning. Jaime was just in the middle of chewing on a spoonful of eggs when a question was asked that he had hoped wouldn't be.

"Ser Jaime, I heard that you tangled with the Dunedain at the Hand's tourney?" said Ser Peter. Jaime swallowed his eggs.

"Yes, you could say that," he said.

It had been around the first hour of the afternoon when he had met Aratan on the lists. Three opponents had already fallen to Jaime's lance. The herald matching him with the lean Dunadan had excited him, he had never fought one of their kind before. He had been confident that the son of Isildur too would fall. Aratan had ridden onto the field in a hauberk of mail down to his knees, with plate on arms and legs and a coat of plates on his chest, and Jaime thought that the long kite shield would make for a good target.

Jaime remembered that as he fell from his horse after the fourth tilt, with his own shield split by Aratan's lance, he thought something in midair. He had thought: This might be a bit more complicated than expected.

The laughter had irked him. Above the commotion of the crowds and the nobles, that drunken fool Robert's laugh had resounded loudest of all. They had always laughed at Jaime Lannister, he was used to it by now, but that didn't mean it didn't anger him.

Within his visor, nobody saw him smile when Aratan drew his sword. When Aratan dismounted and tossed aside his shield, Jaime was glad. He knew that the son of Isildur understood.

Jaime had fought many middling swordsmen in his day. He had fought many good swordsmen. He had even fought a few great swordsmen. Few people knew what a great swordsman was. It was not enough to just handle a blade well, you had to think, you had to be fast and cunning, and you had to be able to wrestle and grapple and use the whole sword to fight with. Aratan Isildurion was a great swordsman. His reach was long and his arm was strong. Parrying his blows was like trying to parry a bolt of lightning. Grappling with him was like grappling a bear made of steel and stone. His form was perfection, and even though Jaime could strike twice for every one swing that Aratan made, somehow the Dunadan still parried and deflected easily. Rarely had Jaime ever been pushed so hard in a fight and the joy of battle was like a fire in his veins.

It had been frustrating when Robert had commanded them to stop before the fight could finish. It had been more frustrating when Cersei had asked him so desperately to not try to fight Aratan again; she always worried about him. Most frustrating of all was when he finally caught Aratan in the melee after hours of seeking him out, only for Robert to get himself stabbed and the fight finished prematurely. Jaime hated leaving matters unfinished with a worthy foe.

"As good as the songs say?" asked the Strongboar.

"They're strong for their age, and faster than you'd think with those old bones," Jaime said, smirking.

"Will they come south though? What will Gondor do?" asked Ser Addam. Jaime smiled. Addam always had been a man to focus on the task at hand instead of wasting time on idle talk.

"Not sure, they may or they may not, hard to say with war. If they do, we'll fight them," said Jaime.

"Lord Isildur is the Hand of the King ain't he? And he's got that Host they've been raising," said Ser Peter Plumm.

"Bah, peasants. I want a real battle, I want to be able to tell my grandchildren that I fought the Dunedain and defeated them," Ser Lyle Crakehall's voice was loud and boisterous.

"Their ships could be a dagger in our back though," said Ser Addam quietly.

As if sensing that their talk had turned to strategy, a messenger rode up to them just when Jaime had finished his food. The lion of Casterly Rock was embroidered on the boy's surcoat. Jaime tried to think if he had seen him somewhere before, but decided that he hadn't. He supposed much had changed in his father's household since last he was home.

"My lord Ser Jaime, your lord father sends for you. Ser Addam, you are also summoned, my lord… ser," the messenger said dutifully and nervously. He looked about fourteen years of age and sounded like it as well.

Probably a page. Gods, he looks so nervous, he's sweating. I hope the brat isn't my squire Jaime thought.

"Very well, mustn't keep father dearest waiting," Jaime said, handing his plate to Ser Lyle's servant.

He and Ser Addam rode side by side back up towards the Golden Tooth. It was not the largest castle of the Eight Kingdoms but it was certainly one of the strongest. It dominated the pass, clinging hard to the shoulder of a mountain. A curtain wall of great thickness sat behind a dry moat, with a dozen huge round towers frowning down on the pass below. Within that wall was the main courtyard. A second inner wall with six towers protected the inner courtyard, from which rose the keep of Lord Lefford. A tall spire rose from the top of the keep, like the jagged fang of some huge beast, and from that spire the men of the Golden Tooth kept a watch on the mountain pass. In all the centuries that the castle had stood, no foe had entered the Westerlands from the east without having to fight past the Tooth first.

There was blast of horns and a roll of drums from the west. Jaime reined his horse up at the edge of the Tooth's drawbridge. From the western road, he saw a long, tramping column of men come marching. The tips of pikes and spears, and burnished helmets, and bits of armour caught the sunlight and gleamed. The drums beat out a constant beat for the soldiers. They looked to be about two thousand strong. Above them was a silken banner in the green and brown colours that Jaime recognized as the colours of House Moreland. At their head rode Lord Robin Moreland himself, a long green cloak over his shoulders, and all his retainers and men-at-arms about him.

Behind the Moreland levies came a second column. No banners did they fly, and their ranks were not as straight and taut as those of the Moreland men. They were talking, laughing, strolling almost casually. Over their shoulders they carried large crossbows with prods of steel. Jaime recognized the type; they were arbalests. So heavy and so powerful was an arbalest that it had to be cranked back by a windlass. On their backs they wore huge pavises, and each man came with a sword at his side. Jaime knew them now: Sellswords. Several hundreds of them, all crossbowmen.

"Lord Lannister has paid a handsome price for any professional crossbowmen he can find, and sellswords have been flocking to our banners by the thousands," said Ser Addam, seeing Jaime watch the approaching columns.

Lord Tywin had commanded that the council of war be held in the great hall of the Golden Tooth. The lords and the captains of the West gathered around the high table, standing or sitting, talking in groups or pairs, filling the room with a persistent murmur of chatter. Servants were setting out bottles of wine and goblets, and spreading maps across the table.

I wonder how many campaigns have been fought at the gap where two maps meet? thought Jaime.

At a glance he guessed that slightly over half of his father's bannermen were gathered already. He noted that the Falwells, Westerlings, Stackspears, and Presters had not yet shown, amongst those still absent. Nor did he see the hulking form of Gregor Clegane, a surprise as usually Gregor was amongst the first to answer his lord's call. And, to Jaime's confusion, his father was not yet amongst them, though Uncle Kevan was already sitting at the head of the table.

"Jaime, your father wishes to see you in the study. Alone," said Ser Kevan Lannister as soon as Jaime approached the high table.

Addam nodded to Jaime and then went to take his place next to his father Lord Damon. A silent guard accompanied Jaime up the long, winding staircase that led to the study, which was in one of the corners of the keep. Jaime had learned from long experience at Casterly Rock not to try to chat with his father's personal guards; Lord Tywin had always preferred them silent.

The door to the study was heavy, bound with iron, and almost closed. It was open only a slit. On the other side of it, Jaime heard voices.

"The Mummer's Ford is the perfect place for it, I promise you my lord," said a voice like the breaking of stones. Jaime recognized that it belonged to Ser Gregor Clegane.

"You would risk piercing him with a dozen arrows and then having him drown in the river. He's no use to us dead, you idiot," said the stern voice of Lord Tywin.

"My men are better than that. He will be taken alive my lord, I swear it," replied Gregor.

"Your men are murderers, rapers and thieves. Luckily for them, they're more use to me under your command than hanging from the gallows. Now go, and see that it is done properly," said Twin.

Jaime opened the door. He was treated to the sight of his father staring up at the Troll That Walks in the Day. Ser Gregor Clegane was known to some as The Mountain That Rides. His body fit the description. He was a beast of a man, built on a colossal scale, nearly eight feet tall and even broader and heavier than usual in his harness of dark grey plate armour worn over mail and leather. Beneath his arm he carried a huge greathelm with a closed fist atop its crest. A sword that lesser men could barely lift was sheathed at his side. And yet despite his great bulk and tremendous strength, be bowed his head as if berated by Jaime's lord father. In all his years, Jaime had only ever seen the Mountain bow his head to Lord Tywin.

His father's eyes flicked over to Jaime.

"Ser Gregor, you may leave us. Remember what I told you," Tywin said.

"Yes my lord, it shall be done," said Ser Gregor, and he turned and walked past Jaime without as much as a by your leave to the son of his liege lord. His plate harness shook and clattered mightily with every step.

"Sending the gallant Ser Gregor on some valiant quest I see," Jaime said. His father snorted, a short inhale through the nostrils, it could almost be said to be a chuckle.

"Ser Gregor has his uses. And if he is intelligent enough to do as I have asked him, he will hand us the key to Gondor," Lord Tywin sat down in a chair by the fireplace. He grabbed a rolled up letter off a table and handed it to Jaime. "Read this,"

It was a scroll of the kind sent by raven, covered in a small script. Jaime unrolled it in his hands and read aloud:

"Uhh, on the authority of Isildur, son of Elendil, Hand of the King, the usual titles, and in the name of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, more titles. Ser Gregor Clegane is hereby declared an outlaw and sentenced to death. Let any freeman put him death and let none shelter him lest they wish to share in his fate. In the name of the King, Lord Isildur will bring the outlaw to justice. Any who would hinder the King's Justice shall be considered to be sheltering the outlaw and will likewise be considered enemies of the Crown," he paused, raising an eyebrow and staring at his father.

"Sheltering outlaws now father? And I thought Tyrion was bad for drinking with thieves and whores," he said. His father was not amused.

"As I said, Ser Gregor has his uses," Tywin said, and suddenly Jaime saw it.

"You're using him as bait to draw Isildur out?" he said. Slowly Tywin nodded.

"But how do you know that Isildur will come himself and not send another in his place?" asked Jaime.

"Because Lord Isildur is a fool who thinks he's a hero from the songs," replied Tywin.

"Well he is a hero from the songs if you haven't noticed. Several of them, in fact," Jaime said. He tried to recall the lyrics of the last one he had heard. It had been awful, the singer kept trying to find rhymes for the word "courageous".

"He is a man. This whole realm seems to think that the folk of Elendil are sorcerors or demons or whatever the smallfolk and the singers can imagine, but they are nothing more than men, they bleed like the rest of us," Father was using the stern, factual voice he saved for when he wished to lecture his children.

"Men who live to be three hundred or more?" said Jaime.

"Men," repeated Lord Tywin.

"And why exactly have you decided to attack the Hand of the King? The last I checked, we were fighting for Tyrion, and Robert may be a drunken fool but he's unlikely to look kindly upon us attacking his Hand and his friend," Jaime's father gave him a look as if he was deeply disappointed in his son's words, but his face remained unmoved.

"And how was the drunk king when you left him?" Tywin asked.

"Bedridden," admitted Jaime. His father nodded.

"Now think: What would it profit us to have Isildur in our dungeons?" said Tywin. Jaime recognized that tone as the one his father used when he wished to teach something.

"Leverage over Elendil?" said Jaime. Tywin Lannister nodded again.

"If you had studied your history as diligently as you studied your swordsmanship, you would know that Elendil has been allied to the Starks for over two hundred years. Catelyn Tully is married to a Stark. We can fight the Tullys, the Starks and Arryns won't be able to come to their aid for weeks, but if the White Fleet were to sail it could set our homes afire while we campaign in the Riverlands and we would have an army of Dunedain and Northmen at our backs. I need an assurance that Elendil will stay in Gondor while we punish the Tullys," he explained.

"And so you want Isildur as your hostage?" said Jaime."The Greyjoys-"

"Were stupid. They raped and killed captives that were more valuable alive and unspoiled,"

"Alive and unspoiled? And you sent Gregor Clegane to do this?" Jaime said incredulously.

"Isildur has wanted his head for a long time. He is the perfect bait, and once Isildur is our captive then Gondor will stay out of this. Elendil is too old and Anarion is not a soldier. Elendil will not risk his heir's life," replied his father.

"I saw Elendil in Annuminas, he's very spry for his age," Jaime remembered the Lord of Gondor. He was one of the tallest men Jaime had ever seen, tall as the Troll perhaps, and despite the gray on his hair and in his beard he still looked vigorous and strong. Jaime wondered how he handled a sword.

"Age withers more than just your body, as you may discover one day my son," said Lord Tywin. "The Starks and Arryns will come though, after we have routed the Riverlords. We will draw them back to Golden Tooth, burning the Riverlands behind us so that all may see that Lannisters pay their debts. And when they have come here and they can come no further, then we will negotiate and get your brother back,"

Gods, this isn't about Tyrion at all Jaime thought. Not for the first time, Jaime hated his father.

"Ned Stark is still outside of the capital though, with nearly ten thousand men," Jaime said. Tywin snorted again.

"Ten thousand peasants with pikes, barely trained, with no cavalry. They're hardly worth the bread they feed them. We outnumber him over four to one. Ned Stark is not a fool, he wouldn't take such an army into battle against us," Lord Twyin said contemptuously. Jaime's worry was not about facing the King's Host in the field but of Cersei being taken captive.

"Ned Stark is a fool though, why else would he have Tyrion be taken captive? Terrible judgement, the Starks," said Jaime.

"I suppose I should thank your sister for talking you out of the stupidity of attacking him," said Tywin.

How does he always know? Did Cersei write already? Jaime wondered.

"You have something clever to say? Go on then, say it. If you and your brother had minds as sharp as your tongues, our house's future would be much more secure," said Tywin.

"Catelyn Stark took my brother, I had to go after Tyrion, to try to get him back," replied Jaime.

"Well at least you're thinking of your family, though not very intelligently. You shouldn't have wasted your time blundering about in the Riverlands where the Tullys could have captured you. Lannisters don't act like fools," said Tywin. The Lord of Casterly Rock stood up and looked at his son sternly.

"Now mark my words: The fate of our house hangs in the balance. We could establish a royal dynasty, or else collapse into nothing. Whether we stand or fall will depend upon us and our actions. I need you to set aside the boy, become the man you were born to be," Lord Tywin reached out and clasped Jaime's shoulder. Once again he noticed that there was no mention of Tyrion.

When Jaime said nothing, Twin continued.

"You will be given half of our forces, thirty thousand strong. You will take them to Catelyn Stark's girlhood home and show her how Lannisters pay their debts. Capture Edmure Tully and we will have a strong position when it comes time to negotiate. I will take the rest of our forces around south and march to the crossroads to defend your flank. Then when the Starks and Arryns come, we retreat to the Golden Tooth. Do you understand?"

"Yes father," said Jaime.

"Good," Lord Tywin released him and walked to the door. "When we enter the hall to sit at this council, you will sit at my right hand, so that all may see you,"

"I imagine they well know what I look like father,"

"They will see that you are my heir and your time wearing that ridiculous white cloak for madmen and drunkards is over,"

Jaime sat at his father's right hand at that council of war. He sat at his father's side and listened to the bannermen speak of provisions and maneuvers, scouting and sieges and stratagems. He sat at his father's side and looked stern and lordly as he knew his father wished, and smiled and joked and charmed his father's vassals as he knew he needed to. And not for the last time, Jaime hated his father.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter XIII
Riverrun

Yara Greyjoy awoke to the sounds of knocking on her chamber door. An insistent, urgent knock, sounding like it was from a mailed fist. One of the guards, she quickly thought.

"My lord, there is a message for you," said the guard. She recognized the voice. It was Roland, one of the household guards of the Tullys.

"Wake up my lord," she said to the man sleeping at her side, putting on a voice of exaggerated deferential courtesy. The lump of sheets and pillows next to her did not move.

"My lord, you must awaken," she continued in a cloyingly sweet tone.

"Ughhh," grunted the lump.

"Edmure, wake up," she demanded, pushing at his shoulder. He groaned again. She balled a fist and punched him.

"You're so rough on me," Edmure Tully replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. She grinned at him.

"You never complained about that before," Yara said. He smiled back at her through his fierce reddish beard.

"My lord?" came the questioning voice of Roland.

"What is it Roland?" Edmure said.

"There was a message for you, a rider from Lady Whent, he says it is urgent," replied the guard.

"Ugh, fine, show him to the great hall, I'll be there shortly," Edmure replied.

Outside their window, the sky was grey and the world was full of a gray half-light. It was the early hours of the morning and a cool breeze brushed over Yara's bare skin. She stretched out on the four-poster bed she had shared with Edmure the previous night. Rolling over to her side and drumming her fingers on a bare thigh, Yara observed her lover dressing.

When she had come to Riverrun as a girl, Edmure had been a boy only a few years older than her, with a gawky build and lanky limbs. As he had grown, he had filled out, till he had the stocky, muscular build of a riverman. His hair was reddish-brown and his eyes a bright blue and his face smiled easily and his beard lent him a rugged handsomeness. Edmure noticed her watching him and he waggled his eyebrows at her. She sighed and shook her head.

She could not say she loved him. No, Yara Greyjoy did not think she could love, not after how she had come to be the ward of Riverrun. She did not love Edmure, yet he was kind to her and not an unskilled lover and the feeling of his arms around her did not displease her.

And he will make a good match for my house someday she reflected. If she had to wed someone she did not love, at least it would be one whom she chose for herself.

When Edmure had dressed, he went over to her and kissed her, then winked. She pulled up the bedsheets to cover herself just as Edmure opened the door. Roland glanced in but saw that she was covered. Yara hated being leered at.

When the sounds of footsteps down the hallway had disappeared, she tossed the sheets back and got out of bed. Yara rolled her eyes at the wall hangings in her chamber. They were tapestries of the usual Riverlands scenes of farmers and fishermen and the Tully salmon swimming in swift rivers. She had always wondered why the Tullys insisted on a fish as their sigil when their lands had so many fishermen.

She dressed herself in riding leathers, as was her custom. The kraken of her house was worked in gold thread upon the sleeve of her jerkin. Her unorthodox dress habits for a woman had caused many her septa unending headaches when she was a younger girl, but as she grew up and Lord Hoster had grown elderly, gradually Riverrun had come to accept that she would dress that way.

"As long as she dresses properly for sept and visiting lords," Hoster Tully had admitted at last. She smiled at the memory. Yara had always thought the Tullys were fools, but they were kindly fools at the least. She tried to think of the gowns and dresses she had to wear on those occasions as a sort of armour, worn for a purpose. That made it easier.

When she was dressed, she sheathed a dagger at her belt. That too had caused many arguments at Riverrun, but with promises and compromises and no small amount of flattery she had finally won the right to go armed without the men of Riverrun thinking her strange, though many were still uneasy about it. Yara Greyjoy would never let herself be helpless again, not after what happened.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," said Yara. A young lady with dark hair and dark eyes walked in, dressed in the plain dress of a handmaiden, head bowed in deference.

"Good morning milady, Lord Edmure ordered that I attend to you," the girl said. Her name was Jeyne Rivers, the bastard daughter of one of Lord Tully's bannermen, sent to Riverrun to make her living as a handmaid. Yara thought she was a silly girl when she was younger, but she became Yara's own handmaid, and she appreciated that Jeyne never looked on her strangely for wearing what she did or acting as she pleased.

"I will wear my hair in a braid today, I think," Yara commanded, sitting down at a desk by the western window. Obligingly, Jeyne came over and started to brush out her hair. Yara's hair was long, thick, and black. When she was a girl she had kept it short like a boy, but she had worn it longer and longer ever since. Now it reached down to the small of her back, and she usually wore it in a braid to keep it out of her way.

In the courtyard beneath her window, the guards were filing out for their morning drill, shivering and rubbing their arms in the dawn chill. Others kept a watch from the towers and the battlements, and above the gatehouse flew the salmon of House Tully, Lords of the Riverlands and, for the last nine years, the foster-family of Yara Greyjoy.

God, nine years already, nearly ten she thought, staring out the window towards the west.

Riverrun was a castle unlike any other. It was a three-sided castle, built roughly in the shape of a triangle, built at the point where the Red Fork and the Tumblehome met. Most of its buildings, including the tall stone keep, and even many of its rooms, were also triangular to fit inside this unusual shape. Two sides of Riverrun were covered by water, and the western side faced a deep, wide ditch. If foes came upon Riverrun, a sluice gate could be opened to the rivers, turning that ditch into a moat. The stronghold of the Tullys was not especially large as castles went, but it was a formidable fortress in its own right.

Almost ten years had Yara spent in this place, with old Lord Hoster and gallant Edmure, wise Maester Vyman, her long-suffering Septa Sigrid, fat-bellied Ser Desmond and bald Ser Robin Ryger who were always arguing, and all the rest of the household of the Tullys. Often she thought them stupid, or foolish, or weak, and yet they were not cruel or unkind to her. After all these years, she could almost call Riverrun a second home. Almost, but it was not her home and these people were not her people, and that she never forgot.

Somewhere to the west, across blue rivers and green plains and grey mountains, and across the wine-dark sea, her home still waited for her. There, rising upon pinnacles of storm-weathered rock, was the castle of her fathers and her house. Yara could still see it in her mind. Broken walls and tumbled towers. The gate shattered, the hearth cold and the halls abandoned. In her dreams sometimes she still saw it as it was before, full of family and happiness and the salt-smell of the sea. And sometimes she saw it still smoking from the fires that consumed it, with the courtyards strewn with corpses and her father dead upon his own throne. Yet it was still her home, it would always be her home, and she had promised herself that one day she would take it back. Pyke was her home, not Riverrun, and Pyke still called to her from across the waves.

Her lands were not these green lands. They were the Iron Islands, land of rock and salt. The names of those islands lived in her memory. When she was young she would repeat them to herself, like a prayer, so she would not forget where she came from. Pyke, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Blacktyde, Saltcliffe, Orkmont and Harlaw. Those islands jutted up from the waters like the ridges on the back of some monstrous sea-dragon. The islands were stony and craggy, and the grass there was short and sparse, and lichen clung to the rocks, and the ocean jutted into the land in deep fjords and inlets. The people, it was said, were just as hard and cruel and stubborn as the land itself. Yet the Ironborn were her people, and the Iron Islands were her lands, and the sea was in her blood and she did not forget how it was taken away from her

The Iron Fleet had sailed away to meet the foe. Well did she remember how brave and how strong it had looked, hundreds of longships with their high prows carved into serpents and dragons and strange beasts, and their oars sweeping at the water rhythmically. The men were all in burnished mail and high helms, with their painted shields hung over the side of their ships, and their arms glinted in the sun. In the centre of the fleet was the flagship; The Great Kraken, hulking and massive, its huge ram wrought in the shape of a fierce kraken with many arms clinging to the bow of the ship. Balon Greyjoy was her father, he was Son of the Sea Wind, Lord Reaper of Pyke, High King of the Isles. He was mighty and she knew he could never be defeated. How wrong she had been.
Only the Great Kraken returned after the battle. Her Uncle Aeron had died in the fighting off the coast of Harlaw, and Uncle Euron who had abandoned their father. Her father's bannermen had been sent down to the Drowned God or else scattered to the four winds before the onslaught of the foe.

She remembered seeing the white ships appear on the horizon, coming from the north. Pale as death they were. Their prows were carven like the heads of swans and eagles and seabirds. Cruel rams glided beneath the waves at the bow of every ship. Their sails were black as the night, and each mainsail displayed a silver star of many rays. On every mast flew the banner of the enemy: The cursed white tree and seven stars and the crescent moon. Yara remembered it well. And she remembered what manner of men they were: Tall they were and fell they seemed, as if they had sailed out of the ancient mists of time.

Three days. That was all it took from the moment they landed to the moment their ram broke open the gates. They did not wait for starvation or time to take its course, and though Yara's mother begged her father to sue for peace, he knew and she knew in their hearts that the tall men of the sea would not listen. There would be no quarter. There would be no peace with Gondor.

Her older brothers died holding the gate for as long as they could. Uncle Victarion perished holding the bridges against the enemy. Her father was slain upon his own throne, with Isildur's sword in his heart. Her mother was the next victim of the Lord of Minas Ithil's blade. Yara had taken her brother, Theon, the last family in all the world she had, and she hid with him in their room. For a day and a night they sat and listened to the screams as everyone they had ever known was butchered in the halls around them.

One of the Dunedain finally found them. His mail had rattled with every step he took. His sword was dark with blood. He looked wearier than any man Yara had ever seen. His face was stern and lean and grey eyes looked at them as if they were not there. His helm was tall, gleaming bright, and tall wings rose from its crest. Yara was sure she and her brother would be slain; she held Theon tight and wept and prepared herself to meet the Drowned God.

Yet he sheathed his sword, and pulled off his helm, and kneeled before them. His eyes were kindlier then. He didn't say anything, he just held out his hand. Somehow Yara understood. She took his hand, and the Dunadan picked up her brother as if he were light as a feather, and he led them away from there.

Five days on one of the white ships. Those were the saddest days of all. Five days amongst the people who had slaughtered her family, and they never saw the Dunadan who spared them again. They were given to the King, who was marshaling his forces at Lannisport, and the King decided to separate them. Yara was given to old Lord Hoster Tully, and Theon to Lord Eddard Stark. For nine years she had not seen the sea or her home or her brother.

She had a new prayer now though, and she kept it in her mind always:

What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.

"I am finished milady," said Jeyne.

"Thank you Jeyne," replied Yara. She stood up. A long black braid, expertly done by the handmaiden, extended to the middle of her back.

"Shall I bring you your breakfast, milady?" asked Jeyne. Yara rolled her eyes. In Riverrun, handmaidens were forever acting as if didn't even have legs to walk with.

"No Jeyne, I can go to the hall myself, I'm not a cripple you know," said Yara with a grin. Her handmaiden nodded and followed along as Yara Greyjoy left the chamber.

Outside, the morning air was cool and fresh and smelled of the rushing waters of the Tumblehome. Riverrun always smelled of running river waters. It was not the sea, but better than to be in Winterfell.

It is cruel to keep an Ironborn so far from the sea Yara thought, not just of herself but of Theon. She had not been allowed to write her brother, nor had he ever written her. She wondered if he ever thought of her, what he looked like, how the Starks had treated him. She wondered if he too missed the sea.

As she crossed the triangular courtyard of Riverrun, she noticed leering eyes amongst the training men. It was a new guard, barely a man grown, watching the movement of her legs and her hips as if he had never seen a woman before. She was used to it by now, but by now only men new to Riverrun still looked on her like that.

"Don't leer at Lady Yara that way you little cunt!" swore Lew, one of the older guards. "Long Lew" he was known around Riverrun, for his long legs.

"And why shouldn't I look at whoever I please, Longshanks?" replied the younger guard, sneering.

"Cause if she don't cut off your little cock and stuff it in your mouth, then I will," growled out Long Lew. Yara smiled at that. Lew had always known what she wanted to hear.

Servants opened heavy iron doors before her. The great hall was not as large as some of the other halls of great houses, yet its roof was high-vaulted, and from its walls hung rich tapestries depicting scenes of the lives of the Riverlanders; farming, fishing, hunting, village festivals, and poling boats along peaceful rivers beneath boughs of green leaves. In a hearth, the remnants of the last night's fire still crackled lowly. Long trestle tables stretched out, enough to seat two hundred men at need. At the high table, plates of sausages, bread, cheese and smoked fish were laid out, but they were untouched.

The black bat of House Whent of Harrenhal spread its wings on the surcoat of the errand-rider. His hair was dark with sweat, matted to his head, and he had the look of a man who had ridden till exhaustion. He swayed where he stood. Around him stood Edmure, Maester Vyman and Utherydes Wayn, the grey-haired steward of the Tullys. Their faces were grave. Edmure held in his hand a letter and the others looked over his shoulder to read it.

"What news?" asked Yara. She took her accustomed seat and reached for a mug of ale.

"My lord?" said the errand-rider. His mouth said no more, but his face said "Is it wise to discuss these matters around a Greyjoy?" She had seen that look many times.

"Riverrun is as much Yara's home as it is ours, she ought to know," said Edmure. He rubbed his eyes, and then handed her the parchment.

She held it in one hand and quickly scanned the letter. It was written in Lady Whent's spidery hand and bore her own personal seal at the bottom. Dark eyes widened when she realized what the letter told her.

"Your sister has taken a Lannister captive?" said Yara. Edmure sat down across from her, head in his hands.

"Why would she do such a thing? With Father ill and Riverrun so close to the Westerlands," Edmure said.

Yara had remembered hearing something about Edmure's nephew being injured falling from a tower at Winterfell, and that Lord Stark had gone south to court as the Marshal of the new King's Host, but neither of those things seemed to have anything to do with the Lannisters. And Lord Tywin Lannister was not one to let his sons be captured without reprisals.

The letter seemed heavy in her fingers. A chill ran down her neck.

"A better question is what business she had in the Riverlands in the first place? Why was she not in the North?" Yara said. The Whent messenger was looking from her to the Maester and Steward with wide eyes. It seemed that no one had told him about the order of things in Riverrun.

"We ought to send a raven to Casterly Rock, to assure Lord Tywin of our peaceful intentions," cautioned Maester Vyman.

"I will not abandon my sister!" declared Edmure bravely.

"And Tywin Lannister wipes his arse with peaceful intentions," added Yara. Septa Sigrid had always hated her manner of speech, but Yara wasn't about to let that stop her. Edmure turned to the messenger.

"Do you know where Cat took her prisoner?" he asked.

"I was told Winterfell, milord, she was riding to the north," the errand-rider replied. Edmure cursed lowly.

"Utherydes, send for Ser Robin," he commanded. The steward nodded and rushed from the hall, robes billowing.

"We have to go stop her, we have to stop this," Edmure said, running a hand through his hair.

"Edmure, your riders won't make it in time, the distance is too far even as the raven flies," Yara replied. In her mind, she could see all the miles stretching out from Riverrun to the Neck, she could see the long route west to the Ruby Ford any riders would have to take to get across the Green Fork, or else north all the way to the Twins. Casterly Rock was much closer, that threat much direr.

"You should call the banners," she said. He looked at her, his face pale, and said nothing.

Ser Robin Ryger came striding into the great hall with plate and mail rattling with every step. The Captain of the Guard of Riverrun was a big, red-faced man with jowls and a wide, heavyset neck. His head was bald but for a few strands of hair he kept cut short around the sides. One of his huge fists was planted on the pommel of the longsword he wore.

"What is your command my lord?" asked Ser Robin.

"Ser Robin, assemble fifteen men and send them riding for the Neck with our fastest horses. They are to find Lady Catelyn Stark, she is on the Kingsroad," Edmure said. He stood up from the table and took the letter from Yara's hand to give it to Ser Robin. The Captain of the Guard read it over quickly, face turning white as he did.

He didn't say anything, he didn't ask any questions, Ser Robin Ryger just rolled up the letter into a tight scroll and handed it back to Edmure. His face was drawn, ashen and drained of colour

"It shall be done, my lord," the Captain said.

"And the bannermen my lord? Shall I send the ravens?" asked Maester Vyman. His brow was beaded with sweat and he wiped it away with one of his voluminous long sleeves.

All eyes fell upon Edmure. Yara stared at him intently. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. He stood up from his seat, his shoulders slumped like he bore some tremendous weight.

Say it, you bastard, you know what must be done thought Yara. She knew he was no coward, but the prospect of war with Tywin Lannister and all the might of Casterly Rock seemed to daunt him. Edmure loved to joust and spar, and sing and drink and boast with friends, but he had never drawn his sword in anger.

"My lord?" said the Maester.

"I shall speak to Father," Edmure replied.

Yara quickly got up and followed him from the hall. He led her down a long stone corridor, and then up a winding stair. The keep of Riverrun was shaped as a triangle, following the shape of the castle itself. It took up the eastern corner of Riverrun, where the two curtain walls met and the rivers joined beneath them. From its highest towers, one could watch the Red Fork meandering away for miles, and in all its history no foe had yet set foot in the keep of Riverrun.

At the end of the corridor, they came to the ironshod oaken door of Lord Tully's bedchamber. Edmure quietly turned the latch and opened it.

Dawn sunlight was streaming into the room through the open windows. The Lord's bedchamber was a triangular room at the eastern corner of the keep. Its broad window faced east and every day the morning sun would shine through it. The room was richly furnished, the light of the sun falling upon the four poster bed. Tapestries decorated the walls. In the corner sat the fighting harness of Lord Tully upon its rack, the outer surface of the plates cunningly wrought to resemble the silver scales of a salmon.

Yet despite the open window and the morning breeze, the chamber smelled of sickness.

Lord Hoster Tully sat up in his bed, head propped up by pillows and backboard. When Yara had come to Riverrun, he had been tall, broad, and bulky, with bright blue eyes and a loud laugh. Even then, his reddish-brown hair had been shot through with strands of grey and the wrinkles of age were beginning to appear at the corners of his lips and eyes.

Now though, another nine years lay heavily upon him. Four of those years had been spent in a gradually worsening sickness. All the luster had gone out of his eyes, they were a pale, watery blue. His hair was white and had thinned out unevenly across his head. His arms were frail, all the muscle and strength gone out of them. His breathing was ragged and he was often taken by horrible fits of coughing, sometimes mixed with blood.

Edmure's face was pained, looking down on his father in such a state. For a moment Yara considered taking his hand in hers, to comfort him. She discarded the notion though. That was one lie too many.

"Edmure, my boy," Hoster Tully said in a thin, weak voice. The sun fell upon the face of the Lord of Riverrun and, for a moment as he smiled at his son, the years and the sickness fell away. For that moment, he looked almost as he once had, with happy eyes and a warm smile. Then he coughed, a deep, painful-sounding cough, and he was a sick old man once more.

"Father, how do you feel?" asked Edmure quietly.

"Sick of this bed," said Lord Hoster with a trace of his old fierceness "But the sun is warm and the day is beautiful. In my younger days, I never learned to appreciate the beautiful view from this window as I do now," He chuckled ruefully.

When Yara first came to Riverrun, it had seemed like Lord Tully would never spend more than a fortnight in his own halls. He was always riding off to this village or that holdfast. Often he would take Edmure with him, so that his heir could learn the names, the faces and the personalities of the bannermen that would one day be sworn to him. He continued to travel even into his later years, until the illness had confined him to Riverrun and usually to his bedchamber.

At first Yara had almost resented the absences, leaving her alone with only Septa Sigrid and Jeyne Waters for company. Eventually she learned: Few in the Riverlands were friends to the Ironborn, and many grumbled about a Greyjoy being fostered in Riverrun. She cared not though. Yara had made sure that one day she, a Greyjoy, would be the lady wife of Edmure Tully, Lord of the Riverlands. Let the lords grumble then when the next generation of Tullys were half Greyjoy. She was sure that some of the bannermen of the North and the Vale had grumbled when their lords chose Tully wives instead of the sisters and daughters of their vassals as was tradition. They had learned, and so would the Rivermen.

"Lady Yara," said Hoster Tully, seeing her. "How are you on this fine morning? I trust you are keeping my fool son in line?" His eyes twinkled merrily, despite the paleness of his face and the shallowness of his breath.

"Your son is a foolhardy jackarse, my lord, but he rules well, with the counsel of the wise," Yara replied.

"My son listen to those who know more than him? I must have been in this bed for longer than I thought," Lord Hoster said, laughing weakly.

Edmure pulled up a chair next to his father's bed. He clutched the letter in his hands. His father's laughter ended quickly.

"Come now, my son, your face is grave. What troubles you?" Hoster said.

"It's my sister, father," Edmure rubbed his brow, troubled.

"What has Lysa done?" Lord Hoster's voice was stern and yet weary, very weary. It sounded to Yara like this would not be the first time that Lysa Tully had troubled her father.

"No father, not Lysa… It was Catelyn," replied Edmure.

"Catelyn? My little Cat? What's she done?" said Hoster Tully. Edmure unrolled the letter regretfully and handed it to his father.

"It's Tyrion Lannister, father. She's taken him captive," said Edmure. Lord Hoster read the letter in total silence, then slowly let it slip from his fingers when he had done so. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead.

"Holy Father Above. Oh Cat, my Cat, why would you do this to us?" Lord Tully said softly. "Lady Whent sent this to you?"

"Yes father, the messenger rode from Harrenhal bearing this, but there are riders on the road for the Westerlands as well," replied Edmure gravely.

"Ravens will be flying as well my lord. Lord Tywin has many eyes and ears I would bet," said Yara, crossing her arms.

"Aye Yara, you are right. Have you sent anyone after Cat?" asked Hoster.

"Ser Ryger is assembling fifteen men to ride out. They'll make for the Kingsroad to try to catch up with her before she reaches the Neck," said Edmure.

"That is good. If we can reach her, we might be able to negotiate with Lord Tywin. If not… Damn this sickness, damn it to Seven Hells," said Lord Tully, and his voice failed him as he went into another fit of coughing. It was so violent it brought tears to his pale eyes.

"Father…" Edmure's voice was somber "I think I should call the banners,"

"No!" said Hoster Tully hoarsely. "No we must not appear to be the aggressors," He was caught up in another coughing fit before continuing. "If we call our banners now, Lord Tywin will only call upon the King and use that as proof that we intended to invade his lands and attack his family. Catelyn taking Tyrion captive will already look vile in the eyes of the Council, we must not make it appear any worse,"

"Father, if we don't call our banners, Lord Tywin will bring his armies and march upon us before we have a chance to unite our forces. He will set our lands ablaze for what Cat has done!" said Edmure urgently.

"He could sweep through the Riverlands, overwhelming each castle and holdfast one by one, with all your lords put to rout individually, unless the Host of the Riverlands is rallied to meet him," said Yara. They had to make him see. With the threat of war with the Westerlands on the horizon, Riverrun would need every bannerman and their levies to meet Lord Tywin in the field. If they did not, Yara knew they could only wait at Riverrun to be besieged.

"The King cannot see us as the wrongdoers in this matter, and calling our banners will weaken our credibility. If we tell the King that this business with the Imp was a misunderstanding, but he sees us raising our hosts and preparing for war, it will look as if we were plotting against the Lannisters. We must allow the Crown to sort this out, and we must have a strong position to stand upon before the court," said Lord Tully firmly despite the weakness of his voice. "Does the Council know of this?"

"If they don't already, they soon will. I shall send a raven," said Edmure.

Yara had little faith in the ability of the King or the Small Council to stop Tywin Lannister bringing fire and death to the Riverlands, but she kept her silence.

"Good, good, we must wait for the Crown to act, we must not move too quickly or too rashly," Lord Tully's voice became thin and mournful "Oh Catelyn, what have you done? Gods protect us,"

"I shall send for Maester Vyman, my lord," said Yara.

"Thank you Yara. You watch my son, make sure he doesn't do any damn fool things," Hoster Tully smiled weakly.
When they were in the corridor, Yara whirled on Edmure and shoved him back against the wall. He grunted at the suddenness of being knocked into the cold stones.

"You will have to call the banners. Fuck the Council and fuck the King, Tywin Lannister will want your sister's head on a pike for this, and your head too. Call the banners before it's too late," she said, grasping the front of his doublet. Riverrun may not have been her home, but it had fostered her for nine years, she would not see it put to the torch by the Lannisters or anyone. She had not found her way into Edmure's bed and planted the idea of a marriage alliance in his head just to see the Riverlands burn. Edmure grimaced at her words.

"Father is Lord of the Riverlands still, I cannot call the banners without his bidding," he said, strong hands grasping her thin arms. He pushed himself off the wall and took her hands in his, staring at her with deep blue eyes.

"You are frightened, my lady?" he asked gently. Yara lowered her gaze. Her black eyes were defiant.

"I fear nothing, but I know the pain of war. I know how it would pain you to see any evil befall your lands or your people, my love," she said, raising hand to caress his face, running fingers through his beard. Her words were only half a lie. He leaned forward, kissing her forehead and breathing in the scent of her hair.

"Do not be troubled Yara, our men will find my sister and learn the truth of this. If Catelyn saw need to take him captive, I'm sure that Imp has done something wicked, and if Lord Tywin wants to march upon us, we will not stand alone, we still have allies," Edmure said.

"Allies?" replied Yara.

"Lysa will bring the knights of the Vale over the mountains if the Lannisters march. Ned Stark is my brother-in-law, he's a good man, he will not let his wife's family be threatened, and the Northerners have allies as well…" he said, but he left the last words unsaid.

Gondor. They bore no love for the Lannisters, it was true. They may be friends of the Northmen, but Yara would never forget what was done at Pyke. She could never forget, even if Riverrun were besieged by all the hosts of the West and Isildur himself rode to their rescue.

"Tywin Lannister is no fool, he will not risk fighting half the Realm for his imp of a son," Edmure said with a shaky confidence.

"But they are far, my love, and Casterly Rock is near," she told him. Yara pulled her hands away from his and left in search of the Maester.

Several days passed slowly, and a tension dwelt over Riverrun. The hours and days went by, and Yara felt as if she were waiting for something. She couldn't stand waiting. Maester Vyman and the guards kept up a constant watch on the horizon for other messengers, be they riders or ravens. There was no word, there was silence from both east and west, and somehow that made the waiting worse.

A heavy, oppressive heat lay upon the castle, with clear skies and a mercilessly hot sun shining down upon them. The rivermen called it the "late summer swelter", and the green of grass and leaves was gilded with golden light every morning and evening. Yet if the Riverlands truly stood on the brink of war, rarely had they ever looked fairer or more worth fighting for. A harvest was being brought in, and farmers from leagues away brought carts stacked high with wheat to be ground at Riverrun's watermill. Standing upon the battlements one evening, Yara looked out and saw the nearby homesteads of the Tullys' smallfolk stretched out in the lands between the Tumblehome and the Red Fork, broad fertile fields surrounding each tiny house or hut. Wheat and barley swayed in the breeze, rippling like the windswept surface of a calm lake. Herds of sheep grazed peacefully, oblivious to the world, whilst shepherd boys dozed beneath shady trees. Birds sung and the leaves of the trees rustled in the wind.

Suddenly there was a harsh cawing that cut through the air. Yara looked up to see a black bird fly swiftly up from the east. It circled above the keep once, twice, then alighted upon the Maester's tower. A raven.

Dark wings, dark words she thought with some strange sense of foreboding. Yara turned away from the battlements and rushed down the stairs towards the courtyard.

"My lady?" said Jeyne Rivers, confused, but Yara was already at the bottom and walking quickly towards the keep.
She found Edmure in the great hall just as Maester Vyman came down from the tower. The hall was full of the deep shadows of dusk. The letter in the Maester's hand was unopened, and it was covered in wax seals. Yara spotted the sigil of an open hand impressed upon the seal.

"My lord, there was a raven. From King's Landing," Maester Vyman said.

Edmure sat in the lord's seat at the high table. Before him he had spread out maps of the Riverlands. Ser Robin Ryger sat across from his lord. Flagons of ale were untouched. Wordlessly, Edmure held out his hand for the letter. Yara leaned forward and rested her hands on the table.

"That is the Hand of the King's seal of office," said the Maester.

Isildur, Yara thought, blood running cold.

"I know," said Edmure, then he broke it and opened the letter. His blue eyes scanned it quickly.

"What news?" asked Yara. Edmure sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"By the authority of Isildur Elendilion, Hand of the King, we are ordered to keep our armies at home, to not call our banners, and that any who do not obey this command will be considered to have broken the King's Peace and will likewise be considered traitors to the Realm and enemies of the Crown," he said wearily.

Bastard, blind bastard thought Yara angrily.

"It says that identical commands have been sent to the Lannisters, Arryns and Starks, and that the peace will be maintained whilst Lord Isildur resolves the situation with Cat and Tyrion Lannister," Edmure added. Yara snorted derisively.

"You think Tywin Lannister will listen to that?" she said.

"He must, it is a royal command," said Maester Vyman.

"Tywin Lannister has never given a damn about the commands of anyone but himself," said Ser Robin Ryger.

"If we delay, he'll use that to steal the first march on us, and be at Riverrun's doorstep before your lords raise their levies," Yara urged Edmure.

"My lord, it would not be wise to ignore a command from Lord Isildur, he is the King's Hand," said Vyman.

"Lord Isildur has no concern for you or any of your people, he's a Numenorean, they care only for their own," Yara snapped. She stared at Edmure hard. "Piss on his 'royal commands', you have an obligation to defend your lands,"

"There has been no acts of war," the Maester said.

"For how long though? Yara is right, Tywin will not be held back by that. Every day that Lady Catelyn holds the Imp captive brings war closer," Ser Robin's face was grave.

"Yet I think there is wisdom in my father's counsel, we cannot appear to have broken the King's Peace first when the King judges this affair," said Edmure. No longer was he bright-eyed Edmure Tully, quick to laugh and jest. He had put on the face of Lord Edmure of Riverrun. "Ser Robin, I want you to send riders out to the west, to scout. I especially desire news of the Pass of the Golden Tooth,"

A start, at least, Yara thought and she resolved to speak more of this to Edmure in private.

Night by night, the moon slowly waned as the days passed and the month's end approached.

The scouts were long away on the western marches. It was nearly a fortnight before they returned. They brought with them ominous tidings. The rumblings of war were beginning to be heard in the mountains. The scouts carried rumours of a powerful host rallying by the Golden Tooth, and even got close enough to see the smoke of the camp-fires rising. There was talk amongst the smallfolk of strong companies and regiments of sellswords marching up from the south to offer their services to Tywin Lannister. Whole villages along the border were fleeing east, fearful of the power of Casterly Rock now gathering. The storm clouds were gathering, waiting to burst upon the Riverlands.

All these things the scouts reported to Edmure, whilst he sat in his father's high seat and Yara stood beside him. They were flanked by Maester Vyman and Steward Wayn. The scout's formerly green cloak was gray with dust and travel stains. He stood with the slumped, tired shoulders of a man who had ridden hard.

"You returned with only half of the band I sent with you, where is the other half, captain?" asked Edmure.

"We left 'em by the pass, milord, to keep an eye on the Golden Tooth. If they see any sign of a march, they are to ride back here and report it, milord," the scout answered.

"Good man," Edmure said with a smile. "See that you and your men rest, you deserve it for bringing us these tidings,"

In that moment, there arose a cry from the battlements.

"There's a column on the road!" echoed the shouting voice of a guard.

Edmure arose, exchanging a glance with Yara. Side by side they quickly hurried across the hall and out into the bailey. Their steward and master followed them. The courtyard was a bustle of activity as guards and archers hurried up to the walls, stringing bows and seizing spears. The talk of war had put them all on edge.

"What is it Lew? Do you see a banner?" Edmure called up to the gatehouse.

"Aye milord, a pink lady on blue, it's the Pipers!" cried Long Lew.

"The Pipers? What are they doing here?" wondered Edmure, as if to himself. "Open the gates!" he commanded.

The heavy portcullis groaned and its chains creaked in protest. Slowly it raised, hundreds of pounds of wood and iron winched up within the gatehouse.

Three men rode into the bailey on tired-looking rounceys. All wore the blue livery of House Piper, and the man on the right bore their banner: A dancing maiden carrying a white bit of silk, on a field of blue. Their leader was tall and well-built, with a thick head of red hair.

"Marq!" cried Edmure in surprise.

"Edmure! Gods, it is good to see you," said Ser Marq Piper, leaping down from the saddle. He caught Edmure in a tight hug. When he released him though, his look was not of happiness.

"What tidings Marq? You look as though you bring ill news," said Edmure.

"Ill news is an ill guest, I am afraid," said Ser Marq.

Behind him, a ragged column of men, women and children were trudging into the courtyard. Their faces were worn and haggard. The children stared aimlessly, holding hands with their parents but looking like their minds were gone out of them. Yara remembered that look well. It was the look she had seen on Theon's face. It was the look she had given to Lord Hoster Tully when he took her from the Dunedain. They were the faces of children who had seen too much.

"Pinkmaiden was burned Edmure, these folk are all that's left," Marq Piper said sadly. The colour drained out of Edmure's face.

"What? How? When?" he stammered in shock. Marq nodded to one of the villagers, an elderly woman.

"Is true milord, our good town is burned and ruined now," she said weakly. Another elderly man put a comforting hand on her shoulder when her voice cracked with grief.

"What has happened?" asked Edmure sternly.

"Raiders, milord, from the west," said the old woman.

"They came at us at dawn, five days ago. These people are the only ones we managed to save, the rest of the village was slaughtered," Marq explained, a mournful look on his face.

"Marq, your father?" Edmure's voice was worried.

"He is safe. We got as many of our folk into the holdfast as we could and then barred the gates. It was a raid, not a siege," said Marq Piper.

"They was riders from the west, milord, by the hunnerds," said the old woman.

"Ain't never seen the like. No thievin' or stealin', just burnin' and killin'" said her old husband.

"Their leader, biggest man I ever saw, he swung around a sword as tall as I am!" added a younger man.

Edmure's knuckles were white, he clenched his fists so hard.

"Who?" was the only thing he said.

"It was the Troll, Gregor Clegane. I saw him, and he was flying his standard," said Ser Marq Piper.

All eyes turned to Edmure. Yara, Maester Vyman, Steward Wayn, Ser Marq Piper, the survivors of the Pinkmaiden, all the guards of Riverrun, everyone stared at the young Tully lord. Ser Gregor Clegane burning villages in the Riverlands could mean only one thing.

"My father sent me here to ask for Lord Tully's aid. They have murdered our people, burned their homes and fields, and laid our lands to waste. We need your help, we beg for your help, my lord," Marq Piper's voice was one of desperation.

Edmure Tully stared hard at his childhood friend. In Yara's eyes, he had the look of a man who stood upon the brink of a precipice above icy waters, knowing he must dive in but hesitating at the last. Then he spoke, and his voice was strong and did not shake.

"And you shall have it,"

He locked eyes with Yara for a moment, and where once she had seen uncertainty now there was only a steely resolve. Then he turned to Maester Vyman and called out in a voice loud and clear enough for all to hear his words:

"Call the banners!"

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter XIV
King's Landing

When Gendry Waters had asked for an audience with the Marshal of the King's Host, Ned was not surprised. They had uprooted the boy from everything he had known in his life, Ned thought that he would come seeking answers for that. He was a stubborn, wilful boy, according to Hengist the master-at-arms, but that was much as Robert had been at that age. He even had the look of Robert about him, with this dark blue eyes and the thick mane of black hair, though now it was cut short in the fashion of a soldier.

Yet when Gendry was finally permitted to stand before Ned in the Marshal's pavilion, he asked a question that Ned did not expect.

"I want to go with Lord Isildur, milord," Gendry said. He wore the red tunic of the King's Host now, and stood with his hands behind his back squared as his drillmasters had taught him. Ned stared at Tobho Mott's former apprentice, expecting him to explain further. He did not have to wait long.

"I heard from some of the lads around camp that you're putting together some men to accompany Lord Isildur, chasing some bandit in the Riverlands. I want to go along, milord," said Gendry.

Ned stood up from his desk and regarded the boy carefully. He spoke truthfully. Isildur had requested twenty men from the King's Host, Riverlanders who knew the land well.

"And why would you want that Gendry?" asked Ned slowly.

"May I speak plainly, milord?" replied Gendry.

"Aye, of course, speak your mind lad," said Eddard.

"Lord Isildur ordered me to leave Master Mott's, it was at his order that I came here, and I've got a feeling it was his order that made you take me in. I think he owes me some explanation for all this, and I want to hear it from him," the armourer's apprentice had told him.

Now Ned Stark stood before Isildur in the small hall of the Tower of the Hand, and against his better judgement he was arguing on Gendry's side.

"You at least owe him this much, after all you've put him through," said Ned. Isildur frowned sternly round his pipe. A cloud of smoke filled the air above his head.

"No," the Hand of the King said "This is no common bandit we're pursuing, this is the Ser Gregor Clegane, the Troll. Gendry is too valuable to put him to risk like this,"

"He has the look of a warrior about him, and I think the day is drawing near where he would rather wield a sword than forge one," replied Ned. Isildur grimaced.

"Aye that may be true, still we ought to keep him out of harm's way. Why did he request to accompany me?" he asked.

"He wants to ask you why you have done these things, he wants to know the reason why," Ned said.

"And did you explain it to him?" said Isildur carefully.

"Nay. I offered, but he will only hear it from you. He says it was your command and he wants you to answer for it," explained Eddard. Isildur chuckled.

"Stubborn like his father," laughed the Lord of Minas Ithil. Ned smiled at that.

"Aye, that much is true," he said. Isildur sighed, and then took a long puff on his pipe. The heavy aroma of pipeweed hit Ned's face, and his friend blew out a near perfect smoke circle.

"Can he fight? Can he ride?" Isildur asked.

"His master-at-arms says he can out-wrestle any other recruit, and he's got a strong arm on him. I've seen him swing at the pell, I would not envy any man he strikes," Ned replied.

"And his riding?"

"Well, he's never sat a horse, but he wouldn't fall off,"

Isildur scratched his chin in thought, emptying the spent ashes of his pipe into a tray on the table. He shook his head.

"There is a warning in my heart against this prospect, Eddard. If Gendry accompanies this errand, it will come to grief in the end," he said.

"Many things must be risked in war," Ned said quietly.

Promise me Ned, the words whispered in his ear.

"Many things, but not all things. If he is slain, what hope do we have? A fool's hope," Isildur said.

"He must trust us if he is to help us, and he distrusts you most of all for what you have done, you have the most to answer for to him," said Eddard. Isildur's grey eyes flashed darkly at his words. There was a moment of silence and tension in the hall. Then the son of Elendil smiled suddenly.

"You are the only one who would ever speak to me like that, Ned," laughed Isildur. Ned chuckled.

"Aye, well Robert has given me much practice," Eddard sat down on the bench of one of the long trestle tables. Then after a pause he asked the question that had been plaguing him "How is Robert?"

"His strength returns, day by day, though he is weak still. His wound was deep," Isildur shook his head, and crossed his arms. There was a distant look to his eyes.

"None could have kept him out of that melee, Isildur. Once Robert sets himself on something, forbidding him from doing it is the surest way to see it done," Ned said gently. The guilt was written as plain as day on Isildur's face.

"Aye, and I was too fool to see that. My brother has always said that oft will pride and wrath turn treacherous in the end. Anarion should be here, not I," Isildur's voice was that of a man who knew he had failed his duty. He looked back to Ned. "You shall see him much more often after I depart, he shall enjoy that,"

"What do you mean?" Ned said in confusion. He had gone to see Robert many times already, though usually the King was resting. Isildur grimaced again as if he knew the words he was about to speak would not be taken well.
"Eddard, I need someone I can trust in the city whilst I am away. You shall act as Hand of the King in my stead,"

"What? Why?" Ned asked sharply. He furrowed his brows in confusion.

"You are the only man I can trust with this duty. I need someone to protect Robert whilst I am away," explained Isildur.

"Surely Stannis would be the better choice?" said Ned. Isildur's face darkened.

"Stannis Baratheon is a good man, and true, but he does not have the loyalty of the Host, and his dedication to the Law may lead to him act too hastily. Patience is needed still. It must be you," he said.

"Patience until you return with Gendry?" said Ned, testing Isildur's mood on the question. The Hand of the King shook his head sternly.

"No," Isildur said with finality. "No, he is too important. He stays where he is safe,"

"Very well," Ned conceded. There was a long quiet moment; Isildur stood as if deep in thought.

"When you come back to the city, bring a company of the Host with you. At least a hundred men or more. Have them barracked here in the Tower of the Hand. That should keep Cersei from attempting anything whilst you are here," said Isildur.

"A fine idea. Only a company though? Cersei has many guards and a dozen seasoned knights at her command. Perhaps I should bring more men?" suggested Ned.

"We must take care to avoid the appearance of seizing power. When all these matters are settled in the end, to the lords of the kingdoms it cannot look like we have usurped the throne, otherwise we will force more lords to Lannister's banner, and only war lies down that path," Isildur replied. Ned had no patience for these intrigues and games, but he knew he must play his part regardless of his feelings.

The Maidenvault was a long building that sat behind the royal sept, hard by the wall between the middle and lower baileys of the Red Keep. Its thick greystone walls were lined with stained windows, and a tall carven entrance stood at the southern end of it. Standing before the carvings of the Father and the Mother at either side of the door, Ned recalled his childhood lessons about Baelor the Blessed. The pious King had built the hall and its rooms and apartments for his sister-wives, to save himself from the sin of lust. Now though, the Maidenvault had served as the guest hall of the Targaryens and the Baratheons for over a hundred years.

Ned set his hand to the carven wooden door and pushed it open. It swung in nearly noiselessly, but the Maidenvault was far from silent. From the dining room and echoing all around him, Ned heard his daughter's voices yelling. Desmond and Porther stood guard by the door.

"What's all that noise?" he asked them.

"Your girls at it again, my lord," said Porther with a shake of his head.

"It wasn't Joffrey's fault!" screamed Sansa.

"Liar! Liar! LIAR! He murdered Mycah!" shrieked Arya.

"He was just a butcher's boy!" Sansa replied.

"HE WAS MY FRIEND!" snarled Ayra.

"That is enough you two! When your lord father returns, he WILL hear of this," said the stern voice of Septa Mordane. Ned sighed. War was easier than raising daughters.

He hurried from the entrance hall, following the direction of the shouting. Suddenly Sansa screamed out in pain and Ned heard the rumbling growl of the direwolf Lady.

He threw open the door to the dining room. Sansa was crying in pain, her head down, whilst Arya pulled on her hair. Her direwolf, already as big as a hunting hound, was bristling at Sansa's side, baring white fangs fiercely. Their septa stood beside them, futilely commanding them to stop.

"Arya! Sansa! Stop this at once!" Ned shouted sternly. At the sound of their father's voice, they both immediately stopped. Arya released Sansa's hair. They both stood stiffly, and Ned looked from one to the other. Arya's face was petulant, and Sansa looked near to tears. Lady stopped growling and sat down upon her haunches. Then, all at once, they both started talking at the same time.

"My lord father, please tell my dear sister to stop-"

"He killed-"

"Joffrey didn't, it was all-"

"You're such a liar! Just cause you-"

"Stop calling me a liar!"

"Enough! Both of you, to your chambers, now," Ned commanded.

"That's not fair!" they both protested. His patience was running out, he did not have time for this bickering. Seeing the cold stare upon their father's face, the two girls fell quiet. Silently, they turned and left. Lady padded quietly at Sansa's side.

Ned cast a questioning look in Septa Mordane's direction. To her credit, the good Septa did not make a single noise of frustration, she simply explained:

"Sansa was in aflutter about the Prince today, and would not stop talking about him at luncheon. Arya is less fond of the Prince on account of that business on the road,"

Ned remembered it well. The whole latter stage of their journey south after the incident at the Trident had been an agony. Few feelings could make a father more miserable than knowing his daughters were miserable and being able to do nothing to stop it. He shook his head.

"You are a good woman, and patient, to deal with them, Septa. Tell them they are to pack their things, we are moving to the Tower of the Hand. I will speak to them after I have made the arrangements with Vayon,"

"As my lord commands," Septa Mordane replied, bowing her head deferentially. She walked off with all the prim poise a septa of the Faith was capable of, showing no sign of being perturbed by the arguments of the Stark girls. Ned smiled at that. Catelyn had made a good choice with the Septa.

It did not take long to arrange to have Ned's household moved from the Maidenvault to the Tower of the Hand. Vayon Poole was a reliable man and Ned had only the say the word for him to leap to action. Yet long experience had taught him not to go too immediately to speak to his children when they had erred. Ned preferred to leave them with their consciences, till their tempers cooled.

The study was filled with a guilty silence when he finally came to see them. They sat next to each other, not looking at each other, not daring to speak, eyes at the ground. Ned pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat down, leaning forward to look at them.

"What did I see earlier?" he asked. Sansa was the first to speak.

"Arya just won't understand, Joffrey and I are in love, and she hates everything that is nice and splendid and beautiful, that's why she can't stand Joffrey,"

"Joffrey is a lying piece of filth, and he had my friend killed, and I hate him and I want him to die!," Arya started saying before Sansa had even finished. He put up his hand and both of them stopped immediately.

Oh Arya, I was not wise to hire that water dancer for you, there is so much of Lyanna in you, he thought with a deep sadness. He looked at Arya and then at Sansa. How he wished he had left them in Winterfell, how he wished even more that he had stayed in the North himself and not come. Would Sansa ever forgive him for what would become of Joffrey? Ned couldn't say, he only knew it had to be done.

"The Red Keep is not Winterfell, your childish bickering was harmless there, but this is a dangerous place," he said sternly. "Do you understand?"

"Dangerous?" asked Arya. Sansa kept her tongue. Ned Stark sighed.

"One day I will explain everything to you, but do not trust in appearances. There is danger in a place like this, perhaps more danger now that Isildur is riding out. Listen now and mark my words: A single wolf, by itself and on its own, it is nothing. Its strength is in its family, its pack. You will end this war you are fighting between each other now, have I made myself clear?"

There was a long moment of quiet in the room.

"I'm sorry I called you all those things… Mycah dying wasn't your fault," said Arya at last in a small voice.

"I'm sorry too my sister, I know you don't actually hate everything. I just… Get cross sometimes," Sansa replied.

Ned smiled and felt an inward relief. His two daughters were as different as night and day, yet for all that they were Starks and they would stick together. He only hoped they would leave their bickering until they were safely back in Winterfell.

If he had followed his heart in that moment, he would have left for Winterfell right there. Yet duty still incessantly called, and despite his weariness he felt himself drawn onwards by it. He told the girls he would be back the next day, and left instructions with Vayon Poole to have their things all moved to the Tower of the Hand by the next morning, then he and his guards mounted once again and rode away.

The encampment greeted him with its usual sprawling, foul-smelling, ugly appearance. Evening was deepening and the smoke of a thousand campfires raised into the sky. The air was still and without breeze and the banners hung limply from their poles above the gates. A sentry stood by the gates, leaning against his halberd, wrapped up in his cloak against the evening chill. He snapped up and stood straight when Ned rode past.

"Good evening milord," he said dutifully. Ned nodded at him from his horse.

"As you were, sentry," he said, smiling.

Raucous laughing and talking came from within the long wooden meal-halls that lined the road down the centre of the camp. Ned smiled at the familiar sounds of soldiers drinking and jesting after a day's duties. He spurred his horse to a trot and his column of guards followed closely.

Three banners were set before the officer's tents at the central square of the camp. Robert's royal stag in the centre, Ned's direwolf sigil on the right and Aratan's white tree of Gondor on the left. These Ned had set when construction of the camp had begun, to mark out the very centre. He dismounted before them and, leaving his guards outside, walked into the officer's tent.

The captains and lieutenants of the King's Host were clustered around a wooden table in the middle of the pavilion. They were the younger sons of lesser noble houses, and hard-bitten hedge knights who had sworn service to King Robert, and experienced sellswords looking for a steady job. A hard group of men, but now each wore the Baratheon stag upon his tunic.

A thin, wiry young knight was plucking strings on a lute whilst the rest of the men jeered and laughed. Two men, one broad and portly, the other tall and bald, were sitting across from each other at the table, hands locked and arms flexing with exertion, arm-wrestling. They grimaced from the effort. In the rear corner of the tent, Ned spotted Aratan. His long legs were stretched upon a stool before him, and he was smoking his pipe and sending the occasional smoke ring towards the other officers.

Then one of the men spotted Ned.

"Lord Marshal!" the cry went up. The music and laughing stopped, and the two arm-wrestlers immediately stopped. Ned spotted empty bottles of wine on the table amongst plates covered in the remnants of supper.

"Good evening sers," he said "Carry on,"

The men visibly relaxed, and they quickly returned to their drinking and their laughter. Ned locked eyes with Aratan, and jerked his head towards a quieter corner of the tent. Taking his feet off the stool, Aratan emptied his pipe and quickly joined Ned.

"What news from my father?" Aratan asked quietly, perceiving what had happened.

"I'm to act as Isildur's Hand in his absence. You can take care of matters with the army while I am in the city?" said Ned. Aratan nodded.

"Good, get a company together to go with me on the morrow. And send Gendry to me," Ned whispered.

Jory brought supper from the cooks to Ned in his tent. The head cook offered to roast a chicken fresh for the Marshal, but he refused. Stew, black bread and a flagon of ale, the same fare as the men ate, would suit him.

"My lord, Hengist begs an audience," called one of his guards at the door when Ned had finished the last of the bread. Wiping his mouth, he stood up and called for master-at-arms to enter.

Hengist was a wide, heavyset man with arms like logs and a toad's ugly face. Jory had found him drinking in a seedy tavern along River Row, regaling the serving girls with tales of battle in the Disputed Lands of Essos. He had fought in a dozen of the dreary little wars of the Free Cities, for Braavos against Volantis, and for Volantis against Myr and for one lord or another. He had taken to the King's Host like a fish to water.

"Milord, I brought the boy you asked for, at the Captain's orders," Hengist said sharply. Behind him Gendry trailed in and stood stiffly.

Ned nodded to the master-at-arms and the big man whirled on his heels and marched out smartly. Gendry regarded Ned with dark blue eyes. The flickering light of braziers and candles illuminated the tent.

"I spoke to Lord Isildur earlier today, he will not allow you to accompany him, the danger would be too great" Ned said at last. Gendry grimaced and said nothing.

"I understand how you must feel, Gendry. This all must seem so strange to you," he continued. Looking on Gendry, he was reminded so much of Jon, riding away to the Wall with the promise that someday Ned would tell him about his mother. His throat tightened.

"If you wish, Gendry, I could tell you much of why this has happened and what Isildur's plans for you are,"
Gendry was quiet for a long moment, as if weighing the offer. His eyes were thoughtful.

"Milord, you've been kind to me. You did not order me to leave my home and the only family I've ever had. You have my thanks, but I will hear this from Lord Isildur, no one should speak for him but him," the armourer's apprentice finally said in a resolute voice.

"So be it. I am leaving for the city at daybreak, if you change your mind whilst I am away, speak to Captain Aratan and he will get word to me," Ned told him.

Dismissed, Gendry turned about and left the tent with the same soldierly sharpness as Hengist drilled into each of the recruits.

So much like Robert, proud, stubborn, Ned reflected after the bastard boy had left.

He wondered if Robert knew about Gendry, about Barra the little dark-haired daughter of a whore, about the fisherman's wife's boy and all the other little bastards he had spread around King's Landing.

Robert had always been like this, ever since they were boys in the Eyrie and he got a common girl with child. Ned remembered going with him to go see his little daughter; how Robert would come to play with his daughter long after he had lost interest in the mother. That was Robert's way: He could promise a girl eternal love in the night and not recall her name in the morning, but his love for his children, trueborn or bastard, was real and fierce.

But his trueborn children aren't his at all, Ned thought with sudden remorse. He had seen how Robert's face would light up when Myrcella was in the room, he had heard Robert talk about what a perfect daughter she was. He had seen Robert carrying little Tommen around on his shoulders, and laughing and encouraging the boy in the training yard. Even Joffrey seemed to look up to their father.

What will he do when he learns? The thought was a cold one. Too well did Ned remember the Targaryen children, the ruined skull of Prince Aegon, the slit throat of their mother Elia Martell. All wrapped in red Lannister cloaks to hide the blood. Robert had turned away then. He had done nothing. What would he do if his own children were the products of incestuous adultery? Would Stannis and Renly lay the cold bodies of Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella before him, wrapped in Baratheon gold?

Promise me Ned,Lyanna's voice whispered to him.

Ned put the thought out of his head. That was another battle for another day.

As he lay down in his cot for the night, his last thoughts before sleep took him were of Catelyn. He prayed silent prayers to the old gods to keep her safe, wherever she was, and to bring her back to him and to their children in Winterfell.

Dawn came clear and cold the next day, with a pale sun climbing above the palisades. After his morning wash, the cool air was refreshing and invigorating. It reminded him of home, almost.

His household guard were in good spirits as they saddled their horses in the central square. The men of the King's Host chosen to accompany Ned and Isildur stood shivering in the chill, wrapping themselves in their woolen cloaks. Under the watchful eye of a sergeant, a hundred and twenty men fell into ranks to form a single column. Spears and halberds and crossbows they carried shouldered, the steel tips of the polearms winking in the morning light. At the side of every man was a sheathed short sword, and on their backs were slung shields painted with the Baratheon stag. Most of the men wore gambesons or jerkins of hard leather, only a few had mail byrnies, though all had a metal helmet of some kind. Behind them, a few mules carried their baggage.

Ned found Jory standing before his tent, the bridle of Ned's rouncey in his hand. The horse pawed the ground impatiently and swished its tail.

"These southron boys can't take a little chill milord," laughed Alyn, already mounted. Ned swung up in the saddle.

"They'd be pissing in their breeches if they saw a summer snow," jested Jory, mounting his own horse behind his lord.

Ned and his household guard, thirty strong on horseback, took their place at the head of the column. Ned swung his arm forwards. There was a deep roll of the drums, beating out the pace for the men on foot. With a tramping of heavy booted feet and shod horse hooves, they set out.

The road from the encampment to the City was a familiar one for Eddard after months in the south. It was a winding dirt road that went along shady tree-lined lanes and past farmer's fields. Over valleys and hills and small babbling brooks. The men marched steadily, to the unending beat of the drums. The sun soon approached noon, and the day grew miserably hot. Smallfolk, men and boys and young women, came out of villages and farmsteads on both sides of the road to watch the march with curious eyes.

A wind rustled the leaves all around them, louder and more suddenly than the breeze had been. Ned drew his horse up atop a ridge. Beneath him, the vast city of King's Landing spread out beside the Blackwater Rush. Atop Aegon's High Hill, the Red Keep frowned down. Suddenly a fear took him. Eddard Stark was used to fear, but not like this. He had a sudden desire to take his family and run to Winterfell as fast as they could go. Something inside him told him that he should not ride into that city. Then the breeze ended and the leaves stopped rustling and the feeling passed. Yet it was with disquiet in his heart that Ned rode on towards the Old Gate.

"Clear the road for Lord Stark! Clear the road for the Lord Marshal!" yelled out a goldcloak in a loud voice as Ned rode beneath the gateway arch.

The cobbled streets around the Old Gate were filled with people, mostly the household workers and retinues of the wealthy merchants and nobles who lived on the northern slopes of Rhaenys' Hill. Their prosperous manses stood stately along the broad avenues. Curious eyes watched Ned and his men, and they marched straight for the Red Keep.

Ned led his men down the Street of Sisters to the city square, people everywhere stopping to watch, and bowing their heads respectfully to Lord Stark and the direwolf banner carried behind him. Pretty young girls, some whores and some not, smiled alluringly and blew kisses at the soldiers, and the men grinned and winked back them in return.

The Street of Seeds led them to Shadowblack Lane, which wound and twisted up along the slopes of Aegon's High Hill. The Red Keep awaited them at the top, banners flying in the sea-breeze. The ironshod tips of the portcullis jutted down from the gate like the fangs of some monstrous beast. It almost looked like the maw of a great dragon opening wide to swallow him whole.

The bailey was already full of men and horses, hurrying here and there beneath the Tower of the Hand. They wore the black mail and black surcoats of Isildur's housecarls, or the livery of House Dondarrion, and many too had no sigils at all but only the plain armour of freeriders and sellswords. The air was abuzz with their voices, and with the neighing of horses, and the clatter of hooves.

Ned spotted a head of red-gold hair amongst the confusion.

"Lord Beric Dondarrion," he said in greeting, dismounted his horse. Beric Dondarrion turned, and bowed courteously in greeting. Beside him stood a portly, grey-haired man, wearing red robes over a mail hauberk, who matched the bow.

"Lord Eddard Stark. Lord Isildur has awaited your arrival, he shall be glad to hear that you are here," said Beric.

"Aye, and I am glad that you shall accompany him. I have heard tell of your courage and skill, Lord Beric," Eddard replied. The Lightning Lord of Blackhaven cut a dashing figure, handsome and tall, in plate and mail with a black cloak, his breastplate displaying the forked lightning bolt of his house.

"You ought to come with us, Lord Stark, we are going to vex old Tywin Lannister terribly," said the portly man whom Ned knew as Thoros of Myr. "I think we might actually learn if he really shits gold," he added with a laugh.

"Would that I could," Ned replied, grinning despite himself. "But duties calls here in the city,"

Suddenly a quiet fell and many of the men turned towards the Hand's tower. Isildur had stepped forth.

There were times when Ned could glimpse something of the majesty and power of the Lord of Minas Ithil, the man he called his friend but whom had lived since the days of the dragonkings. Very tall he was, proud, erect, and masterful. His ageless face, pale and grim, was the image of an ancient king. His burnished mail, shining black and silver, fell to his knees. The white tree of Gondor, and the crescent moon that his own sigil, he bore upon his surcoat. His grey cloak was cast about his shoulders and the silver eagle broach held it there. Under his arm, a tall winged helm which flashed with the fiery gleam of mithril. The hilt of the great sword Narsil was seen at his side. He walked forward quickly, heavy ironshod boots sounding on the cobbles. Just the sight of him, seeming so wise, so powerful, so lordly, it was enough to raise the men's spirits and smiles spread amongst those he passed. There was a light in his grey eyes.

Isildur tossed something small towards Ned, and it twinkled as it caught the sun. He caught it deftly. It was a heavy metal pin, fashioned in the shape of an open hand.

"The duty is yours now," he told Ned, grinning. Then he said in a voice loud and clear "Lord Eddard Stark, I do hereby name you Hand of the King, to act in my stead, until I shall return from dispensing the King's Justice,"

"As you command, I shall await your return, Lord Isildur," Ned replied formally, bowing his head. Isildur stepped close and clasped Ned's shoulder.

"Keep a watch on Robert, and try to keep his spirits up. He will need you if he is to recover," he said in a low voice. Ned nodded.

Isildur released him, his face a study in complete, easy confidence.

From the stables, his squire Ohtar brought forth Isildur's horse, Fleetfoot. The proud animal tossed its mane impatiently, till its master took the bridle and greeted it in the Elven tongue. The sound of Sindarin brought memories of Lyanna to Eddard, and a deep pang of sadness. She had been so happy after she had returned from her studies in Annuminas. She was young, happy, free-spirited and beautiful. That was the year before the tourney of Harrenhal, and all the trouble that would come from it.

Lya, what would you say if you saw us now? What would your counsel be? Ned thought with melancholy.

More horses were brought forth from the stables for the King's Host men that would travel with Isildur. Plain hackneys and the lesser rounseys of no great virtues, but reliable enough animals for the hard ride ahead. The twenty picked men, stout riverlanders to the man, bade farewell to their companions and put their packs upon the saddles of their mounts.

At a word from Isildur, the whole company mounted. A hundred and fifty men in total they numbered, with the better part of Isildur's housecarls, and the household guard of Beric Dondarrion, and the freeriders and sellswords who had chosen Thoros as their chieftain. The twenty King's Host men were last of all, but amongst that noble band they were proud to wear the King's sigil on their chests.

Then the Lord of Minas Ithil ordered the banners to be unfurled, and behold! The first and tallest was of the royal gold and there reared the stag of House Baratheon. Behind it, black and the white tree of Gondor. Next to that, the forked lightning of the Dondarrions. The standard-bearers trotted to the head of the columns, the coloured silk flapping upon the flagstaffs.

Isildur reined his horse up behind the banners. He turned in his saddle.

"We ride west!" he called out loudly. He placed his mithril helm upon his head, and the sun caught it and it gleamed brightly. Then he set a silver-chased horn to his lips and blew a mighty note, which resounded off the walls of the keep.

Fleetfoot sprang away, swift as the hawk from the sky, and quickly Lord Beric followed him. The rest of their company rode in their wake. The hooves clattered on the cobbles like a rockslide in the mountains. One of the soldiers in a King's Host gambeson pulled up suddenly, as if uncertain on his horse, and Ned spotted a glance of dark blue eyes before he was gone. In a short moment, they poured out of the gates, and the banners disappeared from sight.

Ned was left alone in the bailey, and he turned around to the expectant faces of Jory, his guards and the company he had brought with him.

"Jory, get the men barracked in the Hand's tower, and get the watches organized," he ordered.

"As you command, my lord," Jory replied dutifully, vaulting down from his saddle.

"Father!" cried Arya suddenly. She ran out of the door to the Tower of the Hand, an excited look on her face, dressed plain as usual. Ned smiled at the sight of his youngest girl and he went down on one knee. She caught him in a tight hug.

"You're to live with us now? In the Hand's Tower? And you're to be the Hand while Uncle Isildur is away? Everyone says so! Will we see you more often now? Are these the men you were training? They're awfully big. Oh, hello Jory!" Arya said, hardly stopping to breathe as was her fashion.

"Hello little lady," Jory laughed, grinning at her. "Arya Underfoot" the men of Winterfell had always called her.

"Yes Arya, I will live in the Tower of the Hand with you and your sister, until Isildur returns, and soon enough, we'll go home to Winterfell, together," Ned said, tousling his daughter's hair. She smiled brightly at him.

"Will you come see my… dancing lessons someday, father? Please!" Arya asked, taking his hand. He stood back up.

"Aye, love, I will, but right now I have to go see the King. Run along to your lessons for me," Ned replied. She nodded happily and then ran off.

Robert's sick room was in a high floor in the royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast. His windows opened on the east, and through them Ned could see the Narrow Sea glittering in the sun. The open window brought a much needed freshness to the stale air.

The King lay in his bed, his head and shoulders propped up by a mound of pillows. A pale, sickly sheen of sweat was upon his brow and his bare chest. He looked hollow somehow, drained of all the life he once had, and his breathing was shallow yet his eyes still glinted with his old vitality.

"Ned!" he said in a voice louder and yet frailer than Eddard expected. "Your King needs you to answer a question, and answer it true,"

"What is it, Your Grace?" Ned pulled up a chair and sat down at Robert's side.

"How did I ever get this damned fat?" asked Robert, sweeping his hand down towards his expansive paunch.

"I suspect all the eating may have had something to do with it," Ned commented drily. Robert laughed, and the sound was heartening to hear.

"Gods, that cursed throne has ruined me, hasn't it? Couldn't even put my armour on properly," the King said, shaking his head.

"Age catches up to all of us," said Ned.

"Except that Isildur, damn him. He was right though, you were both right, I had no business in that melee. Now look at me," Robert said, shaking his head. "Got a dagger stuck in my belly, and got myself stuck in this bed. Ah, no matter. Did Isildur ride out?"

"Aye, he's heading for Ser Gregor's keep. I'm to act as your Hand in his stead,"

"He told me. That badge will suit you," Robert said, laughing weakly. "How I'd like to see the look on Tywin Lannister's smug face when Isildur gets there. What Cat did was ill done, but unleashing Clegane on the Riverlands? Monstrous," Robert shook his head.

"Cat will return Tyrion, Your Grace, I swear it," said Ned. Robert smiled.

"Too damn serious all the time, just like you always are. I know she will, I trust your word," the King said.

They sat in a comfortable, companionable silence for a moment. Gulls were crying outside the window.

"Have I been a bad king, Ned?" Robert asked at last, suddenly. The question seemed to trouble him.

"Your Grace?" said Ned questioningly.

"Oh enough of all that "Your Grace" ballocks, we're more than that. Answer the damn question," Robert said.

"You've given the Realm good years, Robert," said Ned.

"I did? The Realm must have really appreciated all those hunts I went on, all those feasts I threw, all those whores in my bed," Robert said with a bitter laugh. "It was Jon Arryn who ran the Realm, and now Isildur. And yet history will remember me,"

"You are worried about your legacy?" said Ned.

"It's a hell of a thing, taking a wound like this and surviving it, Ned. When the bastard drew that dagger, I thought I was a dead man," replied Robert.

"He was the dead man in the end," Ned reminded him.

"Heh, I made a right mess of him, I hear," Robert laughed, scratching his chin through his beard.

"A dreadful mess," said Ned.

"I thought I was dead though, all those days before I woke up again, I thought I was dead. I saw Lyanna's face, shaking her head at me. It gives a man cause to think. How will the people remember me after I am gone? Robert the Usurper? Robert the Warrior? Robert the Drunkard?" said Robert, his eyes melancholy.

"They will remember a good king who overthrew an evil madman and gave the Realm peace," Ned replied.

"Seven Hells, Ned, I ain't dead yet!" Robert replied, grinning. "But when I get out of this bed, things will be different, I promise you. We'll put everything to rights between your family and the Lannisters, and then you and I and Isildur will make the rest of my reign something to remember! The bards will sing of the happy days of good King Robert!"

Ned had heard Robert make promises like this before, but this time his voice was filled with conviction. For a moment he considered telling Robert the truth right there. The words were on the tip of his tongue. He was opening his mouth to speak.

"Your Grace," he began, but then Robert coughed. An awful, body-shaking, painful-sounding cough that left his eyes watering. And Ned recalled just how weak his King still was, and he knew he could not tell him now.

Gods forgive me, Ned thought sadly.

The door opened. Ned glanced up and standing there were Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella. Tommen was a plump boy, with a kind and sweet face, and white blond hair, the youngest of the royal children. Myrcella had long, curly blonde hair like her mother, and keenly intelligent but kindly eyes. Behind them stood a stout septa.
"Your Grace," they both said together, and Tommen bowed and Myrcella curtsied.

"Oh enough of that, come here my little ones!" Robert said happily. Beaming smiles broke out on their faces and they both raced to their father's side.

There was a feeling like a cold hand closing around Ned's heart as he watched them. The joy, the love on the faces of Robert and his "children". Tommen prattled on about the escapades of his cats, and Robert listened and laughed along with him as only he knew how to. Myrcella told Robert all about her lessons, and often the prince and princess talked over each other, yet Robert managed to hear both of them. He tousled Tommen's hair and Myrcella kissed his cheek, solemnly telling her father that a kiss could help make any injury better. They looked so happy, all of them. So completely and purely happy. Ned remembered that little bastard girl in the Vale, playing with her father.

Robert, how can I tell you that those children aren't yours?

The next day brought grey clouds from the south, and a light drizzling rain fell upon the city. It fell cold upon Ned's head as he crossed the bailey from the Tower of the Hand. Upon his doublet, he wore the heavy pin of silver, the Hand which identified him as the King's Hand. The Small Council awaited him in the Great Hall.

It was not the first time Ned had walked down the length of the Great Hall of the Red Keep. The Redguard and Ironguard on duty glowered at Ned and his guards. Rain spattered the tall windows. The Iron Throne hunched upon its dais, spreading wings of iron fangs. It was a hall filled with memories for Ned. Jaime Lannister upon the Iron Throne with the blood of a king on his golden blade. The Targaryen children wrapped in red cloaks. The black dragon skulls staring down with empty eye sockets at it all. It was impossible for Ned to walk in his place and not feel a creeping unease.

Petyr Baelish was not amongst the Small Council anymore, Isildur had dismissed him. That Ned counted as a blessing as he walked into the council chamber. The Baratheon brothers, Stannis and Renly, stood in conversation at one end of the table. Renly was dressed in a green doublet in a fashionable cut, a black stag leaping on its front, but Stannis dressed more plainly in black. Grand Maester Pycelle sat across from them, eyes lipped as if he were about to doze off. Varys, bald-headed and all in long robes, sprung up from his chair and shuffled towards Ned as soon as he walked in.

"My Lord Hand, it is so good to have you amongst us," he said simperingly, with a courtly flourish and bow. Ned tried not to grimace. He had never liked the Spider, even if Varys had warned them of the danger to Robert.

"Oh yes, our troubled Realm does need some good stern northern leadership," Renly said with a jolly twinkle in his eye.

"My lords, let us begin," Ned said, pulling up a high-backed chair at the centre of the table. The Small Council seated themselves to his left and right.

"Troubling news, I fear, my Lord, from the west," said Varys.

"We still must appoint a new Master of Coin," interrupted Pycelle suddenly.

"I am much wearied of all these figures and accounts, indeed," Renly said, drumming his fingers on the book.

"The situation in the west is more important than the Master of Coin," Stannis said, irritated.

"I agree with Lord Stannis," said Ned. "What news, Lord Varys?"

"I hear such terrible things, my lords," said Varys with a sigh of theatrical sadness. "Armies rallying, and the drums of war beginning to rumble across the land. There is talk that the Tullys have called their banners, and Lord Tywin is assembling forces, though neither have moved yet, and of course that dreadful business with Ser Gregor Clegane,"

"I suppose Lord Isildur will have to handle that when he gets there," said Renly.

"What does this Council advise?" asked Ned.

"We ought to wait for King Robert to recover before we take rash action," said Pycelle slowly.

A puppet, just like Isildur said, thought Ned.

"Some action, perhaps, is necessary to calm the tempers involved?" said Lord Varys.

"Isildur sent letters with royal commands, that doesn't seem to have done much good," said Renly skeptically.

"Then we must do something more forceful than a command," said Ned.

"They are breaking a royal command, they ought to be punished for this transgression," said Stannis sternly. "My lord, let me send out the Royal Fleet,"

Ned smiled grimly. Stannis had almost read his mind.

"My thoughts exactly Lord Stannis," Ned said. "I will send reminders to Casterly Rock and Riverrun that they are to keep the King's Peace. At the same time, send out fifty ships for Lannisport, with orders to place a blockade on it. The King's Host shall march to the Gods' Eye. Perhaps a show of force will make them reconsider their actions,"

Ned had no intentions of using the Host against the Tullys, not against his own wife's family. At the Gods' Eye, the King's Host would be better positioned to come to Riverrun's aid. With the combined threat of the Royal Fleet and the King's Host, he hoped Tywin Lannister would back down. If he didn't, Ned was determined to defeat him. And he knew that there was nothing Robert would love more than crushing a lord that had defied him.

"Yes my Lord Hand, it shall be done," Stannis said. Stannis Baratheon never smiled, but he looked almost pleased.

"My-my lord, perhaps-" stammered old Pycelle.

"You will provide the ravens, Grand Maester?" Ned said.

"…Yes, my lord," replied Pycelle.

The council wore on for most of the morning and into the afternoon. They discussed matters of laws and taxation. Long did they debate the appointment of a new Master of Coin. Renly argued for Willas Tyrell, crippled heir of Mace Tyrell of Highgarden and famed for his learning and wisdom. Grand Maester Pycelle suggested Lord Gyles Rosby, though Ned thought him too sickly for Council duties. Stannis on the other hand thought Lord Ardrian Celtigar, renowned as one of the wealthiest lords in the Narrow Sea, would serve admirably. Ned would have sent for Lord Wyman Manderly or one of his sons from White Harbour, but they would not arrive for weeks. In the end they reached no final decision, and left the matter to be settled another day.

Another day passed, and a third, quietly and without incident. Rain and sun were interspersed as the week went on, some days hot and humid, others cool and damp.

Robert's condition seemed to endure, he neither strengthened nor weakened as Ned saw him each morning. He did tire easily though, and he often took to sleeping for long portions of the day. He was always awake when Ned came to see him though, and he always stayed wakeful with Tommen and Myrcella. Ned saw little of Cersei or Joffrey, and counted himself fortunate for it.

He spent each morning with Robert, and though Ned tried to discuss matters of state with him, often Robert would turn to laughing and reminiscing on old times, happier times at the Eyrie with Jon Arryn.

Each afternoon was devoted to the Council, and to talk of taxes, harvests, trade, appointments. It was the ominous rumours from the west though that were like a weight upon Ned's mind. He knew Catelyn was out there, somewhere, perhaps in the Eyrie if she was lucky, with Tyrion Lannister as her captive. The thought of his lady wife mixed up in all that was happening brought a fear to him. He could only hope she would stay in the Eyrie, safe in the Vale, until matters could be settled. Then Ned would ride to her, and they would go home to Winterfell together.

The evenings would bring him back to the Tower of the Hand, to sup with the men in the small hall, and then to listen to Arya tell him about her lessons or hear Sansa play the high harp. It was the hours with his daughters he treasured most of all, and he drew his strength from them. Yet he knew that soon he would have to find the girls a ship and send them home, for their own safety. King's Landing was too close to Casterly Rock, and though the walls were high and the Red Keep strong, Winterfell would be safer still. He commanded Vayon Poole to quietly find a swift ship with a good captain.

Fires burned on torches and braziers in the hall. The tables had been pushed back against either wall, and the hall was empty. Empty but for Ned, sitting at the high table, and before him stood Arya and her 'dancing' master, Syrio Forel.

Arya and Syrio faced each other, standing a few yards apart. In their hands, each held a slender wooden waster. In unison, they bowed. Then both took up the stance of Braavosi water dancing: Sword held out straight, arm slightly bent, off-hand cocked half-way between, body leaning back. Slowly, they began to circle each other. Lightly, they touched swords together.

Suddenly and swiftly Syrio beat Arya's blade aside and lunged. Sweeping her off hand down, Arya slapped the thrust away and responded with a stab of her own. Light-footed as a cat, Syrio sidestepped away from Arya and out of her reach.

Arya was not discouraged, and she pursued Syrio relentlessly with a flurry of rapid thrusts. The Braavosi water dancer turned each attack aside with a fluid ease. Then Arya overextended herself on a thrust, and Syrio seized her wrist and tripped her leg, sending her sprawling to the hard stone floor. Ned frowned. The Braavosi had come with a high cost and a high reputation, but perhaps he was too rough for his daughter.

Arya was down, but not defeated. Rolling over, she caught Syrio's leg with her own and tripped him in turn. Too nimble was Syrio Forel to be caught by such a trick easily. As Arya rose to her feet, he rolled away and then scrambled up before she could strike.

Back and forth along the hall they sparred, their wasters clacking together with each thrust and parry. Though Arya's sword never managed to even graze Syrio, still Ned could see that his daughter had come a long way since he had found her stabbing at the air in her room with her Needle.

So much like Lyanna, Ned thought.

Arya crouched, sword held in close to her body. Syrio raised an eyebrow and shuffled in closer to her, but as his sword flicked forward towards her, Arya slapped it away with her empty hand. This time was not as before. She lunged, throwing herself into the attack, extending her whole arm and body. Quickly Syrio slipped away, but Ned sat up in his chair. He had saw it. The lightest touch, only a fraction of a moment, upon the front of Syrio's doublet.

Arya staggered, thrown off balance by the momentum of her lunge. Syrio stood, sword resting on shoulder, a smile on his Braavosi face.

"Well done, Arya child, you progress far," Syrio said.

"Did you see, father? Did you see? I got him!" Arya said, excitedly grinning. Ned smiled and nodded. He stood up from his chair and descended the dais. Arya ran over and hugged him, and he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Your girl should have been born a bravo, Lord Stark. She is a good student of the Water Dance," said Syrio. Ned tousled Arya's hair.

"Aye, strong willed she is, but she comes along well. I'll admit, Syrio, I was not certain about your methods," said Ned.

"The Dance of Bravos is not the Dance of Westeros, I teach as I was taught," replied the Braavosi.

"He's the best teacher, father! Will he come with us back to Winterfell?" said Arya. Ned chuckled, it was strange to see her so eager to learn. She had not taken to any lessons like she took to this.

"I will ask him. Now go on, get washed up," Ned replied, patting her on the shoulder. With a happy nod, Arya ran off.

Syrio and Ned stood and watched her go, till she disappeared around the corner and up the stairs.

"I confess Lord Stark, Syrio Forel was surprised when he was asked to train a girl," said Syrio "I did not know that the ladies of Westeros fought,"

"The ladies of the south rarely do, but the north is not the south. Have you ever heard of Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island?" Ned said with a chuckle. Syrio shook his head.

"She's as tall as a man, dresses in mail and carries a spiked mace," Ned explained. Lady Maege and her warrior-daughters had been guests of Winterfell many times, and though the Lady of Bear Island was stubborn and willful, she was as loyal to the Starks as any.

"And the Lord of the Isle of Tarth is said to have a daughter better with a sword than most of his knights, and my own sister Lyanna could outride me and Benjen on any day," Ned added. Syrio laughed.

"They may count your daughter amongst such fierce women one day, yes, I think it shall be so," he said.

"I don't know what my daughter's future will bring. Once I thought I would be no more than the lord of a holdfast for my older brother, but now I am Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Marshal of the King's Host," Ned shook his head "I want her to be safe Syrio, do you understand that? Safe from whatever ill fortune or fate may bring,"

"You have the love of a father, Lord Stark, this I know well," said Syrio, nodding gravely.

"Will you go with her? To Winterfell. My steward is searching for a ship to take my daughters home, and you would have an honoured place at my hall, I promise you," Ned said.

"She is a good student, and to continue her training would be an honour, Lord Stark," said Syrio "But I have been long away from my own home, from Braavos. Do I have time to consider the offer?"

"Of course, I shan't send them away for some time yet," replied Eddard.

"You are a good man, Lord Stark, I am honoured by your patronage," Syrio said with a Braavosi bow. Ned smiled and extended his hand.

"In the north, we shake hands," he said. Syrio took his hand and shook it firmly.

Ascending the many steps of the Tower of the Hand, heading towards his own chamber, Ned passed by his daughters' rooms. Torches burned in sconces, lighting the hall with dancing shadows. From behind Sansa's door, he heard a noise. Ned paused. It was the sound of sobbing. He knocked on the door softly.

"Sansa?"

"Y-yes?" came the choked reply.

"May I come in?" he asked. There was a noise that almost sounded like a yes.

He found his daughter sitting on her bed, her eyes reddened with crying. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand.

"Good evening father," she said, courteous and proper as she always was.

"What's the matter Sansa? Why were you crying?" he asked, sitting down next to her.

"Arya says… She says you're sending us home to Winterfell," Sansa said, sniffling. Ned frowned, there was no way around it, and so he nodded.

"But why? What did we do wrong? I've been good, father, I'm always good, I always listen, why am I getting punished too?" Sansa asked.

"You're not being punished," Ned said gently. "Things are not safe. I will not lie to you, there may be war soon. I want you to be in Winterfell, safe and far away from whatever may happen in the south,"

"War?" Sansa said, confused. She sniffled again, then raised her chin. "If there is to be war, father, then please let me stay here with Joffrey. I love him, I will stand with him no matter what foe he may face, just like Luthien and Beren,"

"Sansa, my dear, you may be a Luthien, but Joffrey is no Beren," Ned said sadly. He hated to hurt his daughter so.
"What do you mean?" said Sansa.

"When you are older, I will find you a match who will be worthy of you, as he is not. Someone brave and gentle and strong," he paused to remember the old Dunedain tales Sansa so loved, "Someone like Beren or Tuor,"

"Joffrey is brave and gentle and strong!" she insisted. Eddard grimaced.

"He's going to be the King someday, and I will be his Queen and have his babies, you promised!" she said, her eyes watering with tears.

"Sansa," Ned said. "One day, I promise you, you will marry a great lord, and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords of their own, but it will not be Joffrey. This match was a mistake, for reasons I can't explain to you yet, but you will understand, some day,"

Sansa was opening her mouth to reply when Jory Cassel appeared at the door.

"My lord, Lord Stannis and Lord Renly are begging an audience. They say it is urgent," said Jory. Ned sighed.

"Very well, show them to the study," he said. He turned to Sansa.

"Everything will be alright, Sansa, I promise you," he told her.

The study was a snug room, the walls lined with book shelves and maps and Myrish tapestries. A bright fire crackled in a hearth. Standing by the mantel was Stannis Baratheon, his brother Renly next to him. Their faces were serious, though Renly was as well dressed as if he were about to attend a ball, with dark green tunic and cloth of gold half-cape, despite the hour of the night.

"Eddard, we must talk," said Stannis grimly. Ned closed the door to the study behind him, and glanced at Renly.
"Stannis has shared your counsels with me," said Renly, "Robert is my brother too, and my King,"

"What do you know, Renly?" asked Ned.

"I had had my own suspicions about the Lannisters for some time, even about Cersei and Ser Jaime, but Stannis confirmed it for me. I stand with you," said Renly staunchly.

"Sending the fleet and the Host to warn the Lannisters was a beginning, but we must take further action. Cersei will not stand by while her family is defeated in the field," said Stannis.

"You have the loyalty of the King's Host, and it has not marched away yet. Between the three of us, we have two hundred swords or more in the city. Let us strike now," Renly said.

"Strike?" asked Ned.

"Take Cersei and the children into our custody, and secure the capital," said Stannis.

Unbidden, images of children wrapped in red Lannister cloaks came clouding into Ned's mind. He heard Tommen and Myrcella laughing with their father.

"What will happen to them in custody?" said Ned.

"We hold them, and tell Tywin Lannister to send his armies home. I can put the Tyrells on your side, and with them the Lannisters won't be able to resist us," said Renly.

Isildur's warning echoed in his ears.

"The Tyrells will side with us when we have seized the capital and taken the Queen and her children into captivity?" said Ned. "What lords will side with us when we look like usurpers?"

"Trust me Lord Stark, I know the Tyrells. With them, and the King's Host, the Tullys and our Baratheon bannermen, we'll have the biggest host in the kingdoms. Tywin Lannister will back down," said Renly. Stannis scowled at the name of Tyrell but said nothing.

"There is more to power than who has the biggest army, Renly," cautioned Ned. "We will drive many lords into the Lannister camp if we make it look as if we are seizing power from the King's children, perhaps the Tyrells as well,"

"They aren't the King's children," snarled Stannis harshly.

"But the lords of the realm believe that they are, and we have not shown them otherwise yet," said Ned.

"Every moment we delay only gives Cersei more time to prepare. We should move before it is too late," said Renly.

"Robert lives still, and he is King," cautioned Ned.

"And I want my brother so stay alive. I will not stand around and wait for that Lannister woman to slip poison in his wine," said Stannis.

"Telling him that his children are not his own will kill him just as certainly as any poison," said Ned sternly.

"Perhaps he is right, brother," said Renly. Stannis grunted.

"Cersei is guilty, we know this, why do we wait to bring justice to her?" he said.

"Her crimes will be punished, Stannis, I swear it. But we will punish her, not her children, and we need Robert on our side to do this without igniting a civil war, and he is not strong enough yet," said Ned.

"The children are abominations, born of incest," said Stannis, gritting his teeth.

"Joffrey isn't just that, we all know what he is," said Renly.

"They are innocents, and if the King's Peace is to be broken, I will not break it by filling King Robert's halls with blood and dragging children from their beds," Ned said, slowly and certainly. He stared the Baratheon brothers down with cold, dark, grey eyes. A silence fell amongst them.

"Lord Isildur would agree with us," said Renly.

"Lord Isildur is not here, I am," said Ned sternly. He had no taste nor patience for such things.

Silently, Stannis and Renly left Ned's study and walked away. Through an arrow slit, he watched them walk back towards the tower where their brother waited in his sickbed.

Weary of intrigues, heartsick with worry over Catelyn and Robert and his daughters, and missing Winterfell with all his heart, Ned finally retired for the night. The sleep he found was not restful.

In his dreams, that round tower which Rhaegar had named the Tower of Joy stood, slender and pale with the red mountains of Dorne at its back. By its door stood the three men in milk-white armour, which he remembered more clearly than anything. Around him rode the shades of dead men. Yet when Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, looked up and saw Ned and opened his mouth to speak, words came forth which Ned did not expect.

"LORD EDDARD STARK!" the White Bull bellowed in a voice that was not his own.

Promise me, Ned, Lyanna whispered desperately.

"LORD EDDARD STARK! COME FORTH!" roared the voice again.

Ned awoke suddenly. His room was dark. Outside, the sky was an inky black, with the first, pale fingers of dawn coming in the east. In the bailey below, someone was shouting for him.

"LORD EDDARD STARK,"

Someone hammered on his door urgently.

"My lord, the Kingsguard is in the courtyard, they're calling for you," said Jory desperately. Ned sat upright in bed. Jory opened the door as Ned was dressing. Jory was already wearing his jack of plates, and a mail shirt beneath, sword and dagger at his belt.

"My sword," said Ned, pulling on a shirt, and the Captain of his Guard retrieved it for him. He girt himself with his sword, and then Jory helped do up the laces of his padded doublet. Outside, Ned could still hear them calling for him.

The small hall was in chaos as Ned strode down the stairs. Men of his household guard and the King's Host were mixed together, pulling on gambesons and mail shirts and helmets. They seized spears and halberds and crossbows, and buckled on sword belts. Ned walked through them and they followed him to the entrance hall, and the broad doors of the Tower of the Hand were flung open.

Flickering torchlight gleamed on white plate harness, looking like ghosts in the darkness. In the bailey before the Tower of the Hand stood the brotherhoods of the Kingsguard. Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander, and the White Swords stood in the centre. He held his helm beneath his arm. His blue eyes were sorrowful. Behind him was Ser Ilyn-Payne and the seven knights of the Ironguard, to the left the Redguard, and the Heirguard to the right. Behind the brotherhoods, Ned saw men in Lannister livery and crimson cloaks, and the tall, grim shape of the Hound in ashen-grey plate, his longsword in hand.

Ned walked down the steps of the Tower of the Hand, feeling calm despite the armed men before him. His guards and the men of the King's Host filed in behind him. The air was cool on Ned's face and he felt no trace of sleep.

"Lord Eddard Stark, I have been charged with your arrest," said Ser Barristan somberly. Ned could see the regret in his eyes. Eddard Stark stepped forward.

"What is the crime?" he asked loudly.

"High treason against the Crown," said Ser Barristan. There were murmurs at Ned's back from the men behind him.

"By whom am I accused?" asked Ned. It was his right to know his accuser, and to answer in court, that he knew. No man in the Eight Kingdoms could be executed without trial, and certainly not the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

"The Queen Regent," answered Ser Barristan. Eddard's blood ran cold.

"The Queen Regent?" said Ned. Selmy nodded sadly.

"King Robert passed in his sleep. Long live King Joffrey," said Ser Barristan. Ned felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed to force it down.

"Long live the King!" echoed the knights all around him.

"The Queen Regent has accused you of treason, of plotting to usurp King Joffrey's succession," Barristan said.
"No!" cried a voice behind Ned.

"Lord Stark is no traitor!" cried another.

It has come to it then, Ned thought, breathing in deeply. He knew what he must say. The truth must come out.
"Joffrey is not the King's heir!" declared Eddard Stark.

The courtyard filled with the sound of dozens of swords drawing at once. The Hound took a step forward and closed the visor of his fierce dog's head helmet.

"Ned, please, do not condemn yourself with your own words," pleaded Ser Barristan. "Come into captivity peacefully, and I swear that you will get a fair trial,"

"Don't go!" yelled another of the King's Host men at Ned's back.

"You will not take our Marshal from us!" shouted one of them.

Ned looked behind him. A hundred and fifty men stood with grim faces, ready to defend his life. They outnumbered Cersei's men by many, even with all the knights of the Kingsguard.

"Ser Barristan, you are a good man, an honourable man, I mean you no harm, but you will not take a captive of me," said Ned.

Just then, the portcullis in the gatehouse creaked and slid open. A river of black iron and golden cloaks came rushing in as the City Watch poured into the courtyard. At their head came striding Ser Janos Slynt, his high, plumed, commander's helm upon his head and sword in hand. Ned looked up and saw a line of City Watch archers file out onto the battlements, training their bows down upon the courtyard. There were black iron spears in the hands of every Goldcloak before him.

"Please Lord Stark, I do not wish to hurt you," begged Ser Barristan.

Jory stepped forward, bare steel in hand, to place himself between his lord and the men before him.

"Jory, no!" said Ned, catching his captain by the shoulder and whirling him around.

"Go inside, protect the girls," he ordered.

"But my lord,"

"Do as I command! Now!" said Ned urgently. Shaking his head, Jory ran back inside the tower.

Ned turned and looked at his men. They were as ready to fight for him as before, with spears and short swords and halberds in hand, no matter how many foes stood before them. Yet so many of them were so young, so many of them had no more protection than a gambeson or a leather jerkin. Only his own guards had full hauberks of mail. Then he turned and looked at the sea of faces on the other side of the courtyard, at the knights sheathed in steel. Alyn and Porther and Jory were good sword-arms, but against Ser Barristan Selmy and Sandor the Hound and Ser Ilyn Payne? And behind them, the Lannister men-at-arms and the Goldcloaks.

"If you let my men go, I will go with you," said Ned in a loud voice.

"I swear to you, Lord Stark, on my honour as a knight, if you come into captivity peacefully, no harm will come to your men," replied Ser Barristan. There were angry murmurs and whispers behind Ned, but he nodded and began to walk forward towards the Kingsguard.

"NO!" yelled somebody from the steps.

There was a clatter of a crossbow. A bolt shot through the air.

Ser Barristan's head jerked back and he let out a choked cry.

"Hold!" roared Ned, throwing up an arm.

Selmy's hand was clawing at his throat. Between his fingers, the long shaft of a crossbow bolt had pierced his neck. His blood was dark and red upon his white cuirass. He was choking in it, struggling to breath. Barristan the Bold sunk to his knees, the redness seeping from between his fingers. He collapsed and lay still.

There was an immense silence for a moment.

"Murderers!" shouted somebody.

"They murdered Barristan!" yelled another.

"No!" roared Ned in desperation, but his voice was lost amongst the roar of the crowds all around him.

In a rush of screams and shining steel, the two forces came charging together.

The arrows from the walls fell like a hailstorm.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix

Chapter XV
The Riverlands

Hundreds of horses' hooves trotted down the roads of the Riverlands. The breeze swept through the boughs of the trees above them. The sun had just sunk beneath a distant line of hills which rolled to the west. Day was failing quickly, and the grey half-light of dusk was darkening amongst the woods on either side of the road. Still Isildur pressed the pace, leading his men onwards, pushing the pace as fast as he could without wearing out the horses. Fleetfoot was streaked with sweat, but held his head proudly and pressed on as if tireless.

Isildur's helmet hung from its chinstrap on the saddle. It clattered against the saddle and Isildur's thigh as he rode. His head was bare, and the cool air of the evening felt refreshing upon his sweat-damp brow. It felt good to be out of the city. Riding at the head of soldiers on a just errand, with a swift horse beneath him and the wind on his face, that was what Isildur had missed. This was the way he had been meant to live.

They were a day out of King's Landing. They had ridden hard, covering as many miles in that first day as their horses could handle. Smallfolk watched the company with wide eyes as they cantered or trotted down the road. Ever Isildur was in the lead, and the banners flew behind him, and Beric Dondarrion and the red priest Thoros riding hard on his flanks. They rode late into the night that first day, and then stole a few hours of sleep and rest beneath trees at the side of the road. Isildur had woken them before dawn on the second day and he pressed the pace relentlessly.

They rode along the Gold Road, which marched away from King's Landing towards the west, keeping the Blackwater at its left. The land rose and fell in gentle, sweeping hills and broad sunlit valleys. Hedges partitioned the meadows into a patchwork of farmers' fields. Here and there were small woods and stands of trees, with oak and elm, birch and yew. Small streams and creeks filled the land with the music of water tumbling over rocks. Away to the south, the Blackwater glinted like a silver ribbon.

Isildur held up a hand. He drew back on the reins, slowing Fleetfoot to a trot and then a walk. The horse knickered softly. Behind him, the company came to a halt.

"Master Willem!" Isildur called out.

A leather-skinned, sparse-haired man with a rocky brow and a squint in his eyes rode forward from the column. He wore the gambeson of the King's Host and carried a heavy crossbow on his back.

"Yes milord?" Master Willem said. He was a riverman by birth, and had traveled widely in the south.

Isildur glanced at the rest of the company. Heads were nodding. They looked ready for a rest.

"We shall make camp soon, know you any suitable place?" Isildur asked. Willem scratched behind his ear, almost like a dog beset by fleas.

"There ought to be a brook running through a hollow just a little ways ahead of us, if you follow me, milord. Good water and down and out of the wind," the soldier said.

"Very well then, lead on," Isildur commanded.

Willem led them through the gathering gloom. Their banners were furled now and a veil of clouds lay over moon and stars. There was not a sound, and the company passed like shadows in the half-light.

The road here was a dirt track, with twin ruts worn down by the passage of carts. It ran through the woods and over a small lip of land, and then cut back and forth down into the hollow. The slope on either side of them were covered in tall beeches and rowans, and the floor beneath them was full of leafy ferns. The overhanging branches of the trees formed a bower above Isildur's head.

At the bottom, a small stream ran across a rocky riverbed next to a broad lawn of wild grasses and flowers. A study wooden bridge spanned the brook.

Isildur looked over it all and nodded approvingly. The good riverman had not lied, it was a good place to make camp.

Gratefully, the men dismounted and set about their tasks. They spread out across the lawn, and the meadow on the opposite side of the bridge as well. Some men set off into the trees to find wood for fires and shelters, but Isildur ordered them to take only fallen lumber and touch no living trees. Some men had even brought modest tents along, and retrieved them from the packhorses to make camp. Isildur himself needed no such tent, he was content to sleep in the open air, though he wished the clouds would clear away and show the beauty of the stars. It was too long since he had slept beneath the stars.

They still had ample provisions from King's Landing. Soon bright fires blazed in the hollow, and the succulent smell of roasting meats arose and filled the air. They had smoked fish and salted pork, dried fruits, hardtack, and enough vegetables and flour and fresh water from the river to make a hearty stew.

The warmth of the fire hit Isildur's face. The heat of wine burned in his belly. Skewers of meat above the flames sizzled enticingly, dripping with grease. The smoke of his pipe was a wreath around his head. Sitting upon a log next to the fire, he stretched out his long legs and let the heat warm them. Beside him sat Cirion, and Belegorn and Brandir and Magor sat on the other side of the captain, and they passed around the wineskin between them. The air was full of the sounds of laughter and song, and the men sang in many voices:

Merry it is while summer does last!
With birds in song!
Now threatens winter blasts!
And tempests strong!
Merry it is while summer does last!
Winter be not long!

All around them, man-shapes moved in the dark, silhouetted in the firelight. Somewhere, somebody was playing a flute to the tune of the song. Around Isildur's fire though, the laughter was the loudest, for there stood of Thoros of Myr.

"Yes, it was in Lys that it happened, oh to be in the pleasure-houses of Lys," he said over-dramatically, casting a hand upon his head in an actor's gesture of grief.

"Get to it you damn priest!" shouted the big sellsword whom some called Little Thom. He was a large, boisterous man with iron-grey hair and beard shot through with black.

"Ah yes, the tale, my tale begs to be told, but first I must ask all of ye a question? What is that which vexes all men?"

"Money?" said Anguy the Bowman, to appreciative laughter.

Isildur recalled the red-haired boy from the Hand's tournament, for he had come second only to Huor the housecarl and the Numenorean steelbow. Isildur frowned. He wished he had brought Huor with him, the ranger was a good man, a deft hand upon the bow and crafty in the wilds. Huor and his brother Tuor were riding north with Mablung in search of Tyrion Lannister.

"Nay, though this thing often vexes men with how much of his money it spends! No my friends, I speak of the fairer breed, women!" proclaimed Thoros. There were chuckles and groans and rolled eyes around the fire.

"You know Thoros, you're an awful priest," said Beric Dondarrion with a humoured smile.

"Never said I was anything else," grinned Thoros of Myr.

"You red priests ain't s'posed to drink and sing and fuck like the rest of us, s'posed to be all proper-like, like the septons," said a squire of Beric's retinue, standing somewhere in the dark.

"And how many red priests do you know?" laughed Thoros. "We all worship the Lord of Light in our own ways. He is a god of life and warmth, and I live life to praise him," he winked.

Thoros was a merry companion, but something about him made Isildur uneasy. There were tales that red priests like him worshipped fire and shadow, and that reminded Isildur of things he would prefer to leave forgotten. Too well did he recall the black column of smoke ever rising above Armenelos in the days of Ar-Pharazon.

"Well go on then Thoros, what was this woman that got you banished from Lys?" said Little Thom.

"Ah her name, like music on my ears, her name was Livia," said Thoros. "She was the eldest daughter of one of the magisters of Lys, a very powerful and rich man, but of all his treasures she was the most precious. I was much younger then, new-made Priest of the Lord of Light, and the High Priest of Myr had sent me to Lys for my first ministry. I was young and full of fire,"

"Fire in his loins no doubt," said Beric Dondarrion.

"I was filled with the fire of the Lord, so eager to do His work, but alas the pleasures of the flesh did tempt me greatly, and Lys is so full of pleasures," Thoros stopped and grinned. "She often came to the temple, such a pious girl, a sweet young thing near my own age. Soft skin like fresh cream, hair the colour of honey, eyes that Lysene blue, a pleasantly plump, slender girl. Idolatrous it might be, but oh did I learn why the Lysenes worship a love goddess,"

"So what did you do? A swift fuck on the altar?" asked Anguy.

"Of course not! What sort of blasphemer do you take me for?" said Thoros.

"A blasphemer in priest's clothes," said Anguy.

"Well, it did not take long for the lovely Livia to get her eyes on the fine young new priest, and one day she asks me if I might assist her with some private education in the ways of the Lord of Light. Of course my concern was wholly for the well-being of her soul so I graciously accepted," Thoros explained.

There were chuckles around the campfire.

"Yes, 'the well-being of her soul', them's lovely words for wanting to get your cock wet," laughed Little Thom, taking a swig of wine.

"On my honour as a priest, I tell you that when I went to her manse, I had no intentions of laying a hand upon her," said Thoros solemnly. "But, however, she was rather intent on getting her hands on me,"

"And you didn't help her along at all?" said Beric, eyebrow raised skeptically.

"Why of course not! I may have… Dropped a few suggestions, maybe, perhaps, but nothing more!" said Thoros with mock-innocence.

"So I take it you deflowered the poor girl?" Beric asked.

"Well, no. It turned out dear sweet Livia was rather less pious than I thought," Thoros grinned again. "She was quite eager. But oh now I must come to it, my great shame,"

"You mean other than the drinking and the fighting and the whoring?" said Little Thom.

"Well I'm not ashamed of those things," laughed Thoros, and he took a long drink. "My great shame now, that is something that haunts a man,"

He paused and cast a long look around the faces of the men. The firelight gleamed in his eyes.

"We were in her chambers, I was on my back and she was doing things to me that only the pleasure-houses of Lys could have taught. Her kisses were sweet as summerwine, her fingers were quick and skilled and soon I lay as naked as the day I was born. Then she stood before me and began to undress. Remember I was just a young man then, youngest of my father's sons, and I had never been with a woman before. She had this great big bosoms, sweet and ripe, and that soft, creamy skin, that sweetness between her legs. She was standing there, the light of candles playing upon her skin. She was eager and ready for me, and I for her. I looked at her, she looked at me with lusty Lysene eyes, I looked down to my cock, hard as castle-forged steel it was, and then I looked back at her… And it was too late,"

There was a moment of quiet, and then comprehension dawned upon them. The men howled with laughter, wiping away tears of mirth, laughing till their sides hurt. Even Isildur managed a smile.

"You know I hear the maesters have a salve for that now!" guffawed Little Thom, slapping his knee merrily.

"And the girl had you exiled for that?" laughed Anguy.

"No young bowman, that was not why I cannot return," said Thoros "For that was when her father walked in. She thought he would be away at the city council all night, but he had made the time to go home to see his daughter, and found her… Indisposed. Luckily for me, he did not dare to harm a servant of the Lord, and so I escaped my manhood intact, back to the High Priest of Myr,"

"And he sent you to us?" asked Isildur finally. Thoros looked up at Isildur, who had sat silent, half in the light of the fire and half in the shadows of the night.

"Yes my lord, they had hoped that Westeros' winters might cool my appetites, but I still burn with the fire of the Lord of Light," he said, winking to the other men. There were snickers.

"Isildur is my name, you may call me that," said Isildur.

"Very well, Isildur," said Thoros, raising his wine skin as if in toast and then taking a deep drink.

"I was surprised when you asked Lord Beric to accompany us," Isildur said.

"You're a dangerous sort, Isildur, and I like dangerous sorts," replied Thoros. The red priest sat down on a stump near to the Lord of Minas Ithil and his black-clad housecarls. The others around the fire fell into conversations of their own.

"Is that why you are a priest of your red god?" Isildur's voice was that of a question asked carelessly, easily, but he watched Thoros keenly. The portly priest only smiled and answered in good humour.

"I'm a priest of the Lord of Light 'cause I was my father's eighth child and he had no use for me," He paused to raise his wine skin again. "So now I give my life to piety and to prayer," and he drank deeply.

"Is that what your god commands?" Isildur replied.

"No one really knows what the gods command, now do they?" said Thoros.

"There is only one God," said Isildur, sterner and sooner than he intended. Internally he cursed his hasty words. Thoros stopped and looked at him strangely, and then leaned in and sat a little closer to Isildur.

"There is indeed not gods, but God, and do you know His name?" Thoros said in a low voice.

"Perhaps, but unlearned am I in the lore of the East. What can you tell me of your red god?" said the son of Elendil. A small smile lit Thoros' face.

"He is R'hllor, the Lord of Light, God of Flame and Shadow, the Heart of Fire," he said in a solemn chant. Isildur grimaced. He narrowed his eyes and they gleamed, dark and hard, with a twinkle of the fire in their grey depths.
"Of course that's just what the high priests tell us, translating from some old musty holy books from Asshai I've never even seen. What do they say of your god in Gondor?" Thoros said with sudden levity.

"He is," was all Isildur told him.

"Well that's not much to go on, now is it?"

"It is enough," Isildur said. "Tell me, Thoros, how can your Lord of Light be a god of light and of shadow also?"

"Some priests of my order revere the Flames, others worship the Shadows," replied Thoros.

"Which do you?" asked the Lord of Minas Ithil, more sharply than he intended.

"The shadow-priests, they say that darkness came before the light, that when there is no light there is still darkness, that before a child is born it is formed in darkness and when men die they go back to darkness, and so darkness is sacred. Yet I say unto them: Piss on that. The night is dark and full of terrors. Our god is the Lord of Light, darkness can't exist without light, and it is light we worship, light and warmth and life," said Thoros, with a seriousness Isildur had not expected from him.

"Flames may bring life, but death also," replied Isildur darkly. Thoros laughed at that, a cry and jolly laugh. For that Isildur did not blame him, for Thoros did not, could not, know of what Isildur had seen.

"Aye, and man can create life but kill also, can he not?" said Thoros. "I am curious what they teach you of your god in Gondor. We have heard that you have one God, much as we do, but little of your lore comes out of your country,"

"He is not just our god, he is your God also, God of us all," said Isildur.

"Does He have a name, your one god?" Thoros asked.

"Eru, Iluvatar, the One, the All-Father," Isildur answered.

"Lovely titles, is he a god of fire also?" said the red priest of R'hllor. Isildur shook his head sternly.

"He is the God of all things, nature is His creation and we are His children,"

"I suppose we would be if He is the All-Father. Who can really say whose "One God" is the right one? The northmen worship the trees and the rocks, the southrons worship rainbows, I worship the fires. The only way we'll know is after we are dead, and I've never heard a tale from a dead man," replied Thoros.

Isildur stopped and memory took him. The great, dark wave that towered above Holy Meneltarma. The lands breaking and tumbling into the abyss. Lightning smote down the Black Temple of the Enemy. All the proud towers and halls of the Kings of Numenor laid to waste. Fire and stone fell from the sky. The screaming, the screaming of all the folk of Elros, fleeing men and women and children in arms. The seas, dark as the night sky. The great dark wave crashing down and drowning it all. He had seen the wrath of the One, and when he closed his eyes he could see it still, as if it were burned in his memory itself.

"No Thoros, there is one God, one God of all. Trust not in creatures of fire and shadow that call themselves gods, they will deceive you to ruin and despair,"

The leaves and the grasses were silvered with dew that gleamed in the dawn the next day. A grey mist lay over the land and the forests all around, pierced through with beams of pale sunlight. Birds were singing and the brook still babbled over its rocky bed.

Isildur was the first to arise. He stood, wrapped in his grey cloak, his pipe smoking. He strode about camp and roused the men, shaking them from sleep. There were grumbles and groans as the soldiers stretched and donned their clothes and armour. Their horses stood, swishing their tales in the morning light.

A quick breakfast they ate at the lawn beside the brook. The men fried up some of the smoked fish they had brought along, and ate it with biscuits of hardtack. They refilled their water skins and bottles from the river, and then mounted for another day's ride.

At a trot, Isildur led them across the bridge, and then up the opposite slope and out of the hollow. The sun was climbing and the clear blue sky promised another day of hot, muggy weather.

Coming out of the hollow, they found themselves riding through a broad land of low rising ridges and wide valleys, covered in hedgerows as old as the Iron Throne itself. As far as they could see there were fields of barley and grain, and the land was covered in small homesteads. Isildur commanded the banners unfurled, and they streamed above his head, black and white, purple and gold, catching the wind as their pace increased.

They held their westward course on the Goldroad for another four days of hard riding beneath a baking sun, until the road turned southwest to cross the Blackwater.

Isildur reined Fleetfoot up at the crossroads. The Blackwater here flowed deep and swift, and an arched stone bridge sprung across it, spanning the rocky bank. Behind him, the company rumbled to a halt. The road forked ahead, one path leading to the southwest, another to the northwest.

Beric Dondarrion and Cirion trotted up beside Isildur.

"The south road would take us to Clegane's keep," said Beric.

"Aye, and close to Casterly Rock too," added Cirion darkly.

"If Clegane is even there, which I doubt. He is somewhere along the marches of the Westerlands I would guess. Where is the town of Sherrer?" asked Isildur. The captain of his housecarls called out for Willem. Dutifully, the old riverman rode up on his swaybacked hackney. Cirion repeated the question.

"Up 'round Pinkmaiden milord, a good few days ride up that way. Some of my lads are from that stretch, they'd know it better than I," said Willem.

"Good, send your men forward then, we will head for Sherrer and from there see what signs there may be," replied Isildur.

With the rivermen guiding them, the company rode on, now pushing to great speed on their northward ride. Every day they rose early, and they rode and rode until night gathered around them. In the open air, beneath the stars and the moon he loved so well, Isildur would throw himself into sleep and then rise again at first light to carry on the journey. The weather remained fair, with only brief rains and long hours of clear sun.

His mind was troubled, even though their fared well upon the road. Long into every night he pondered the tidings of war that Yoren had brought. He bore the standards of King Robert and of Gondor with him for more than just vanity. An attack upon the King's banner would be like unto an attack on the king himself, and it would declare Tywin and the Lannisters to be traitors and enemies of the Crown. Yet looking around in the gloom of the evening's camp, looking at the hundred and fifty men that had followed Isildur on this task, he could not help but feel that knowing the King would crush Tywin would be cold comfort if they were set upon and overwhelmed.
He blew out a stream of smoke, his breast stewing with dark thoughts and fears. His housecarls, Cirion and Belegorn, Brandir and Magor, Hador and Damrod, Anborn and Borondir and all the rest, they had sworn fealty and service to Isildur, even in their deaths. Beric Dondarrion was a good man, a brave man, had he followed Isildur to his death? And Thoros? Little Thom and Anguy and Willem? What would become of them if Tywin was a traitor truly?

Much must be risked in war, Isildur thought sadly, remembering Ned's words in the hall.

He arose from the fallen tree upon which he had sat. Fires flickered and the men drank and laughed and sang as if they rode towards nothing more than a summer tourney. Isildur alone, it seemed, was in a grimmer state of mind.

Wrapping himself in his grey cloak, he passed amongst the men silently. Some eyes glanced up to see him, and he smiled and nodded towards the soldiers.

Tied to the picket lines, Fleetfoot pricked his ears as his master approached. The horse whickered softly. Like a Dunadan amongst Andals, Isildur's horse stood taller and prouder than the others around it. Thick and dark was his mane and bay was his coat.

"Hail friend," Isildur said in the Elven tongue. He reached out and rubbed Fleetfoot's nose, scratching along his jaw, patting him on his strong neck. The horse looked back at him with knowing eyes.

"Long has it been since we have ridden in the fair fields and streams of Ithilien, but we cannot return yet," he said. Isildur reached into a nearby feedbag and grabbed a handful of oats. His horse ate them out of his hand.

"We must go to war again, my friend," Isildur spoke, softly, sadly, stroking Fleetfoot's neck. The noble animal stared at him, and then tossed its head and swished its mane, as if to say "Let our enemies come, gladly shall I meet them."

Isildur smiled and turned away. He started back towards the light of the campfires. In the dark, suddenly a shape loomed. The shape tripped and knocked into Isildur. The Lord of Minas Ithil stumbled back. A familiar voice swore lowly. The shape looked up at Isildur and for a moment the light of the moon fell upon a face. Dark blue eyes and short black hair, a strong jaw. The eyes widened in recognition. Isildur's arm flew out and he grabbed the boy by the arm in a hard grip.

"Let go of me!" Gendry protested.

Isildur dragged him away from the camp, into the shadows of the trees, and he threw the boy against a tree trunk. Gendry grunted as he hit the tree, then he stood and squared his shoulders, facing off with Isildur.

"What are you doing here?" Isildur said, voice low and hard.

"I think I ought to be asking the questions, milord," said Gendry defiantly.

"Do you now? You presume to question me?" replied Isildur. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles went white.

Fool! Stupid, young fool! He thought.

"I'm owed some answers, ain't I?" said Gendry.

"You would have gotten them if you had waited like I told you, you daft boy!" said Isildur angrily.

"Don't call me a boy," Gendry snapped.

"A boy you are, and a foolish one at that," Isildur replied. "Do you know who I am hunting?"

"Gregor Clegane?"

"Aye, the Troll that Walks in the Day. He's more beast than man, he and all of his men are orcs in the shapes of men, and orc-work is what they do. I ordered you to stay behind to keep you out of danger and you come seeking it!" said Isildur, voice stern and urgent.

"What danger? All you did was take me away from all the home and all the family and I've known and for what? You ain't told me nothing!" the armourer's apprentice shot back at him. "I'd like to know what all this is for! What am I in danger from? Seven Hells, what do you want?"

In that moment, with his eyes of blue eye blazing with anger like fires, his jaw set stubbornly, that grim look on his face, Gendry looked like Robert Baratheon come again. Isildur thought back on a spring years ago, a false spring. He thought back on Robert as a young man, eighteen years of age, tall, lean and triumphant on the field at the tourney of Harrenhal. Uncanny was the resemblance between Gendry and his father, in face and in spirit, so Isildur judged.

He sighed deeply and frowned. He knew he had wronged his friend's son, King Robert's own blood. He knew there was much he had to make up for.

"You are your father's son, truly," Isildur said.

"My… my father?" said Gendry, taken aback. He paused in surprise. The air was cool, the forest quiet around them but for the sounds of crackling fires and the men singing some bawdy song.

"Aye, your father," said Isildur.

"You knew my father?" asked the boy tentatively.

"I know your father," Isildur answered. Gendry's face was pale with shock and surprise, the question clear in his eyes. The son of Elendil grimaced, unsure of where to begin.

"Gendry, you are the bastard son of our King, Robert Baratheon," he said at last. For a moment Gendry stared at him as if he had not heard what Isildur had said.

"That… That can't be. You lie," Gendry said, almost accusingly.

"I do not, you are your father's son, and your father is Robert Baratheon," replied Isildur.

"No, my father was a sailor or a sellsword or some damn thing, he couldn't be the King, that just can't be," said Gendry, shaking his head. "I'm not a King's son, kings don't fuck tavern girls,"

"I have known your father since he was your own age. You have his eyes, his face, his hair, even his voice," Isildur paused and smiled slightly "Even his stubbornness,"

Gendry leaned back against the tree trunk. He stared at Isildur wordlessly, still shaking his head.

"This can't… But then… If what you say is true, was it my-my father who ordered you to find me? What does he want?" he said at last, questioningly.

Isildur frowned and shook his head.

"No, Robert does not know of you, nor did I until Lord Stannis told me of you,"

Gendry narrowed his eyes.

"Then what do you want with me? I'm a bastard and I'm not gonna make trouble for anyone,"

This was not how Isildur had intended to tell Gendry the truth, but he knew there was nothing for it now. He had to tell Gendry all of it.

"It's not that Gendry. The Queen's children, the princes and the princess, they are not the King's," Isildur explained.

"But I'm a bastard-" Gendry began to say again.

"No, it's not that. We need to prove the Queen's infidelity. She plots to usurp the Throne. We need to prove that her children are not Robert's, to bring her to justice for her crimes," said Isildur. "To look at you, there can be no doubt that you are Robert's son. We need to show Robert that you are what his children should look like, to show him that the princes and princess are not his heirs,"

"So is that all I am? Just proof? Just a playing piece in this game of thrones?" spat Gendry angrily. Isildur regarded the armourer's boy with sad grey eyes.

He speaks truthfully, gravely have I wronged this boy, he thought.

"Gendry, I know I have done you wrong. When all this is over, I will introduce you to your father. Whatever his flaws may be, he loves his children. You will lack for nothing, I swear it. From a home you were taken, a home you will be given," Isildur said.

"Why did you take me from Master Mott then? That was my home," Gendry said darkly, scowling.

"The Queen has eyes everywhere, and she knows that Robert has many children out of wedlock, if she discovered you… She is perilous," Isildur let the implication hang in the air.

"I never saw sign nor heard sound of any of you highborn till Lord Stannis and the old Hand started all this mess," replied Gendry.

"If I could have left you to live in peace, I would have. But we need you Gendry, we need your help, your father needs your help," said Isildur.

"My father? My father?" Gendry said with a dry, bitter laugh. "My father was Tobho Mott, what do I owe Robert Baratheon?"

"Be not too eager to pass judgement in anger. You ought to meet Robert, he is very much like you, he is a good man, and he would be happy to know he has sired a son tall and strong," Isildur said. "Will you help us Gendry?"

"And if I don't?" said Gendry.

"A false king shall take the Iron Throne, the Queen's puppet, and I must oppose that. War will engulf us all, the Realm shall bleed," There was no lie, no exaggeration, no pretensions in Isildur's voice. He spoke the truth, clear, hard and cold.

Gendry looked down at his feet. He slumped, like he felt the vast weight of the burden bestowed upon him by accident of birth. When he looked back up at Isildur, his dark blue Baratheon eyes were like wells of deep thought.

"I will help you. Hells, I ought to hate you, but it would take an idiot to not hear that you speak true and mean well," said Gendry at last. "To help the Realm, I will help you, and perhaps when it's all over I will meet this father of mine,"

"You have my gratitude Gendry, truly," Isildur said, nodding. He reached out and clasped Gendry by the shoulder.

"What happens now?" asked the boy when Isildur released him. The Lord of Minas Ithil rubbed his brow.

"I can spare no man to guard you, nor can you ride all the miles back to King's Landing alone… For now, you will ride with us. Stay close to my housecarls, and if battle comes and things go ill, you are to flee. Do you understand? Do not stay to be slain, save yourself," Isildur said sternly, giving Gendry a hard look. The boy had been disobedient before, but Isildur would not have him stay in a fight that was not his own. Gendry nodded and said nothing.

"Go now, and speak of this to no one," he told the armourer's apprentice. Gendry nodded and began to walk back towards the camp, but as he stood silhouetted in the distant light of the fire, he paused. He turned back towards Isildur for a moment.

"Thank you," he said softly "For telling me about my father,"

Then he walked away without a glance back.

For the next four days, they rode hard underneath a dreary grey sky. They followed the river valley of the Blackwater Rush, north and west, till they crossed its northern fork at a wooden bridge. The road was full of people, men and women and whole families with children in arms. With their meagre possessions in handcarts or carried on their backs, they were heading east. There was news amongst them of raiders and burnt villages along the marches, and they were fleeing from the onset of war. At the sight of every man, woman and children dispossessed of lands and homes, Isildur's mood grew blacker and his anger smouldered within him.

Cresting a wooded hill on the fourth day, Isildur was met with a familiar sight, though he had not seen it in years. Below them spread a town, with many thatched roofs of hovels and houses. It was ringed with stout walls of timber and stone, and upon a hill sat a tall sept with a spire of a bell-tower. Below that sept sat a small holdfast, almost too small for the size of the prosperous market-town around it. The roads were unpaved, yet there were full of a traffic of men and animals. All the roads in the country for miles around ran towards the town square, like the cogs on a great wheel.

"Stoney Sept, long has it been since I last was here," said Isildur to Beric Dondarrion, who sat leaning upon the pommel of his saddle.

They stopped there until the sept bell rang out the second hour of the afternoon, and they took fresh provisions, reshod their horses, and rested for some time. Though the men would have wished to spend the night in taverns, Isildur pushed them on.

Outside of Stoney Sept, they raced north across fields ripe with grain and wheat, beneath a rainy sky. The land was flat and grassy for many miles, until at last it began to rise and fall in rounded green hills once more. Soon they rose through patches of woodland as often as across meadows and farm fields. Five days from Stoney Sept, they travelled north and west towards the Mummer's Ford, and the forests around them grew larger and thicker and the trees grew taller and broader and the road grew grassy.

The sky above them was veiled with clouds, iron grey, with forebodings of more rain. The leaves of the trees were rustling and their branches were swaying to and fro in the wind. The company was dismounted, sitting beneath trees on either side of the road. Their horses grazed around them. Isildur sat on a large rock, grey cloak wrapped around him, hiding his black and silver mail and surcoat. His pipe was in his hands and he was smoking pensively, grey eyes distant to the world around him. He listened carefully. He could hear the leaves in the wind, the twittering of birds, the low conversations of the men around him, and in the far distance, the lightest rumour of the burbling of the Red Fork running.

I should have brought the palantir, he thought for a moment.

It is safer with Aratan, such a treasure cannot be lost, Isildur reminded himself.

"They ought to be back by now!" declared the loud voice of Little Thom, breaking Isildur's reverie. The son of Elendil looked up.

The sellsword was pacing back and forth across the road. He wore a tattered patchwork brown cloak, yet his plate and mail armour, though ugly and dented and of no fine make, was immaculate and well cared for. Above his shoulder peeked the hilt of his greatsword, a weapon so long that he could not even draw it that way but had to take the sheath off his back to free it.

"Patience," Isildur reminded him.

"Begging your pardon milord but I ain't the type to like all this sitting 'round on the edge of a fight. We should just go right at 'em!" said the burly mercenary.

"We do not know if they are there," said Beric Dondarrion, sitting next to Isildur. He ran a whetstone down the edge of his sword, inspecting the blade with a keen eye. "We will wait until the scouts return with news," he said.
Grumbling discontentedly, Little Thom stalked off, flexing his hands as if he longed to strike something.

"Strange companions Thoros brings along," commented Isildur.

"Little Thom? Aye, no knight is he, but a terror in battle," replied Beric.

"I suspect he is, but I worry of his discipline. He is a hot tempered man. Do all red priests associate with sellswords?" Isildur said.

"Thoros is a singular red priest," Beric laughed. "King Robert's own drinking-fellow, talks a lot perhaps, but there's no man in the Eight Kingdoms better to be watching your back,"

"I don't doubt his prowess, only his choice of companions," answered Isildur, casting a glance about the company.

Thoros of Myr had come along out of friendship to Beric and desire to see Clegane brought to justice, but many freeriders and sellswords had followed him in the hopes of a rich reward from the Hand of the King. They were a sturdy, lean lot, many with the look of hungry dogs about them. Swords and falchions, spears and axes they carried, and they were armoured in boiled leather and mail shirts, brigandines and bits of plate, yet Isildur could not guess their quality in battle. A few looked fat and too well fed for the sellsword's life, and some had a foul feeling about them and staring eyes to make the skin crawl. Still though, all had claimed they would follow Isildur to capture Gregor Clegane, and he knew he would need the help of every man. He wished he had more of his housecarls with him, his reliable and war-tested Numenoreans.

Little Thom did not have to wait long. Soon the scouts returned, marching down the road from the direction of the Ford. Isildur had sent ten men, a band of the rivermen led by two of his housecarls, Belegorn and Borondir. Yet thirteen returned, for they were followed by a man, a woman and a young boy. Their faces were smoke-blackened and their clothes were tattered and the boy sniffled and wept now and again. Borondir's face was dour.

"My lord, we checked the fords, and all the woods around them. There is no sign of the Troll or his men, but we met this family on the road," the housecarl said.

Isildur stood up and looked over the family, his grey eyes gentle.

"What are your names?" he asked softly.

"Ban, milord, and my wife is Tasie," the man said, eyes at the ground.

"And this is our son Cailan," the wife added. The boy brushed away tears with the back of his hand and looked at Isildur, jaw agape.

"Where are you from?" Isildur asked.

"Wendish Town, milord, but the raiders came…" said Tasie, voice choking in her throat.

"Where we come from ain't there no more, milord," finished Ban, voice full of burning anger. Isildur furrowed his brow and clenched his fists.

"Good people," he said "I am Isildur Elendilion, the Hand of the King, and the brigands who have done this will pay for their crimes,"

Their eyes widened, and then quickly they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.

"Thank you, milord, but we be plain simple folk, all we want is to live in peace," said Ban.

"Mama, he's Isildur!" said little Cailan, pulling on his mother's dress. "He's a giant!"

"We will give you food and coin from our baggage, you should travel east to the safer places of your people," Isildur said.

"We're heading to my father's village 'round Lord Harroway's Town," said Tasie.

"That is good, but I must know what you can tell me of these outlaws. Do you know which way they went?" Isildur asked.

"Mama, they say he can't be killed!" whispered Cailan insistently.

"No milord, didn't see them for long, we ran as soon as we could. They might still be sitting in our own homes, brazen as you like, for all we know," said Ban. Isildur nodded somberly.

"You have my sympathies for your loss, good master Ban. If you ever return to your village, may it be in happier times of peace!"

They provided the family with packs of food, and what warm clothes and cloaks they could spare, and a purse of gold and silver for which Ban fell down on his knees and thanked Isildur with the deepest gratitude.
The company then remounted and rode on at a canter for the Ford.

The Red Fork meandered, broad and slow and full of the silt and sand. The Mummer's Ford, so named for the many mummer's troupes that often traveled this way, was shallow enough that it barely came to the horse's knees as they rode across. Willow trees hung limbs low over the water, and birds sung innocently amongst their branches. Isildur stopped in the middle of the ford, the company still riding past, and he glanced left and right.
The thick foliage, the banks of the river, the narrowness of the road, Thoros was right: This was the perfect place for an ambush.

But there was none. No arrows flew, no swords shone, no spears were brandished, no one cried out. The silence seemed immense and an uneasy feeling crept down Isildur's neck. He trusted his scouts, yet somehow he felt like there were eyes upon him.

From the ford, they turned south and rode hard for Wendish Town, and another two days they rode through forest and field, always keeping their eyes on the distant lines of foothills that marched away to the west of them. They knew that mountains rose behind those foothills, still out of sight, and despite the countless leagues it felt as if they were somehow too close to Casterly Rock.

Finally, on the second day since the Ford, they came to a thick band of forest. One of the King's Host soldiers told them that Wendish Town lay on the other side, only a few miles distant down a narrow path through the forest, wide enough for three mounted men to ride abreast. Here Isildur called the halt, and again sent forward scouts. He disliked the narrowness of that path, and the thickness of the brush. Whatever lay ahead, he would not be taken unawares.

The bright sun beat down in relentless heat, and it was sinking into the first hour of the afternoon when the scouts returned.

"There's are watchers in the woods, my lord, a dozen men or more," Belegorn said, wiping sweat from his brow. Isildur, Thoros and Beric Dondarrion gathered around the scouts.

"A picquet line, Clegane is cannier than I thought," said Thoros, crossing his arms.

"We might sweep them aside in a sudden onset," suggested Beric, though his voice betrayed his own doubts about that idea. They all glanced at the dense trees and bushes of the forest, and the road was very narrow.

"Did they wear any badges? What weapons did they carry?" Isildur asked.

"They dressed plainly, but we did not get close enough to count or get a good look at their arms. We came back lest we be discovered," Belegorn said.

"The Riverlords are probably searching for these outlaws themselves, one of their companies could be encamped ahead," said Lord Dondarrion.

"Or it could be Clegane's men," replied Thoros doubtfully, shaking his head.

"We have only one way of knowing for sure," said Isildur. "We ride up there and see if they are friend or foe,"

"It could be ugly if they are foes," Beric's expression was calm, but severe. He knew well the chances, and mischances, of war.

With doubt in his heart but also a strange gladness at the prospect of perhaps finally coming to grips with the foe, Isildur vaulted onto Fleetfoot's saddle. The gelding pawed the ground and snorted.

He pulled up the coif on his mail hauberk, and at his side was Cirion, acting as his master's squire for Ohtar had stayed behind with Aratan. Cirion checked and rechecked the fastenings upon Isildur's saddle, and snugged the straps on his coat of plates. He did this once, then again, then a third time till Isildur slapped him on the shoulder.

"Ready yourself, old friend, I'm no wet-eared knight of summer," Isildur jested, flashing a grin.

"Aye my lord," Cirion replied, smiling himself. He offered his hand and Isildur took it, clasping Cirion's forearm, their mailed arms rattling together.

The son of Elendil donned then his helm, mithril blazing in the sun. Its wing-shaped cheek guards fitted close over the hood of his hauberk, and above them rose wings from the high crest of the helmet. His shield was strapped to his saddle, where he could reach it easily, and at his side was his war horn. Isildur set his hand upon Narsil, feeling the comfortable leather of its great hilt, and he loosened it in its scabbard.

In a long column, in three by three, they rode into the forest. The banners were unfurled, Baratheon stag going at the front, and followed by the white tree and moon of Isildur and the lightning of Beric Dondarrion.

The men were quiet, and the air was still and stuffy within the woods. The trees seemed to loom over them on either side. No birds called out, no animals chattered, there was only the sound of the hooves tramping along the dirt path, and the banners hanging from their staves.

A man stood before them on the path when they had gone on for some time. He stood clad in hardened leather jerkin and plain clothes, a tall spear in hand, falchion at his side. His face was hard and he was unshaven.
"Who goes there?" he cried in a loud voice, which echoed through the woods. "Be you friend or foe?" he challenged them. Cirion trotted forth from the column before any others could speak.

"I am Cirion, housecarl of Lord Isildur, the Hand of the King. We ride in search of the outlaw Gregor, in the name of King Robert. Be you friend or foe? Answer swiftly!" he yelled back in a stern voice. A dappled ray of sunshine pierced the thick canopy of leaves and his helmet gleamed in it.

"The Hand of the King eh? That a fact?" said the sentry, a strange lilt in his voice.

"It is, now what is your answer?" demanded Cirion.

The man smiled then, a cold, cruel smile. He raised two fingers to his lips and blew out a sharp, loud whistle. Then, before any could stop him, he sprang away nimbly and disappeared in the brush.

Suddenly, all around them, bowstrings sang out and crossbows clattered. A storm of arrows and bolts flew out from the forests on either side.

Horses screamed. Men cried out in pain. Darts buzzed through the air. Men fell, some wounded, some dead. Horses reared and tossed their riders, arrows and bolts sticking from their flanks. Blood stained the green grass. Isildur wheeled his horse in the centre of the path. In the forests, he glimpsed fleeting figures in green and brown, bows in hand, fleeing. Fleetfoot whinnied amongst the cacophony of noise.

Then it was over. There was a moment of pained groans and sobs and horses crying in pain.

Ahead of them, a score of men burst from the trees on sturdy ponies of their own, and they galloped away. The air was rent with shrill, brazen blasts of a trumpet.

"That's them! That's the bastards! After the fuckers!" roared Little Thom. His mount, uninjured, sprang away across the wreckage of horseflesh and fallen soldiers. His sword was bare.

"No! Hold!" shouted Isildur, but he yelled in vain. Surprised and bloodied, and the battle-anger burning hot within them, many of the company still mounted rode off behind Little Thom and disappeared around the bend in a thundering gallop.

Isildur shook his head and cursed lowly, then wheeled Fleetfoot around. Behind him lay dozens of stricken horses, still flailing limbs in pain, churning and pitting the earth beneath them, eyes wild. There were men, many wounded and a few dead, with arrows piercing their sides and legs, throats and shoulders. Isildur breathed out a sigh of relief, spotting Gendry, face pale, shaking in fear but unharmed. Gendry caught Isildur's eye, and the Hand of the King mouthed the word 'run' silently.

"Lord Beric! Are you unharmed?" Isildur yelled out. The Lightning Lord of Blackhaven was still in his saddle, his great brown courser uninjured as well.

"Aye Lord Isildur," he said, pulling a greathelm on his head, which encased him with steel along with his plate and mail.

"Good. Thoros!" Isildur yelled.

"My horse is slain, but no dart has found its mark on me yet," replied Thoros, yelling from the rear of the column. His red robes were pierced through in many places, but he drummed his fingers on his breastplate, smiling grimly from beneath a nasal helm. His longsword was in hand.

Beric rode up to Isildur, picking his way amongst the dead and dying slowly.

"All goes ill, those damned sellswords raced off," said Isildur, words quick and sharp. He knew time was of the essence now.

"And those sentries will raise the alarm," said Beric.

"Aye, we must make haste. It's Clegane, I know it. He'll chew up Thom's men and then sweep into us in these damn woods," Isildur said.

The remnants of the company extracted themselves from amongst the wreckage as quickly as they could, and took what fresh mounts from the baggage were left unharmed. With Isildur at their head, they rode down after their companions.

They galloped headlong through the woods. Branches slapped and whipped at their faces and pulled at cloaks and clothing and banner. In the distance, they heard a growing clamour: Men shouting, men screaming, the thud of shield against shield and clash of blade against blade and the clatter of armour harness.

They burst from the tree line and were met with a broad field. A bowshot away from them, Wendish Town sat, a blackened, charred, burnt ruin. Its narrow streets were full of men, fighting, dying, shouting curses. From a sept tower in the centre of the town, crossbowmen shot down into the chaos. Somewhere, a trumpet was blowing above the noise of battle. The fighting was furious, the streets were filled with blood and entrails and the bodies of the slain. And at a glance, Isildur saw that his men were outnumbered thrice and more than thrice, and that Thom and the others were surrounded in the square.

Fluttering from atop a hall, Isildur spotted a yellow banner, covered in the three hounds of House Clegane.

"It's him! The Troll!" said Cirion, and he drew his sword, razor edging glinting in the sun.

"They have men enough to smother us up in their throngs," said Lord Beric, and he rested his lance back against his shoulder.

"Speed is our only hope, speed and shock," Isildur said, shaking his head. He had only little time to order his battle before Gregor's men saw the rest of the company. "WILLEM!" he yelled.

The grizzled old King's Host man rode up, face drawn. In his hand he held his crossbow, with the reins in the other hand. Isildur gathered up Beric and Thoros and Willem around him.

"They cannot know our numbers are so few. Lord Beric, you take the right flank. Thoros, you have the left. I shall ride in the centre. Make for the square! And when you charge, roar like dragons! We must make them run!" he commanded. There was no time to argue, they nodded and rode off with their men to either side of Isildur.

"Willem, you take your men and you find a good tall building to shoot from," Isildur said.

"That sept tower would be the best place," replied the grizzled soldier, spitting out a wad of saliva on the ground.

"Aye, I'll try to clear it for you when I get there. Follow behind my men!" said Isildur "Now ride Willem, ride!"

The man of the King's Host nodded and galloped off to the rear of the column to get his men in order.

Isildur turned round and his forty housecarls sat mounted behind him, winged helmets all on their heads.

"Dirnaith!" he shouted out, voice powerful and clear.

The ground was flat and even from the edge of the trees to the streets of Wendish Town, and though narrow still, those streets were wider than the ones of Stoney Sept, for the town was unwalled. So his men drew up in a mounted wedge behind him, the tallest and strongest men at the front of the formation, and Isildur himself at their head. Their black mail shone, and broad black shields with the white tree upon them did they bear, and long bitter spears. To left and right, the men of House Dondarrion and the sellswords of Thoros of Myr formed dense ranks of their own, and behind came the soldiers of the King's Host with crossbows and short swords.

Isildur set his hand to Narsil and, with a silent prayer to Eru in his head, he drew forth his father's sword.

A white light like fire ran down its edges! Bright as a burning brand it shone!

"The Sword! The Sword" cried the housecarls of Isildur. "The Sword of Elendil shines for his heir!"

He took his war horn from his baldrick and handed it to Cirion. Isildur seized his shield, his bulwark of battle, war-tested, iron-bound and black as the night sky, and the tree and stars and moon glinted upon it.

He swept Narsil forward, and they charged.

Slowly they rode at first, gathering speed, then swiftly they sprang across the fields. As a breaker on a great wave rolls into the stony shore, so they charged upon the town. The foes looked up from butcher's work. Their faces paled, shock and fear taking them. Cirion blew out upon the war horn, and the men of House Clegane recoiled as if struck by a blow. The banners were floating in the wind of their speed. Narsil was shining with its white light, pale and terrible. Swiftly they charged, yet Isildur and Fleetfoot outpaced them and went before them, and none could overtake him.

Beric Dondarrion galloped to the right, black cloak billowing behind him, his shield slashed with lightning, and as he leveled his lance he roared:

"BLACKHAVEN!"

Thoros of Myr raced on the left, sword in hand, a wordless war-shout leaping from his throat.

Then Isildur and his housecarls shouted together, in one voice loud and powerful, and they roared out the ancient battle-cry of the Edain of the North, the words of Hurin and Turin of old:

"LACHO CALAD! DREGO MORN!" Flame Light! Flee Night!

And then they were upon their foes, like wolves springing amongst sheep. And their foes turned with a wailing cry, and they fled, and they were struck down and smote by blade or by warhorse's hooves, and they ran, and fell, and died. They were running, they were breaking. The swords of Isildur's men rose and fell, blood flying with every stroke.

Yet great were their numbers still, and Ser Gregor Clegane, the Troll that Walks in the Day, was amongst them. A great captain he was, and terrible to look upon: Towering over lesser men, limbs like tree-trunks, swinging a greatsword in one hand as easily as a child swings a stick. Not easily would he turn and flee, and his men rallied around him, and he drove them back upon Isildur's company. Not easily would he be brought to bay.

In the central streets of Wendish Town, the battle heaved and roared, a storm of steel, a tempest of hacking and stabbing and slaying. Through its heart rode Isildur, housecarls all about him, and the wrath of the Lord of Minas Ithil was revealed in its fury.

The enemies could not withstand his coming. They ran from his face, and the swords and axes of his housecarls rose and fell, striking down enemies by the dozen, left and right, or riding them to ruin beneath their pounding hooves. The men of Clegane's company were not even fighting back, they ran like rabbits before the stooping swift hawk.

Yet too many were the enemy's numbers still, and Isildur's own charge betrayed him. The streets narrowed further, the buildings loomed on either side, their speed slackened off, and finally the enemy's captains rallied them and turned them back to the fight.

Still the battle-fury was upon Isildur. Redness passed over his eyes. The world seemed to slow down, the sounds of battle became muted. Blows rained upon his shield, yet he heeded them not.

A spear point stabbed for his face, and he leaned back and turned it aside with a twist of his blade. Narsil swung down in a wide arc upon the spearman. There was a flash like fire as its edge bit and the helmet burst asunder with a spray of blood. The man fell dead with cloven skull.

He turned in the saddle and stabbed Narsil down into a bare face amongst the crowd. With skilful strokes he cut and slashed, and with every blow a foe was slain. Ever he pressed forward, and his housecarls behind him, pushing for the square that still lay ahead. The sept spire towered above them. Men died for every step, yet they pressed through and came to the square.

Fleetfoot screamed out in pain, and reared. Isildur fought to keep his seat. A crossbow bolt was embedded into the horse's throat. Then with a wet thud, another deadly dart burrowed into Fleetfoot's chest, and a third followed it. The horse fell, and Isildur fell with it, the world tumbling before his eyes, and he was thrown from the saddle.
Darkness flashed before his eyes. He lay on his back, and the sounds of battle all around him returned. Screams, shouts, curses, grunts, battle cries, the sickening sound of unarmoured bodies cut with steel. He tried to stand, but dizziness took him.

An ugly face appeared before his eyes. A hound was upon the man's jerkin. He smiled with only a few teeth and knelt his weight upon Isildur's chest and neck, driving breath out of him. Isildur gritted his teeth and reached for a weapon, but his fingers only brushed Narsil's hilt. A dagger was in the man's hand. Darkness swam up again before his eyes. He couldn't breathe.

Suddenly a blade erupted from the man's chest, short, ugly, doubled-edged and dripping with blood. The foeman did not cry out, only inhaled suddenly, then his eyes rolled up and someone tossed him aside.

Above Isildur stood Gendry, short sword in hand, and Isildur's housecarls were all amongst him with warding shields for their lord. He locked eyes with the son of Elendil and nodded briefly.

Just like his father, Isildur thought briefly, then he rose to his feet and grabbed Narsil from where it lay. There was no time to send the boy away. He gritted his teeth and strode back to the fighting, and Narsil flamed again in his charge.

Into the square he and his housecarls charged, and to the right appeared Beric Dondarrion, still amount, his men-at-arms all about him, and to the left came Thoros of Myr with sword and dagger, and they pushed and pressed and drove their enemy before them. Tall and strong were the dour-handed, stern-faced Dunedain, and with long arms they outreached Clegane's men-at-arms. Yet the foe would not break or rout, for Clegane had set his own lieutenants amongst his men there, and so they were caught between the hammer and the anvil, and no quarter was asked for, nor given.

They cut their way through to what was left of Little Thom's men. The tall warrior swung his greatsword with both hands, or else wielded it half-sword to pierce armour, and the long blade was stained red.

Behind them, the men of the King's Host battered down the door of a tall three-storied tavern, and from its upper windows a deadly fire of crossbow bolts began to fall amongst Clegane's ranks.

The fighting waxed to a furious pitch, filling the ruins of Wendish Town with grunts, yelling, the clatter of steel on steel, till the square grew slick and muddy with piss and blood. Still Isildur's company fought on, the housecarls in the centre, broad shields lapped and locked, thrusting with spears and swords and hacking with axes.

Slowly their numbers were dwindling, for arrows and missiles fell like a killing rain from the sept tower above their heads, and the men of the Westerlands were bold and fierce and slew without mercy. They dragged Belegorn from the shield wall, and their axes hewed him cruelly. Magor was slain too, an arrow in his eye, and a spear took Anborn in the throat. Little Thom fell there in that bloodied square, fighting to exhaustion, a dozen wounds bleeding, but it took four men to kill him at last.

With a thud, an arrow embedded itself on the inside of Isildur's shield. He cursed, and then slipped away from a mace blow. He thrust Narsil beneath the arm of the knight, through the arm pit and deep into the man's chest. There was a gurgle of blood in the knight's throat as Isildur set a foot on his chest and pushed him away.

"Beric!" he yelled out above the din of battle. Cirion and his housecarls lapped their shields around their lord, forming a pocket within the battle left unfought.

"Yes!" shouted Beric Dondarrion. He had cast aside his own shield, hewn and scored beyond usefulness, and fought now with sword in one hand and dagger in the other.

"Take some men and clear the sept! Get those archers out of there!" Isildur said. The Lightning Lord nodded in understanding, and then raced off, gathering a conroi up about him as he did.

Isildur turned back and threw himself into the fight, cutting down one man and then another with the blows of Narsil, which no armour and no shield could withstand. He stabbed and cut, and beat and bore down all before him, and wherever he strode the enemy would not stand, for he was terrible to look upon in his wrath, and they fled from his face and from the burning look in his eyes.

Where is Clegane? he thought suddenly in the midst of the killing. He saw the banners and the badges of House Clegane, yet the Troll had not shown himself yet.

A bestial battle cry suddenly rent the air above the din of battle, and from a side street on the right charged Ser Gregor Clegane. All about him were his knights and men-at-arms, in plate harness, but he was the greatest amongst them. He towered above them all, sheathed in steel, an untouchable giant of immense strength and ferocity. He had taken his best fighters with them and, like a fist of steel, they struck Isildur's company from the right.

Lines shattered. Foemen poured into the gaps. The fighting grew more and more desperate, and Isildur knew he had been trapped. Yet for every man of his that died, two or three of Clegane's men fell hewn and slain, and still there was some hope that they might cut through. And he was Isildur son of Elendil, and he was left unharmed, and Narsil was in his hand. He was the grim lord of a fierce people, and while he still had strength to fight he would not despair.

Ser Gregor pressed for Isildur's banner, his knights wielding sword and mace and poleax, and he was ever at the front, cutting his way through with his greatsword, or throwing men aside bodily. He pushed forward, driving for Isildur himself.

Then forward stood Cirion, the captain of the housecarls, with bright sword shining. He stood before the Troll that Walked in the Day, sword held in both hands, for his shield was rent and cut in many places. His dour face said "Not another step." He looked up at Clegane, for though tall the Dunadan was, the Troll was taller still.

Terrible was the clash of Gregor Clegane and Cirion son of Herion. The Troll swung his six-foot sword in two hands, every blow with such strength that it could shatter bones. Cirion slipped and dodged, but the Troll followed him doggedly, there was no space to move, no space to breath. They exchanged blows, they grappled and wrestled standing. Every time Cirion parried, the force was enough to drop him to his knees, yet he rose again and fought back with ferocity, raining blows on Clegane, and grasping his blade with one hand and the hilt with the other he stabbed its tip into gaps in his enemy's harness. Gregor bled dark blood down his dark armour from a dozen wounds, yet he did not seem to notice.

With sudden surprising speed, Ser Gregor seized Cirion by the front of his surcoat, and he drove the pommel of his sword into the housecarl's face. With broken nose and bloody face, Cirion fell stunned by the crushing force of the blow. Handing his sword to his squire, Gregor Clegane ripped a misericorde dagger from his belt, and seized Cirion by the wing of his helmet, dragging him upright and exposing his mail-clad throat.

"ISILDUR!" Gregor Clegane roared.

Isildur turned and saw the Mountain.

The misericorde stabbed downwards, punching through the mail, deep into Cirion's neck. Clegane ripped it out, and then tossed the Dunadan down face-first. Blood flowed freely from the fatal wound.

Thus was slain Cirion, loyal housecarl, faithful unto death.

Red burned the wrath in Isildur's chest. He tossed his shield aside and took up Narsil in both hands, white light gleaming deadly from its ancient blade. Snarling a wordless battle cry, he charged for Gregor Clegane, striking down all in his path.

The ranks of Clegane's men-at-arms closed up around their lord, and Isildur drove himself upon them. The first man, mail armoured, raised a poleax to block, but Narsil swung down in a wide arc. He cut through the haft, and Narsil carried through into the man's body, slicing apart mail and bone and flesh alike. The foe fell, body hanging apart, cloven from shoulder to hip.

A second cut separated a knight's head from his shoulders. The third blow thrust straight through a man's gut and left him bleeding to death. Yet still they stood, held perhaps caught between fear of their lord and fear of the son of Elendil.

Isildur beat and cut, hacked and thrust, and threw men aside, but he could not break through their ranks. His wrath betrayed him, he was alone now, his men still fighting behind him.

Something burst upon his head. A strike clapped down on his back. Spots of light clouded his vision, then another blow came down, and a third, beating him down to his knees. The last he saw was an armoured fist swinging for his face, then darkness took him.

Have I been slain? he thought, in utter blackness. He swam in darkness, beyond thought or time, hearing and seeing nothing, but in the distance he still heard the din of battle, growing dimmer with each passing moment.

Light returned slowly. He saw again.

He was laying on his back. All around him were bodies, hacked and hewn and pierced, dead and bloodied. Rough hands seized him suddenly and dragged him away. He tried to struggle, but his limbs felt leaden. He looked about. He spotted his banner on the ground, trodden into the muck and the mud, bodies in black surcoats and mail laying all around it. Next to them, the royal banner lay with its staff hacked in two. And all about them, hundreds of dead men in the livery of the Cleganes lay, their dark blood staining the ground.

Above him, he saw the yellow banner of House Clegane still fluttering. And then he heard the voice of Ser Gregor, like rocks being broken in some deep chasm:

"Send a rider to Lord Tywin. Isildur is ours,"

He passed into darkness again and heard no more.

 

[EricD]

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV

Appendix Appendix

A map of Gondor, courtesy of SB's CJvR



House Elendil
Motto: Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta! (Translation: Across the Great Sea to Middle Earth I am come. In this place I will abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world)
Region: Gondor, the Numenorean Realm-in-Exile
Seat: Annuminas
Title: Lord of the Dunedain
Lord: Elendil Amandilion, Lord of Annuminas
Heir: Isildur Elendilion, Lord of Minas Ithil

Unofficial Mottos/Sayings: Death Is Our Gift, A Dunedan Never Forgets

History: Thirty years after Aegon's Landing, a great storm of unusual size and fierceness wracked the whole western coast of Westeros. On the wake of this storm, nine white ships from the West land twenty miles from Lannisport in the Westerlands. Contact is soon made between the Lannister lords of the region and the newcomers, who call themselves Numenoreans. They speak a language similar enough to the Andals that they can be understood, but amongst themselves they speak another language, completely alien to Westeros.

The lord of these people was a man who called himself Elendil. Together with his sons Isildur and Anarion, he travels to King's Landing for an audience with Aegon the Conqueror. He explained to the King that he and his people have come from an island kingdom to the West, known as Numenor, and that his people are seeking a new homeland after Numenor was struck down by their God, Eru Illuvatar, for the sins of their King. Aegon, a survivor of the Doom of Valyria, felt sympathy for Elendil and the Numenoreans, and he offered them a deal: If they would swear loyalty to him and the Iron Throne, he would give them a land of their own in Westeros.

Reluctantly, but without any other choice, Elendil agreed, and he and both his sons swore fealty to the Iron Throne. In return, Aegon granted them a region of their own in the North, consisting of all the lands west of Torrhen's Square and east of the sea, between Blazewater Bay and Sea Dragon Point. Sparsely populated, and far away from the major population centres of the south, it would serve both as a home for the Numenoreans and a way to keep them from threatening the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon would become known as King of the Andals, the Rhoynars, the Numenoreans and the First Men, and Westeros became known as the Eight Kingdoms with the addition of the Realm-in-Exile. This land the Numenoreans named Gondor, the Land of Stone.

In the months following their Arrival, dozens of other white ships would arrive on the western shores, bearing more Numenorean survivors who joined with Elendil. For the next thirty years, the Numenoreans largely secluded themselves from the rest of Westeros, busy building cities and ports and towns in their new Realm. They did not take part in the Faith Militant Revolt after the death of Aegon I, nor did they ever adopt the Faith of the Seven, or the Old Gods, preferring to keep what the Andals would come to call the Faith of the One, of Eru Illuvatar. It was in this period of seclusion that Elendil would construct Annuminas, a great port-city on Blazewater Bay, the White City. His sons each built a mighty fortress-city for themselves: Isildur built the Tower of the Rising Moon, Minas Ithil, while his brother Anarion constructed the Tower of the Setting Sun, Minas Anor. Their seperate fiefs within the realm were named Ithilien and Anorien, each centered on one of the two towers.

Fifty years after Elendil's landing, something strange began to be noticed by King Jaehaerys and his subjects: Elendil himself did not seem to be aging, nor did Isildur and Anarion, nor did any of their people. Distrust and suspicion of these apparently ageless people began to take root across Westeros, while the influential Maesters decried the Numenorean arts as magic. Despite these prejudices, many Andals moved to the flourishing Realm-in-Exile, adopting the Numenorean languages, called Quenya and Sindarin, and the Faith of the One. Many fantastic tales, believed by only a few outside of the Realm-in-Exile, began to circulate about the world that the Numenoreans had come from: Tales of immortal creatures called Elves, terrible monsters named Orcs and Trolls, and the great evil that was Morgoth and his servant Sauron. Naturally, most Andals took these stories as entertaining legends and nothing more.

By 128 A.L., Elendil had become known as "Elendil the Longlived", though some thought it would be better to call him "Elendil the Immortal". Many noble families attempted to marry their way into House Elendil, but the Elendili preferred to only wed other Numenoreans, courteously rejecting the offers of innumerable great houses, and making many resentful enemies, especially the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, who had been most persistent in their attempts to marry into the Elendili bloodline.

When the Dance of the Dragons began, to Elendil the choice was clear: Though he had always been disgusted by the Targaryen practice of incest, and viewed their dragons as vile, evil beasts, he kept the oath of loyalty he had first sworn to Aegon over a century ago for the sake of his people, and Rhaenyra was the heir of King Viserys. For the first time in the history of the Eight Kingdoms, the Host of Gondor marched to war. 12,000 Numenoreans, or Dunedain as they had started to call themselves, came to the aid of Rhaenyra, quickly bringing the war to a decisive end in her favour. The Numenoreans employed a terrifying weapon that the Andals had never seen utilized before: The Numenorean steelbow. Almost half of the Host of the Dunedain was archers, and they employed their steelbows to deadly effect, killing thousands of Aegon's troops from incredible distances. In sufficient numbers, Numenorean archers could even wound dragons. It was in this war that Elendil would immortalize himself in the legends of Westeros by his greatest deed: He slew a dragon singlehandedly, decapitating it with the sword Narsil.

At the end of the Dance of the Dragons, it was Elendil who proclaimed Rhaenyra as the new Queen, naming her 'Tar-Rhaenyra', the first time that the Numenorean royal prefix 'Tar', meaning 'High' had been applied to a Targaryen monarch by the Dunedain.

Over the years, the Elendili proved their loyalty to the Iron Throne again and again, proving crucial to Daeron I's successful Conquest of Dorne, and the loyalist victory over the Blackfyre Rebellion. People began to call Elendil the "Kingmaker" for the power he had to affect who sat on the Iron Throne, however the Numenoreans still preferred to avoid the court intrigues and politics of the other squabbling houses. The Elendili became close friends with the Starks, and enjoyed friendly relationships with other houses, but always sought to remain free and clear of politics.

Despite this, a rivalry began to grow between the Ironmen of the Iron Islands and the Dunedain, over fishing grounds, and over pride. The Ironmen considered themselves the finest sailors in Westeros, yet they were rivaled, and some would say exceeded, by the Dunedain. To alleviate these tensions, Elendil met with the Lord of the Iron Islands of the time, Rauron Greyjoy, and together they swore an oath: That no Greyjoy nor Ironman would harm Elendil, his family or his people, and that no Numenoreans would ever spill Ironman blood in anger. It was a solemn oath, one Elendil took very seriously, and one which would have grave consequences for the future of House Greyjoy.

Annuminas grew to become one of the great cities of the Realm, the Jewel of the North, and the Dunedain multiplied and thrived, exploring distant lands and trading extensively with the rest of Westeros and the Free Cities. They were mighty in many arts, but known best for their work with stone, metal, their seamanship, archery on foot and horseback, and their handling and raising of fine horses. Despite all this, there was still lingering suspicion over Elendil and his family's extreme longevity, and much distrust of the Numenoreans, often encouraged by the Maesters.

Over the years, Elendil had strove to maintain his honour through loyalty to the Targaryen Kings. However, in two hundred and fifty years of service, Elendil had seen much of the Targaryen depravity. The incest in particular digusted him, the rule of brutes such Aegon the Unworthy and Maegor the Cruel struck him as unworthy of kings. He had a great sense of honour however, and reluctantly he continued to serve the Kings of the Eight Kingdoms. It was the reign of Aerys, the Mad King, which would finally break the loyalty of Elendil's house to the Targaryens.

Elendil was a friend of the Starks. He had seen countless generations of Starks grow from childhood, live out their lives, and die. Of all the men of Westeros, Elendil loved the Starks best. He had been a close friend and paternal figure to both Rickard and Brandon Stark, and when the Mad King had them killed, something broke inside Elendil. When Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark rose the banners of the rebellion, they expected the Host of the Dunedain to descend upon them and annihilate them as it had annihilated the armies of every previous major rebellion in the history of the Eight Kingdoms. Instead, Elendil did nothing. He stood by, and watched as the Rebellion came closer and closer to King's Landing. When Aerys sent ravens to Annuminas, accusing Elendil of treachery and summoning his armies to fight, Elendil sent a short and famous reply:

"You have sullied the Seat of Kings. May Eru have mercy upon you,"

Despite his father's choice to stay out of the fighting, his eldest son Isildur felt could not stand by. With his father's permission and blessing, he took a small company of his housecarls and rode south with his sons to join with Robert's Rebellion. Isildur had been a friend of Robert and Eddard since their childhood, and fought beside them in many battles, winning great renown for his martial prowess and tactical cunning. At the Battle of the Trident, he dueled with and disarmed Ser Barristan Selmy, but spared the Knight`s life, and watched as Prince Rhaegar was slain by Robert.

Isildur acknowledged Robert as King, publicly proclaiming him "Tar-Robert". Robert sent a raven to Annuminas, asking who Elendil was loyal to. Again, Elendil provided another short and famous reply: "I am always loyal to the true King"

Six years after Robert became King, the Iron Islands rose in rebellion. Elendil was planning on avoiding participation in the fighting, on account of his oath to the Greyjoys. However, the Greyjoys it seemed had forgotten their oath, and a terrible fate intervened. When the Greyjoys raided the Lannister fleet at Lannisport, a single Numenorean ship was attempting to leave harbour. This ship bore Lady Rian and Lady Firiel, the wives of Elendil and Isildur, who had been travelling in the South and attempting to return home by ship. The Ironmen were not merciful, their ship was sunk, their men killed, and they were captured. Great cruelties were perpetrated upon them by the Ironmen, they were tortured, raped repeatedly, and finally murdered.

The sorrow of Elendil was great, but the wrath of Isildur was greater still, and the anger of his people burned hot, for Rian and Firiel had been loved by their people. The Dunedain were unleashed upon the Iron Islands. The White Fleet of Gondor sailed south and met the Ironmen off the island of Harlaw. As the two fleets faced each other, Isildur stood forth at the prow of his flagship, and he held aloft his personal standard: The white tree and seven stars of the Dunedain with the crescent moon of his house, in silver mithril which glinted in the sun against the black field. Isildur shouted aloud, in a voice so loud the entire Greyjoy fleet could hear him clearly:

"Hear me Traitors! Thou shalt be the last Ironborn, and if I prove mightier than thy treacherous King, this curse I lay upon thee and thy folk; to rest never until you are redeemed, and to dwindle and linger and come to naught while your dishonour stains you. For my people shall endure through years uncounted, even after my death, and this curse shall endure until you are summoned in our hour of need! The Ironborn will never again grow and prosper, but will dwindle until the last of your children's children fade and pass into the shadows, reviled by all honourable peoples. Then these islands shall stand desolate and barren and even the names and deeds of your people shall be forgotten! Even death shall not release you from your oath. You shall find no rest and your shades shall wander the seas. And so you shall remain forever, lest in some future time you find a way to fulfill your oath to me. This doom do I pronounce on you and all your descendants unto the end of time!"

The Iron Fleet was completely destroyed in the Battle of Harlaw, only the flagship of Balon Greyjoy managed to escape to the fortress of Pyke, but Isildur and the Dunedain were close behind. They laid siege to Pyke, reducing it in only three days, and slaughtering nearly every Greyjoy and most of their men. Isildur personally drove his sowrd through the heart of Balon Greyjoy. Only the young Theon Greyjoy and his sister Yara escaped the destruction of their House, for Isildur's son Valandil took pity on the children and took them into his protection when he found them, the blood of their traitor brethren still fresh on his sword.

The Iron Islands would pass to Anarion, whom Elendil considered the wiser of his children, and whom he recommended to Robert to replace Balon as acting Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, until Theon Greyjoy should be ready to assume the post. Despite his new station, Anarion would continue to dwell in Anorien, and govern the islands from afar, visiting them only when necessary. Theon was sent to be raised by the Starks and Yara to the Tullys. A feeling of dread and fear began to encompass the Islands, a cursed feeling, and rumours began to circulate the mainland of a ghostly fleet seen at night, sailing near Harlaw, with all its phantom sailors looking to the north towards the Realm-in-Exile.

In the quiet years of peace after, neither Elendil nor Isildur would take a wife again, instead immersing themselves in their work as Lords of the Realm-in-Exile, and the love of their surviving family.

Family Tree

 

[Fell]

Awe yea.

 

[EricD]

If things on SB keep going the way they're going, my story will be hosted here from now on. I haven't yet made that final decision, I was just moving all my stuff over here so I've got it all here and ready to go for future chapters.

 

[EricD]

Due to length, I was forced to split this chapter into two parts. Here is the first.

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI (Part 1)

Appendix

Chapter XVI
The Lands of the Lhazareen

Smoke billowed and climbed high into the air. Smoke and the sounds of suffering. Whips cracked. Children wept. Women screamed and wailed. Men cried out only to be silenced by arakh and lariat and swift arrow. All around the town, the fields were strewn with bodies. They were hacked and torn, trampled and choked and pierced. Through the desolation went the young children of Drogo's khalasar, collecting the arrows for their fathers and brothers, and the eunuch-slaves to tend to warriors laying wounded on the field, and the mercy-men stalked with heavy axes to dispatch the foes left unslain.

In the centre of the field, a grisly mound was being raised by the Dothraki. Khal Drogo had the heads of his slain foes piled in a mound to mark that these lands had been lain to waste by his khalasar, and to let all those who passed by know that it was Drogo who was master here.

The buzzing of flies and the hungry cries of circling carrion-birds were heard everywhere. The reek of death was overwhelming.

In the east, the sun was rising, streaking the sky with the red of blood.

This was the third village they had raided this week. When Drogo led the khalasar out of Vaes Dothrak, Valandil had wondered why they were leaving so many of their slaves behind. Now he knew: The khal would harry and burn the lands of Lhazar, taking fresh slaves to be sold in the markets of Slaver's Bay. That was where the real wealth of the Dothraki came from. Not from sacking great jeweled cities, but from slave trading across all the lands of the East. Drogo was a khal great and terrible, and where his khalasar rode, no grass would grow behind them.

Valandil Isildurion was no stranger to the ways of war. Since he was a young man, he had shed blood on the battlefields of the Eight Kingdoms. He had fought the Ninepenny Kings, rode alongside his father at the Trident, and stormed the walls of Pyke. Only too familiar was the site of men hewn and slain, only too familiar was the sound of death and the smell of blood and corpses rotting in the sun. He had seen war on land and on sea.
Riding amongst the fields of dead, he could tell that the Dothraki were something different though.

The Lhazareen were no great warriors. When the horde had come in the small hours of the dawn, the town's militia had scrambled to put up a meagre resistance which Drogo's riders swept aside with contemptuous ease. Their kos would lead them on a wild, headlong charge straight at the huddled ranks of the Lhazareen. They screamed piercing battle cries and brandished bows and arakhs, and lances and lariats. Then when they close enough to see the whites of the terrified eyes of the Lamb-men, they veered aside, in swift unison like a flock of birds in flight. As they did, they let loose a hail of arrows, shot straight into the Lhazareen ranks from only a few yards distance, a shot so close that each dart was all but certain to kill if it found its mark.

It had not been battle, it had been slaughter.

Along the dusty road that led to the south from the town, a long ragged line of slaves was being herded together by the Dothraki. Their eyes were deadened to the world. Their faces were downcast.

Valandil looked upon them from Velo's back, feeling a deep pity for them. He saw hard lives ahead of those poor people, full of the lash and hash blows and the cruel touch of uncaring masters. Dull and miserable lives, with no hope for anything beyond being bought by a rich man who might feed them well. He longed to break their chains, to cut their bonds, to let them go free, but under the glowering stares of the Dothraki he knew he could not.

Trudging past him, the Lhazareen thralls briefly raised their gaze and looked at him as if he was not there.
Ser Jorah Mormont rode up next to Valandil upon his brown gelding. The Bear Islander wore plate and mail harness, its plates battered and scarred and dented by years of hard use, and over that was a green surcoat blazoned with the bear of the Mormonts. He did not wear his helmet, and his balding forehead was beaded with sweat.

Valandil too was clad in steel, for his wore his mail, the rings of Gondorian black steel. His hauberk was long enough to fall to his knees, slit between the legs to make riding easier, and over his shoulders was his grey cloak.
Yet though both rode in the harness of war, no fresh scars nor new marks of battle upon their armour had they received. They were the Khaleesi's men, not the Khal's, and they did not do his killing.

"So similar they are," said Valandil softly.

"Whom?" replied Jorah. He grabbed a water skin from his saddle and took a long drink, then handed it to Valandil. The water was warm, but refreshing upon his parched throat.

"The Dothraki and the Lhazareen" Valandil answered, giving him back the water skin.

"What do you mean?" said Jorah.

"Look at them Jorah. The same copper skin, the same black hair, the same faces and eyes. And if you cut them, do they both not bleed the same blood?" Valandil said, pointing to a Lhazareen man and the Dothraki rider next to him.

"I would not say that too loudly around the Dothraki if I were you," Jorah cautioned him. "There are few people in the world that the Horselords have more contempt for than the Lamb-men,"

"To any stranger's eyes, they would appear to be kin, peoples of the same ancestors. Listen to their speech. Even their tongues are much alike, yet the Dothraki hate the Lhazareen and slay them and take them into thralldom," replied Valandil.

"Do you think that the Lhazareen would not do the same to the Dothraki if they could? When they capture Dothraki riders, which is not often but neither is it unknown, they are known to torture and enslave as much as the Dothraki do. This is the way of the east, my friend. A bleak business, but its like things are in the world," said Jorah, voice resigned.

The chains of the slaves rattled in time with each step they took, trudging past Valandil and Jorah with blank faces and eyes that stared at nothing.

"It is how things are, but they need not be. Once it was not like this," said Valandil bitterly. His eyes were full of pity for each Lhazareen who walked past.

"It has always been like this, for as long as men can remember," replied Jorah.

"The memories of men are short. My people have a story about why the world has come to wickedness. Men were not always this way, but pride and envy brought us to this," Valandil paused; He remembered and nearly heard the deep voice of his father, chanting the old tales. He began to speak, with a slow and soft voice, in almost a solemn chant:

"In the Elder Days, when the grandfathers of the fathers of the Edain dwelt in the farthest east, two brothers rose to great stature amongst the people. The elder was the stronger but the younger was the wiser. Renowned they were, for together no one could best them in feats of arms or knowledge. They took wives and had many sons and gathered strong households about them and their herds multiplied and their fields were fruitful. They grew so great that in their hearts each began to suspect the other, and they knew that the lands were not wide enough for them both. Then the Black Enemy came unto the elder brother; He whispered in his ear and sought to fan the ember of mistrust into the fire of hate, but the love of brothers was too strong. Yet they knew their houses would come to blows if nothing was done and so they made a pact and embraced one last time as brothers. The elder and all his people stayed in the east, and the younger and all who would go with him journeyed to the west for a new homeland. The elder brother grew old and died; his heirs fell in war and strife, and the shadow of the Black Enemy fell upon them, and they feared it and worshiped it. Ever after the kindreds of Men were sundered,"

Jorah regarded Valandil silently. Far above them, the carrion-fowl were crying out hungrily.

"My father told me that tale when I was young. He told me that the people of the elder brother became the fathers of Easterlings, worshipers of the Shadow. The people of the younger brother became the fathers of the Edain, my people. Though they warred against us and in the Dark Years served the Great Enemy and burnt our lands and took us as thralls, they are our kin, estranged by all the tides of the ages and the waters of the sea," he said. Jorah grimaced with a humourless chuckle.

"If all men are kin, then I shall tell you this: Never have I seen fighting more bitter than when brother turns on brother,"

Behind them they heard the sounds of hooves on the blood-sodden grass. Daenerys Targaryen rode across the battlefield, her silver walking with the suppleness of moonlight in water. To Valandil, she looked out of place, too delicate and too beautiful for this place, as if the carnage that surrounded them somehow made even more profane by its contrast with her. Yet she held her head high and proud, like the Khaleesi of the Dothraki that she was becoming more and more with each day. Valandil perceived something in her beneath that strength, something like sadness as she looked at the dead all around her and the slaves being marched out of their homes.

Behind her came her handmaidens, noses crinkled at the stench of the dead, and behind them the callow young warriors of her khas, tossing jokes and laughter amongst themselves. Aggo carried one of the powerful double-curved bows of the Dothraki, with a quiver of arrows upon his saddle. A long lance was balanced in Jhogo's fist. Rakharo's whip was in hand, and on his saddle there was a lariat rolled up. Despite the death all around them, they looked as relaxed as if they were riding in green fields with the sun on their faces. Rakharo met Valandil's eyes and raised a hand in greeting, smiling easily. Valandil forced a smile to his face and nodded in reply.

"Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said, bowing his head respectfully.

"Greetings Ser Jorah, and to you Thorongil," Daenerys replied. They nudged their horses into a walk alongside the Princess' silver.

Daenerys was staring at the line of slaves. The Dothraki riders sat hunched upon their horses like birds of prey upon a branch, with watchful eyes and their arms at the ready. The threat of violence was barely veiled, and the Lhazareen were unwilling to look up to meet their captor's eyes. Occasionally a whip would crack and a cry of pain would break the air as some old woman or young child did not move as quickly as the riders wanted.

There was no quaver in Daenerys' eyes, she did not quail or look away, but Valandil still noticed the tightness with which she gripped her reins. Her knuckles were almost white.

"It has been like this at the last two towns as well," she said softly, then turned her head towards Jorah. "Is this what it shall be like in Westeros?"

"It is the way of the Dothraki. You will see much more of this if you convince them to cross the sea," replied Jorah.

In the distance, Dothraki riders were galloping in a wide circle around the mound of heads, kicking up dust as they did. They brandished their weapons and cried out a victory-song in harsh, keening voices. The bells in their braids jingled as they rode. Heads and scalps decorated their saddles as grisly trophies.

Fire and Blood Valandil thought coldly.

Daenerys' face was unreadable while she listened to the victory-song. She looked lost in her own thoughts, looking from the riders to the slaves and back again.

"How many slaves?" she asked.

"From this town? Another thousand or so, men, women and children. By the time we leave the lands of Lhazar, we might have ten thousand all told," answered Jorah. "We ought to make for the cities on Slaver's Bay, Meereen perhaps. There we will get a fine price, enough for all the ships and men we will need,"

Daenerys said nothing. She just stared ahead, unwavering. Ahead of them, the Great Khal himself and his bloodriders galloped out of the gates of the town with, their warriors following behind them with songs and war-whoops. Their work was done and the khalasar was preparing to move on. Daenerys nudged her silver to a smooth trot and headed to join her husband, sparing no glance to the death on her left or the slaves on her right.

Ten thousand thralls thought Valandil, guilt welling up inside him. Eru have mercy on them.

A whip cracked out, even amongst the noises of the battlefield it rent the air like a crash of lightning. It was followed by a mournful cry of pain, much nearer than the others.

Valandil glanced over his shoulder. He saw a boy, no older than twelve, bolting away from the line of slaves. In an instant, the riders were after him, whips cracking in the air, shouting harsh obscenities in their harsh tongue. They lashed the boy, leaving red gashes upon his back and thighs, blood running down his legs as he struggled to run. The boy stumbled and fell hard, blood mingling with the dirt on the ground, but the Dothraki did not stop. They whipped him again and again, and he cried out in pain again and again.

The son of Isildur gripped his reins till his knuckles were white. Wrath, long-smouldering within him, was
beginning to blaze forth.

"Thorongil…" Jorah said cautiously, glancing from Valandil to the boy and back. "That is not your fight,"

Valandil turned to Jorah with a sharp look.

"Am I not my brother's keeper?" he asked.

Before the Bear Islander could reply, he whirled Velo around and cantered over towards the ring of Dothraki warriors. They were laughing at the slave's weeping, cackling in harsh, cruel voices whilst one of their number lashed the boy every time he tried to stand up again.

"STOP!" bellowed Valandil in the Dothraki tongue "Stop this at once!"

The Dothraki turned to him with surprised eyes. He burst through their circle, grey eyes flashing with anger, one hand upon his sword hilt. He reined Velo up beside the slave and vaulted down from the saddle. The Lhazareen boy looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. Valandil leaned down, reaching out. He only meant to examine the boy's wounds, but the slave was half-mad with fear and he scrambled away frantically. Suddenly another whip cracked around and flicked along the boy's shoulder, stopping him in place with another anguished scream.

"I said stop!" Valandil snarled at them. "Are you men or beasts that you would beat a child?"

"Thorngil," said one of the riders, sitting on his horse forward from the rest. He was tall, lean and grizzled, with the scar of an arakh slash along his collar bone and long moustaches drooping from this lips. He seemed to be the leader.

"This boy, he is nothing. A Lamb-boy, and a slave. I slew the father, I took the mother, this slave is mine by right. He tried to run, he must be taught better before he is sold," the warrior said, gesturing with his whip.

"What is your name?" Valandil demanded, standing up and squaring off with the rider, hands in tight fists at his sides.

"I am Dharbo, son of Argaro," replied the Dothraki. Valandil nodded and glanced down at the slave. The boy's face was wild with fear, looking back and forth between the Dunedan and the Dothraki.

"Thorongil!" cried Jorah. He had coming riding up behind. His hand was on his sword hilt and he looked around at the warriors all around. They were two against seven. "Get back on your horse and come with me. This is not wise,"

Valandil did not listen, he kept his eyes locked on Dharbo.

"Dharbo, son of Argaro, I am Thorongil. I will take this slave. I claim him as my own,"

"By what right? That slave is mine to sell!" Dharbo snarled in response.

"Dharbo, I will pay for the slave, I promise you," Jorah said, raising his hands diplomatically.

In three quick strides, before any more could be said, Valandil was upon the Dothraki. He seized Dharbo, one hand on his breeches and the other on his braid and hauled him off his horse, tossing him down onto the ground hard. The horse whinnied and shied away. Before the rider could recover, the son of Isildur drove a boot into his stomach, knocking the air out of him with a grunt of pain. A hand went for a dagger, but Valandil was too fast and he pinned the hand beneath his foot and then, swift as a lion on its prey, he had his knee on Dharbo's throat. The rider struggled and gasped for air, clawing at Valandil futilely.

"That slave is mine, if you lay a hand on him then we shall have words once more," Valandil said, an edge like cold steel in his voice.

"The slave is yours," Dharbo choked out, gritting his teeth and twisting his lip in a snarl.

Valandil stood up, releasing him. Dharbo gasped in air, looking up at Valandil. In his black eyes was a glint of hate.

Steel whispered against leather and he found himself in a circle of gleaming arakhs. Valandil set a hand upon the hilt of his longsword, sliding his feet back. He gritted his teeth and said nothing, staring at the warriors all around him. Velo snorted in protest, rearing on his hindlegs and kicking the air with his hooves.

"Now, let us not do anything foolish," said Jorah, tapping the tip of own sword against the back of the nearest Dothraki's neck.

"If there is blood here, I will have to tell the Khaleesi, and then Khal Drogo will know the reason why his warriors are attacking his wife's men," he said, punctuating his words with a harder tap.

Dharbo was struggling to his feet. He glared hard at Valandil, then whistled sharply. His bay gelding returned obediently, and the Dothraki vaulted up into the saddle with practiced ease. He spat upon the ground at Valandil's feet, then reined around and galloped towards the rest of the khalasar, gathering upon the road.

"If I weren't your friend, the Dothraki would have killed you a dozen times already," said Jorah, shaking his head ruefully and sheathing his blade.

"If you were not my friend Jorah, I would not be amongst the Dothraki," said Valandil. "You have my thanks though, truly"

"Aye I know, consider this payment of my debt for Braavos," Jorah replied with a chuckle.

Valandil turned and looked to the boy who he had rescued. The Lhazareen stood on unsteady legs, trembling still. He was a slight lad, lanky and thin, with short black hair and almond-shaped black eyes. He could not have seen much more than twelve years. All along his back and thighs and shoulders, the whips of the Dothraki had left gashes through his thin shirt, bloody though not too deep. Valandil sighed, feeling a deep pity for the poor lad. He knew he would have to examine the wounds later.

In the distance, shrill horns were blowing and drums were beating. Hooves were thundering and victory-songs were filling the air as forty thousand Dothraki warriors made ready to depart.

"What shall we do with him?" said Jorah.

"Do you speak the Common Tongue?" Valandil asked the boy. Dumb-struck silence was the only answer.

"Do you speak Lhazareen?" he asked Jorah. The knight shook his head.

"Can you walk?" Valandil said to the boy in the Dothraki tongue, hoping that they would be similar enough to be understood. The Lhazareen nodded his head tentatively, seemingly confused still.

"You follow me," he said slowly, pointing to the boy and then himself. The Lhazareen nodded again.

"We'll be left behind if we do not hurry," said Jorah, glancing over his shoulder. Clouds of dust were rising, the warriors were riding away.

"Aye, I just need to get something on his wounds so he does not bleed anymore," replied Valandil, opening the saddlebag sitting on Velo's back.

He found a light linen shirt that was fairly clean and tore it into broad strips. These he secured firmly around the boy's chest and waist and legs, the bandages covering the wounds on his back and stemming the bleeding. The Lhazareen nodded gratefully though he still looked shocked and confused.

"Thorongil," Valandil said to the slave, pointing to himself. The child seemed to understand.

"Kevah, Kevahram," he replied in a weak voice, tapping against his chest with his hand. Valandil nodded.
Grabbing the saddle horn, the son of Isildur swung himself back up onto Velo's back smoothly.

"Follow" he said to Kevah, and the child nodded. As Valandil and Jorah rode back across the fields of the dead, Kevah followed closely behind. He stared ahead intently, not stopping to look at the corpses of his people all around him. He seemed focused only on putting one foot in front of the other. Valandil kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure the boy was still following. Though he swayed back and forth while he walked, he did not stumble.

"There will be trouble with that Dharbo. A Dothraki family does not suffer a slight to one of its own easily," said Jorah, shaking his head.

"And I do not suffer seeing the beating of a child easily. If they wish to avenge themselves, I await them," Valandil replied with a hard glint in his eyes.

"Dothraki notions of justice and retribution are… Dothraki," said Jorah "Just watch your back, my friend, please. I can't always be watching it for you,"

"Very well Jorah, I will try to be more careful. It just maddens me to see what these creatures would do to a child like that," said Valandil sadly.

"Aye, it is cruel and brutal in these lands, but it is like things are in the world. You have been to war yourself, you know its ways," Jorah said with a grimace.

"I have been to war and I know its ways, but I never harmed a child," Valandil paused, remembering for a moment all he had seen and all he had done. "Not even at Pyke,"

The faces of the Greyjoy children swam up before his face, clear as the day he saw them. Wide terrified eyes, as dark as those of Kevah. He remembered a small boy clutched in the arms of an older sister, looking at him with the most utter fear and despair he had ever seen. He remembered the relief when he took his helmet off and offered them his hand. Not joy, not happiness, just relief.

Above Valandil and Jorah, a vast flock of carrion-fowl cried hungrily, filling the air with a cacophony of noise and descending upon the ruins of the town and the bodies of the dead. With blast of horns and roll of drums, Drogo's khalasar rode away in a rumble of hooves and cart-wheels, like a sated hrakkar leaving the bones of its prey to the vultures.

The land of Lhazar was a strip of pasture-land between the vast steppes of the Dothraki Sea to the north and the blasted desert of the Red Waste to the south and east. It was a dry land, and the grass was yellow-green and brittle to the touch. Amongst the hills flowed shallow slow rivers of brown water, and the khalasar rode down the valley of one of these rivers, sending parties of outriders and scouts ranging far amongst the hills on either bank in search of further prey.

For three days after the plundering of Kevahram's home, Valandil rode with the khalasar along the river valley, under a scorching sun. He saw neither sight nor heard sound of the Lhazareen, though on the slopes of distant hills he spotted herds of sheep or goats left untended. He wondered whether it was Drogo's horde that had slain the herders or another. He often rode with Jorah and Daenerys, listening to the Bear Islander tell the Princess what he knew of Lhazar and the other lands of the East and their ways. The young Kevah walked behind Valandil's horse doggedly, with eyes that stared but saw nothing. He ate the food that Valandil set before him at the end of every day, and slept where Valandil told him to sleep, and he did not resist when Valandil washed his wounds and changed his bandages, but he spoke no more.

On the fourth day, the stream that they followed joined a large river that meandered in wide loops across the flatlands. This, Jorah told Valandil, was the great River Skahazadhan, which divided the heartlands of Lhazar to its south from the endless Dothraki Sea further north. It was broad, over a hundred yards from the north shore to the southern banks, but at its deepest point it only came up to the bellies of the horses and its brown, silt-filled waters flowed very slowly.

At the Skahazadhan, Drogo turned the khalasar westwards, and every day his kos led their khas out on far-ranging raids to the surrounding villages and towns. Every night the raiders returned laden with what plunder they could take from the Lhazareen, but the real treasure of their raids were the long columns of thralls they added to the khalasar. Some were men, beaten and broken in spirit, but most were women and children by the hundreds and thousands. The khalasar went swiftly across the Dothraki Sea, but now its progress was slowed more and more every day by the warriors burdened with loot and by the trains of walking slaves that they drove before them.

"Drogo will drive these slaves down to the Bay, to Meereen most likely," said Ser Jorah Mormont, watching one of the khas return, whips cracking in the air above the heads of two hundred slaves.

They were riding beneath a blazing hot sun, the sky an arresting blue free of any clouds, and the lazy waters of the Skahazadhan on their left. The heat of the day was intense, and Valandil wore his lightest clothes, his shirt open at the throat, and still his forehead was beaded with sweat.

"Slaves for gold, gold for ships, and ships to cross to Westeros," Jorah finished, with a humourless smile.

"If Daenerys convinces the Khal," Valandil splashed some water from his skin on his hand and rubbed his face. The water was tepid, but a slight breeze cooled him.

"No Dothraki has ever crossed the sea, but our Drogo is an ambitious man," replied the Bear Islander.

"Our Daenerys is an ambitious woman, but there is a warning in my heart against bringing this horde to the Eight Kingdoms," said Valandil darkly. He glanced over his shoulder to see Kevah still following behind his horse.

"Warning?" asked Jorah.

"Say we cross the sea, we defeat Robert, rally the loyalists, restore Daenerys to her father's throne, all her hopes and yours come true and she is crowned in splendour in the Red Keep of King's Landing. What happens after? We will be left with a horde of forty thousand Dothraki in our lands, and their Khal married to our Queen," Valandil stared off to the west. In his mind he could see the devastation that Dothraki would wreak upon the countryside of Westeros, not just during the struggle for the throne but afterwards too. He turned back to Jorah.

"How would we make them leave?"

Jorah grimaced and nodded.

"Aye. Will Daenerys even wish for them to leave? I think not. I have seen the sparkle in her eye when she sees Drogo. I do not know if she will understand,"

Behind them, there was a sudden crunch of someone falling against the ground.

Valandil twisted around in the saddle at the sudden commotion, only to see that Kevah had collapsed upon the ground and lay very still in the dust. He cursed and slid down from the saddle, grabbing his water skin while he did.

"Damn this heat," Valandil swore, kneeling down by Kevah's side. All around him, the thralls shot him curious or confused looks. The Dothraki simply rode on, uncaring.

Kevah lay face down, unmoving, eyes lidded, breathing shallow. Valandil splashed water from his skin on the boy's face and he barely stirred. Cursing again, he felt the boy's forehead. His skin was burning up, and a sheen of sweat lay upon him. Behind him, Valandil heard murmurs from the Dothraki, followed by laughter.

"Thorongil," Jorah said, frowning "You've done much for that boy already, but I do not think he can be saved,"

Valandil picked up Kevah; the boy was light and lay limply, head lolling back. He frowned and gritted his teeth in his mouth and then turned back to his horse.

Of all the slaves and all the thralls who suffer from the Dothraki, I will do whatever is in my power to save this one at least he told himself. All around him were curious, confused or disgusted looks from the Dothraki warriors on their horses. Valandil's glare had an edge like an iron blade to it.

Velo stood, swishing his tail against the buzzing flies. The horse nickered softly and stood quietly. In the distance, a vulture was crying out hungrily above some dying animal. The Dothraki were silent, and they watched while Valandil carried young Kevah over to his horse and placed him on the saddle. He grasped Velo's reins and walked on, leading his horse whilst the slave-boy slumped in the saddle and leaned against the horse's strong neck.

Wide, black Dothraki eyes stared at him on every side. On every face was a different emotion. There was shock, in some there was anger, but most of all he saw confusion. The Dothraki looked at him as if he was something bizarre and unnatural. Behind him, Valandil heard fervent murmurings, Dothraki voices asking confused questions, Dothraki voices laughing at him. He did not listen. He just walked on, keeping his gaze steadily ahead. Next to him, Kevah lay limply in the saddle.

The mumbled some word weakly in the Lhazareen tongue, then he mumbled it again. Leaning closer, to Valandil's ears it sounded like the Dothraki word for "Why?"

"You needed help," Valandil replied simply. Kevah said no more.

"Drink," the son of Isildur commanded, pressing his water skin towards Kevah. Grasping it in both hands, the child drank deeply, greedily.

Upon his own horse, Jorah came trotting up behind Valandil. The commotion was settling down now, though passing Dothraki still shot confused looks or angry glares in Valandil's direction as they rode past. Jorah was shaking his head with a chuckle.

"You sure know how to stir up a fuss," Jorah said "I've never seen so many utterly baffled Dothraki,"

Valandil glanced around at the riders passing them by on either side. Amongst the warriors he saw some very dark looks shot at him from beneath glowering brows.

"Does this anger them?" he asked.

"Confuses them more than anything I'd think. A fighting man walking whilst his slave rides, I don't think any of them have ever seen anything like that," replied Jorah.

The day wore away, the khalasar driving slowly along the river towards the west. They left a vast swathe of trampled earth along the river's banks behind them. With the sun sinking into dusk, they finally came to stop at a point where round hills arose on either side of them to form a valley with a broad flat floor through which the Skahazadhan flowed. The valley floor was wide enough for the whole khalasar to make its vast, noisy camp. All amongst its meadows were copses of small trees and dry bushes, which the Dothraki slaves went to work upon with small hatchets for firewood. They gathered the firewood and caught what game there was to be had, and pitched the tents, and built the fires, whilst their Dothraki masters laughed and drank and passed the evening in games of wrestling.

In the twilight and the gathering gloom, a fair distance from the noise of the camp, Valandil knelt by a flickering fire. The flames licked at dry wood and crackled and shot sparks into the evening air. A pair of skinned coneys he turned on a spit above the cooking fire, their juices sizzling in the heat. Looking up from his work, he saw the firelight reflected in the dark eyes of Kevahram, staring at him. The boy said nothing, he just watched the son of Isildur steadily and hugged his knees to his chest.

"Hungry?" Valandil asked. Slowly Kevah nodded. Valandil drew forth a knife from his belt and quickly cut off a joint of meat. He held it out towards Kevah.

The boy snatched it from his hand and set into it hungrily, grease running down his chin and along his fingers.
Behind him, there was the sharp crack of a twig snapping underfoot. Remembering the hateful look of Dharbo the day in the village, Valandil stood and whirled around, hand upon the hilt of his sword. From out of the dark stepped a Dothraki warrior, bells in his hair ringing softly.

"You Thorngil, yes?" the man said, his Common Tongue rough and unpolished.

"I am,"

"The Khal will speak with you Thorngil," replied the man "You come, come now,"

The look on the Dothraki's face did not brook any disagreement. Reluctantly Valandil pulled on his cloak.
The messenger said nothing more as he led Valandil through the camp. The evening was filled with the playing of drums, the crackling of fires, and the sounds of laughing, lovemaking and squabbling Dothraki. The dark clouds peeled back and unveiled the stars. To the west, the Star of Earendil glimmered brightly and bravely and Valandil smiled to see it.

Then suddenly the tent of Khal Drogo loomed before him. The messenger pulled back the flap and jerked his head towards the door.

The inside was full of firelight and dark shadows, and the air was thick with a smoke that stung the eyes. A sweat rose on Valandil's neck. The blazing fire in the centre of the tent cast off oppressive waves of heat. The glinting eyes of the bloodriders followed his every moment. Lean and muscled, they lazed about the tent like hunting dogs waiting at their master's feet. Half-dressed Dothraki women were draped over them or sat upon their laps, running fingers in every warrior's hair, planting kisses on his neck, but the bloodriders seemed only half-interested in their attentions.

Despite the sun-tan of her skin, Daenerys Targaryen looked as pale as a wisp in the gloom. She sat at the right hand of the Khal, a small white hand resting upon his forearm. The Khal sat slouched, his long braid laying across his lap, his thickly muscled arms resting upon his knees.

"My Khal, my Queen," Valandil said in greeting, stopping and bowing before them. To his surprise, Drogo greeted him in the common tongue.

"Greetings, Thorongil of the North," he said slowly, his accent rough and uncouth but his words sure.

"I am sorry we disturbed you, Thorongil, but my Great Khal and I were having a… Discussion that I thought you might settle for us," said Daenerys, smiling.

"Of course, my Queen. What is it you wish to ask of me?" replied Valandil.

"The slave boy who follows you, why?" Drogo cut in before Daenerys could speak again. The son of Isildur found himself clenching a fist, but his face betrayed nothing.

"His name is Kevah. He has no other home now," he said.

"Why you take him? To sell? To work? To mount?" Drogo asked insistently, black eyes narrowed.

"My lord husband is merely curious, Thorongil. He has never seen something like what you did today," said Dany, smiling diplomatically. Valandil breathed in deeply and then slowly unclenched his fist.

"I have my own purpose to give him whatever help is within my power. That is enough for me," he said, locking eyes with the Khal. Drogo smirked and chuckled.

"You are an odd man, Thorngil. You have the power to take, but you do not do what you wish with what you take. What do you owe the boy? He is Lamb-man, not a rider," said Drogo.

"He is a man. My father taught me that all men are brothers. Am I not my brother's keeper? Am I not my brother's protector?" Valandil replied.

"False. My father taught me that the Great Stallion blesses Dothraki first and most of all men. The Great Stallion is the strongest god, it is known," said the Khal, as if it were the simplest truth of all.

"Your father was not my father. Your god is not my god," Valandil answered.

"You are strange to me, your ways are strange to my ways, your fathers are strange to my fathers," Drogo paused, his unreadable face showing something almost like thoughtfulness.

For a moment, to all in the tent it was as if there was a line of fire drawn between the eyes of the Khal and Valandil. Black eyes bored into grey. He felt as if the Khal was measuring him, testing him, and he did not look away. Valandil met Drogo's gaze and held it, and if Drogo were measuring him, he too was measuring the Khal. There was courage in those deep black eyes, and pride, and an intelligence belied by Drogo's barbaric appearance. For a moment the air seemed to crackle with tension, and the line of fire smouldered between them.

"But you honour the ways of your fathers, just as we do, and you have sworn to defend my Khaleesi. Your strangeness can be... Looked past. There are many things beneath the endless sky," Drogo said at last, and the tension was broken

"Leave me to my own customs and I will always do as I swore to do. My word is my bond," Valandil told him.
Drogo stood. He was nearly eye to eye with Isildur's son. He clapped a hand like a bear's paw on Valandil's right shoulder.

"So let it be. Keep the boy, do with him as you will," Drogo said.

"Thank you, Great Khal," Valandil said, and bowed his head courteously.

"You are a man of, how you Andals say it? Mettle," the Khal went on, sitting back down and resting his thick arms upon his knees.

"I have not fought in your battles, Great Khal, how would you know?"

At this a flicker of a smile twitched at the edges of the Khal's mouth.

"The lion recognizes its own," Drogo said laconically. "You will ride with me tomorrow. I would speak to you again,"

"Of course, Great Khal," said Valandil, wincing only slightly in discomfort at the notion. The heat of the fire beat heavily upon the back of his head and neck. He glanced at Daenerys. She smiled reassuringly, and laid her pale hand upon her husband's arm.

"I am tired from the ride, my Khaleesi. I will retire for the night. It was an honour to speak with you, Great Khal" Valandil said, bowing his head to them both again. Quickly he backed away, and then turned and strode for the tent flap. The eyes of the bloodriders followed his every step.

The night air was fresh outside the heat and smoke of the tent. Valandil breathed in deeply, his chest filling with coolness. He craned his neck back and looked up at the stars and the moon gleaming brightly against the blue-black of the sky.

The lion recognizes its own. Drogo's words echoed in his head. He clenched a fist again, shaking his head.

I am nothing like him Valandil told himself, angrily stalking off towards his tent once again. Though the night grew late, the khalasar's camp was still full of the crackling of fires, the laughter of men, the sounds of carousing and lovemaking and fighting, all the sounds of an encamped army supplied with drink aplenty. To Valandil's ears, the laugher of the Dothraki as they watched their comrades fight and wrestle or take slave-girls as they pleased sounded like the cruel cackling of hyenas. He passed amongst it, seeing it in the firelight and in the shadows alike, and saying nothing. His mind was full of stormy thoughts.

The lion recognizes its own. Again the phrase came back to him when he broke away from the main camp and crossed the cold, dark fields towards his own fire. His grey cloak blended with the dark, so that the eyes of any onlooker would barely have made out his passage. A veil of clouds had fallen over the moon and stars.
His fire had burned low, to embers and coals that crackled and glowed in the blackness. They cast a dull red light upon the ground around the firepit. Kevah lay on the ground, curled up next to the coals, fast asleep. The bones of the rabbit were cast to the side. A chill breeze past through the camp, and the boy shivered on the ground. Valandil unclasped his cloak and pulled it off his shoulders, then gently laid it over Kevahram. The boy did not waken, but he stopped shivering with a sigh.

The lion does not recognize its own the son of Isildur thought. He laid himself upon the ground on the other side of the fire, pulling his blanket over him. Valandil stared up at the sky. The clouds were moving off, and the stars were coming out again in their twinkling brightness. He began to hum a song lightly to himself. Before long sleep took him, deep and dreamless.

Valandil awoke in a chill. The ground beneath him was damp with morning dew. All was silence. Above him, dawn was stretching long fingers of red and yellow and pink across the clouds that dotted a sky of the palest blue. The stillness was absolute. Nothing stirred, even the birds did not sing. Valandil sat up, stretching his neck.

Suddenly the air was rent by the high keening cries of Dothraki riders, shrieking like birds of prey upon the hunt. Valandil tossed his blanket aside and leapt to his feet, grabbing his belt and sword from where he had lain them on the ground. The cry came from the north, where hills lined the river valley.

In a cloud of dust, Valandil spotted a party of riders galloping at breakneck speed down into the camp, crying alarums. The camp's sleep was broken in a moment. Cries filled the air, men were shouting, commands were being bellowed, women and children were crying out. In the Dothraki tongue, Valandil just made out what was being shouted above all:

"TO ARMS! TO ARMS! FOES! FOES APPROACH! AN ARMY UPON THE PLAINS!"

Valandil glanced down. Kevah was sitting cross legged. His face betrayed no emotion when he looked back at him.

"Stay here," Valandil commanded. The boy nodded.

A strange calmness always came upon Valandil when he donned the harness of war. A feeling like he knew exactly what needed to be done, and there was nothing to be done but that. He donned his hauberk, pulling it over his head he felt the familiar weight fall upon his shoulders. He cinched his belt tightly around his waist, sword at his side. He saddled Velo and strapped his bow case and quiver to either side of the saddle.

Kevahram watched, wordlessly, while Valandil readied himself. There were no questions in his eyes.

"I will return, do not stray from here, and let none take you away," Valandil spoke to him, using Dothraki again. He drew his dagger and held it, hilt-first, towards the boy. Kevah took it and nodded grimly.

Too young for the horrors he has seen, too young to act like this Valandil thought sadly, but he had no time now for melancholy. In the khalasar's camp, the shouting was getting louder, and horses were neighing and whinnying as they were saddled for battle. The Numenorean swung up onto Velo's back and nudged him into a trot. Kevah stared after him as he went. Glancing back over his shoulder, Valandil saw the boy raise a hand in farewell.

All in the camp was now movement, haste. The captains and the chieftains of Drogo's horde were everywhere, gathering up their warriors and the fighting men of their houses around them. The horses were whinnying to each other and pawing the ground, flaring their nostrils with eagerness for battle, as if they knew their riders' eagerness. Wolf-like smiles were on every face, for the Dothraki reveled in the chance for glory though they knew not the foe. Lances and bows were in hands, lariats and whips at the sides of their saddles, and arakhs, axes, and maces were at every man's hip.

Amongst the chaos, Valandil spotted Jorah mounting his horse, already in fighting harness and surcoat.

"What news?" Valandil cried out, pulling Velo up next to the old knight.

"I know not, I was just coming back from my morning piss when the scouts returned," replied Jorah.

They reined their horses around and trotted off towards the Khal's tent, where they knew Daenerys would be.

"More Lhazareens perhaps?" suggested Valandil, raising his voice amongst the cacophony of battle preparations.

"Nay, they would never be so bold," Jorah shook his head. "I have a strange feeling about this,"

Drogo stalked out of his tent like a wolf glad for the hunt. His great arakh was at the side of his belt of bronze medallions. Behind him was Daenerys in the doorway of the tent, one hand around her stomach protectively. The Khal's bloodriders awaited him, already on horseback. His red stallion stood, snorting and pawing the ground impatiently. With practiced ease, the Khal vaulted up onto his horse's back.

A hide-bound drum, great in size, was set outside the Khal's tent. So large it was that two horses had to carry it between them on the march. Now it was set on the ground and surrounded by four Dothraki with mallets in hand. The Khal nodded to them and, in pairs, they began to beat out the rallying call of the khalasar.

DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN!

The drums of the Dothraki sounded like the roar of angry beasts. Bellowing their war cries, the Khal and his bloodriders galloped off, braids flying in their speed, towards the hills. Soon the whole horde had taken up their warlord's cry. The drums rolled on, like a heartbeat, amidst the storm of war cries and the sounds of wild horses. The air filled with dust and noise. Forty thousand Dothraki screamers, shrilly shrieking in eagerness for blood, were covering the sides of the hills like so many ants as they scrambled to the north to meet the foe. The drums went on, unending. To its martial sound, those of the khalasar too old or too young to fight began to circle the wagons into barricades, to defend the camp and the women and children.

Then suddenly there was a deep, reverberating roll of thunder that seemed to come out of the very ground itself.

DOOM!

And the thunder crashed again.

DOOM-BOOM-DOOM!

Cold fingers crept up Valandil's neck as he realized the sound was not thunder, but drumming. Distant, yet the force of it drowned out the Dothraki drum with every beat. It was like the footsteps of a giant, like the sound of dragon's wings in flight, like great rocks crashing in a mountain chasm, and it went on and drew nearer and nearer with each echoing beat.

DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!

 

[XelianEmperor]

Does my eyes deceive me?

holy shit its back!

 

[Jouaint]

Magnificent chapter and is that an Orc host?

 

[100thlurker]

Magnificent chapter and is that an Orc host?

Click to shrink...

No, no orcs. Only men.

 

[luis3007]

So is it a Black Numenorean host? If so it will be a slaughter as they probably field the same steel bows and anti-calvary techniques that Gondor uses

 

[EricD]

And on with the show

Chapter XVI (Part 2)
The Lands of the Lhazareen

DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!

"Jorah! Thorongil!" Daenerys had to raise her voice to be heard amidst the noise and the commotion. Defiant of the greater sound, the Dothraki drummers went on.

DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN!

"Yes Khaleesi?" answered Jorah.

"Something warns me in my heart against this day. Please, go and bring me back the tidings of the battle! I feel like something horrible is approaching," She looked down at the ground. Suddenly she seemed very small and very frail, despite how great her stomach had grown with her child. Suddenly Valandil saw her not as the strong-willed Khaleesi, but as she truly was: A very young girl, full of uncertainty as her lover rode to war. Her face was a composed mask when she looked up at him, but in her wide eyes he saw the fears.

"As you command, my Queen!" he said, bowing his head.

DOOM-BOOM-DOOM-BOOM-DOOM!

Jorah and Valandil gave the spurs to their horses. Velo sprang away, leaving Daenerys behind. Valandil looked back over his shoulder, and soon he lost sight of her in all the movement and the dust. The old men of the camp were shouting orders, and wagon wheels were groaning, the wains being dragged into barricades.

The swirling cloud of Dothraki riders flowed up the sides of the hills, laughing and singing in their eagerness. From the crest of the hill where they stopped, Valandil and Jorah saw the whole host of the khalasar spread out across the plain, a vast mass of horsemen. Forty thousand horsemen, they stretched out east and west, their hooves raised clouds of dust into the air. They stuck to no formation but rather moved in loose groups, each behind the horsetail banner of their khas. A banner of nine horsetails was carried before the Khal himself, who rode in the very centre of his horde. Despite the apparent lack of order, the Dothraki moved themselves into a huge curved formation, like a bent bow, with the centre drawn back and the flanks further ahead.

The plain that lay to the north of the river valley was broad and flat, covered in bush, scrub and dry grasses. From the hill, Valandil could see for miles. The khalasar shook it itself out into its formation, every man mounted, every warrior with bow or lance in hand, then in unison, as if actors cued upon a great stage, they stopped and waited and stared to the north. The war cries stopped, the drumming stopped, and amongst forty thousand warriors all was silence.

"There go the scouts," said Jorah, pointing to small parties of riders who suddenly galloped away. "They will find the enemy,"

"I think the enemy is coming to us, Jorah," replied Valandil. On the horizon, dust clouds were gathering and growing in size.

"Whoever these people are, they are either very brave or very stupid to attack a khalasar," Jorah said, furrowing his brows.

DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!

The distant drumming of the foe was growing louder and closer. The dust climbed high into the sky. Then, on the horizon, a thin line of black appeared. It thickened and grew, and the drumming came closer still. Specks and flashes of light appeared in the black line, spearheads and armour catching the dawn light. Then came the noise: Tramping, tramping, tramping; the unmistakeable sound of thousands of marching feet.
The outriders came racing back to the horde with excited yells for their Khal. One of the Dothraki drums beat out three rapid beats, and Valandil watched the right and left flanks spread out even wider.

The enemy came on in company after company, regiment after regiment. This was no ragtag town militia of terrified Lamb-men. These men marched in lockstep, in ordered ranks and columns, spears shouldered, banners fluttering. Broad, oval shields they carried, painted red and yellow, black, green and blue, and amongst them Valandil spotted the glint of mail rings. A forest of pikes glided above their helmeted heads.

"Ghiscari?" Jorah said suddenly, in shock. "What are they doing here?"

"How can you tell they're Ghiscari?" Valandil asked.

"I've seen no other army in Essos of their like, save for the Unsullied, and it is only in Ghis that you could find such numbers,"

In blocks and columns, orderly and perfectly in their geometric lines, the Ghiscari legions tramped forward. In number they were great, yet as their host filed onto the plains Valandil saw that they were far fewer than the Dothraki. He guessed that it was only half the size of the khalasar, twenty thousand men or less.

Everywhere there were banners. Banners and standards, yards and yards of coloured cloth and heraldry, a sea of banners fluttered above the heads of the enemy. Here and there Valandil saw the harpy of New Ghis, yet alongside it and above it was an emblem he had not seen before: An eight-rayed golden star, on a field half of crimson red and half of dark blue. It was the golden star on red and blue that was carried at the forefront of every marching company, and behind it came the harpy of Ghis and innumerable other unrecognizable banners of all colours.

The drum rolled once more.

DOOM-DOOM-DOOM!

And on the last doom, the whole host halted as one and stood silently. The Ghiscari and the Dothraki stood facing each other in silence, and above them the carrion-birds began to gather, cawing hungrily.

"No cavalry," said Jorah, in confusion. "I see bowmen and foot aplenty, but no horse,"

"Aye, I see the same, just banners and more banners," replied Valandil. There were mounted officers and captains amongst the Ghiscari host, but no great formed body of cavalry to be seen.

"What sort of commander would attack a khalasar with no horse?" Jorah said.

There was a shrill blast of trumpets, and a great band of men rode forward from the host. A hundred banners followed them, coloured cloth and silk all a flutter. They appeared to intend to parlay. Valandil spotted Drogo and his bloodriders riding out to meet them, his nine horsetail standard behind him.

"I wonder," the son of Isildur said. He locked eyes with the Bear Islander and then nodded towards the Khal. They nudged their horses into a canter and headed down towards the plain.

The Dothraki parted ranks for them, and soon they were riding in the broad deserted no-man's land between the armies. Flocks of crows and vultures circled above their heads. They caught up to the Khal, who had stopped halfway between the armies to await their emissary. He glanced over to Jorah and Valandil when they reined up alongside his bloodriders and captains.

From the enemy host, with their hundred banners flying, the other party came riding up. Many were Ghiscari, amber-skinned and wiry-haired, but the captains who led them were not of Ghiscar. A cold fist closed around Valandil's heart as he saw them. He knew their kind. The height, the strength of their limbs, the broadness of their shoulders. Here were men of Numenor.

Eru save us, Valandil prayed silently, desperately. He glanced up but the great eagle was not there.

The Numenoreans reined their mounts up a short distance from the Dothraki. They were bedecked in finery. Their armour was gilt and encrusted with silver and gems. Gems flashed on the hilts of their swords, and gold glittered on brows and fingers and necks. Golden were the fittings on their saddles and reins. Their cloaks and robes were of red and purple. Their faces, though, could not be seen, for each of them wore a mask of a hard silvered iron. Their masks were wrought as the faces of men, yet twisted into expressions of cold and unfeeling contempt and superiority.

One of their number spurred his white charger a few steps forward. He was tall even amongst Numenoreans. He wore no armour, only fine tunic and surcoat in red, green and gold, as if he were about to attend some ball or feast, but still his face was invisible behind his mask. His long cloak of sable black was fixed about his shoulders by a broach shaped like the same eight-rayed golden star upon his banners. Beside him, a Ghiscari dismounted and seized a banner from one of the riders. This he planted in the dust and held it by his side as he spoke.

"Here is Belzagar son of Aglahad!" the Ghiscari herald said, his voice fair and friendly. "Servant of the Great King of Kings Ar-Azulakhor, Lord Captain of all the Great King's Hosts and Vassals in the East, and bearer of the royal mace of command,"

The herald cast a look around at the Dothraki, and all the vast horde that waited behind their Khal.

"Whom is the chieftain of this tribe?" he asked, looking over the Dothraki captains like a cat eying rats.

"I, Drogo son of Bharbo," the Khal replied.

"Drogo son of Bharbo, most valiant of the Dothraki khals. Our emissary has brought us tales of you," the Herald said, using the voice of a sincere admirer. "Tales of your courage, of your strength, and of the queen at your side,"

Drogo's eyes narrowed dangerously. The Captain of Umbar remained silent behind his mask.

"You speak of my khaleesi? Why?"

"A gem such as her cannot remain hidden on the Dothraki Sea forever, nor can treasures like her dragon eggs," a strange hungry light came into the Herald's eyes as he spoke of the eggs, but his voice remained that of a friendly and polite courtier. "The Great King of Kings summons her to attend him at Umbar, and it is our deepest honour to be here to escort her to his court,"

There was a moment of silence. Drogo's gaze bored into the Numenorean's mask, and the Captain of Umbar sat unmoving. The air seemed to crackle between the two men, and Valandil could feel the contest of wills. His knuckles grew white upon his reins. Two vast hosts of men watched every moment of the Captain and the Khal.

"No," Drogo said at last.

"No?" repeated the Herald.

"No," repeated the Khal, then he spat upon the ground where Belzagar's horse stood. Beyond the unreadable mask of Drogo's face, Valandil saw the rage in his eyes.

"She is a Khaleesi of the Dothraki. Her presence is an honour too great for you. Now begone from here, before I make your Captain her footstool," His words were calm, yet the intent in his eyes was murderous.

The herald did not speak again, for at that moment from behind the unmoving mask of the Captain of Umbar came a booming voice, louder and clearer and more terrible to listen to than any in the khalasar had ever heard before. It echoed across the plain and the young and the old of the horde quailed and covered their faces as they heard it.

"Are there ANY in this rabble with authority to treat with me!? Or with wit enough to understand me!?"

Icy blue eyes flashed from the deep shadows of the mask, and the Captain of Umbar turned his rage upon the Khal. His roar was like an avalanche in the mountains, like the crashing of waters upon a stony shore, like the felling of trees in the forest.

"Not thou, Drogo son of Bharbo. Your blind pride would have you stand in the way of the dark sea and bar the onset of the wrathful waves. What is a Dothraki Khal but a brigand who steals to live, whose children roll amidst the dung, whose wives lay with their horses? Are you even men at all? I wonder? Who art thou to defy the will of the Great King? Thou hast the insolence born of ignorance. Even rats will eat the leftover filth of the Great King's kitchen, but what use is there for Dothraki? Wretched, miserable beasts who wear the shapes of men but haven't a thought to share amongst them, not fit even for thralldom!"

If Drogo quavered before the anger of a Numenorean lord, he did not show it. He simply sat upon his horse and listened, face unchanging, black eyes staring down the Captain of Umbar. There was a twitch of his moustaches and beard and Valandil realized that the Khal was smiling with bemusement.

As Belzagar's awful voice echoed away into the distance, Khal Drogo simply pointed to him with a single finger.

"Before the sun sets, my khaleesi's feet will rest upon your back," he said, with the simple tone of a promise.

"You will not receive the sword, Drogo son of Bharbo. The sword is for men. Slaves receive the lash," Belzagar snarled. Then he reined his snorting white horse about, and in a storm of banners he and his glittering lieutenants galloped back to their lines. Drogo watched them go with an expression of boredom and amusement.

"So be it then. The crows shall eat well today," the Khal remarked. His bloodriders and kos laughed with him, then they turned their mounts around and nudged them into an easy canter. They looked and laughed as relaxed as if they were only out for an afternoon leisure ride and not between two armies arrayed for war.

Jorah turned to Valandil, face pale. He had been struck silent by the Captain, and only now regained his voice.

"Gods," he said, like a horrific realization was dawning upon him. "Those are your people. Drogo is going to charge them,"

The icy hand that laid upon Valandil's heart tightened its grip. He saw Daenerys' frightened eyes in his mind. The drums of Umbar were beating out like the footsteps of a giant once more.

DOOM-DOOM-DOOM

"We must stop him!" Valandil cried. He hauled back on Velo's reins. The horse neighed and kicked up a cloud of dirt and galloped after the Khal. Jorah and his brown gelding followed close behind, his green surcoat already turning grey from the dust.

"Drogo! Khal Drogo!" Valandil yelled desperately, squeezing Velo's flanks and urging him to run faster. They tore up the plain, passing over it like the wind.

Behind them they heard the tramping of thousands of Ghiscari in lockstep.

Before them, they saw the Khal stop and turn in the saddle. Confusion and annoyance were written on his face.

"What is it Thorongil? There is a foe to fight," he said.

"Do not do this! You must not do this!" Valandil begged the Khal in growing desperation. He could already see in his mind the carnage that would come. He could already see the growing disaster.

"Why?" Drogo's eyes narrowed.

"If you charge that, you will not survive." Valandil nodded back towards the Ghiscari legions. "Your khalasar will die here. You do not know what manner of men lead that host,"

"No milk-men have ever stopped us. They will run. They all run. And I have a footstool to make for my khaleesi. This is no battle, Thorongil, only carpentry," the Khal smiled and laughed at his wit, and tossed his reins, his red stallion springing away swifter than Velo could follow. Once again his bloodriders and his lieutenants followed him. Soon they lost sight of them amongst the uncountable ranks of Dothraki riders massed for battle.

Valandil sat there, struck dumb. He knew in that moment that he had failed his Queen. He knew in that moment that no matter what he said, he could not avert what was about to happen. He knew in that moment that a slaughter was about to ensue, the likes of which the Dothraki had never known before and could not even conceive. He knew it all and he was struck by his powerlessness to stop it. He remembered the Captain's words, and he felt as if he had tried to hold back the sea with his arms only to be dragged by it and dashed onto the cruel, waiting rocks.

DOOM

"Come on," Jorah said, slapping him on the shoulder. The Bear Islander's bearded face was grim and drawn.

"Unless you want to be trampled and shot to pieces, we need to get out of here," Ser Jorah glanced back over his shoulder. The Dothraki drums were beginning to beat again, bravely, defiantly.

Dun-DUN-dun-DUN-dun-DUN!

It was too late for them though.

Dun-dun-dun-DUN-DUN-DUUUUUN!

The khalasar was beginning its charge.

They filled the air with the sound of the war whoops of forty thousand voices, a deafening clamour like none other Valandil had ever heard on the fields of battle. Amidst the shrieks and calls, the eerie jingling of the bells in their braids. Below and above it all, the indescribable thunder of the pounding hooves of a Dothraki khalasar trotting towards the attack.

Valandil cried out for someone, anyone, to stop, but the mass did not listen, could not listen amidst the din. The roaring surf had no ears. Gathering speed, the wave roared and seethed and passed them, the horsetail banners floating in the wind.

"Up there," Jorah said, pointing out a rocky hill back towards the river valley, which rose up from the surrounding plain and would give a good vantage point. "We'll never keep up with Drogo out there, but we can at least watch for his banners from that hill,"

Wordlessly, Valandil followed. They trotted up the steep sides of the hill, whilst in the distance the horns of the khalasar were blowing, blowing, blowing wildly. They reached the crest and pulled their mounts up to survey the whole field of battle, eyes searching for Drogo's nine horsetails upon his standard. In an instant, what hope there remained for them was extinguished by what they saw.

The iron-disciplined Ghiscari had formed up into huge squares, standing and waiting in perfect silence before the onslaught of the khalasar. In massed ranks they stood, shoulder by shoulder, patient and intent. The whole host had formed itself into a massive checkerboard pattern of squares, and above each square fluttered dozens of banners and hundreds of spears, their steel points glinting.

However it was not the foot in their squares that Valandil watched fearfully. It was the long thin line of tall archers which marched out before the Ghiscari host and now stood drawing their arrows in the most perfect calm, as if oblivious of the thundering horde charging down upon them. They wore cloaks of scarlet which covered one shoulder and left the other arm free, and beneath their cloaks were shirts of black mail just as Valandil's own, and upon their heads were tall shining helms, golden-gleaming. Their longbows caught the light and shone, and with a sickening feeling the son of Isildur realized what they were.

"Those are steelbows," he gasped, eyes widening.

"Gods save us," Jorah's face grew even grimmer.

The Numenorean steelbowmen stood, arrows nocked, unmoving as statues carved in stone. The drum of Umbar sounded a deep and resounding beat, echoing across the plain.

They drew the bows, two thousand men in unison pulling their arrows back to their ears and holding them there, waiting.

The khalasar surged across the plain with the speed of a raging river, with the fury of a hurricane, with the force of a firestorm in the forest. Headlong they rode, reckless and headless of the danger, the charge becoming a race, each warrior attempting to outpace the others and be the first to slay a foeman. Their horses stretched out into a swift canter, but at the forefront the Khal could be seen, and his red stallion could not be overtaken, and his braid streamed like the mane of a charging lion.

Then the drum of Umbar struck out a final beat, and its sound was the sound of lightning smiting a mountaintop, and one long, terrible doom echoed across the fields.

Two thousand steelbow strings sang out as the volley was loosed.

No other archers of men would have loosed their shots from such a distance, for the range was thrice and more than thrice a bowshot for any lesser bows. But these were no lesser bows, nor any lesser archers, these were steelbows in the hands of men of Westernesse. The black cloud of their arrows climbed high, darkening the blue sky above. It reached the apex of its flight, hung there for a moment, and then the rain of steel came rushing down.

There were cries of pain as the arrows of the Numenoreans found their marks, buried themselves in the flesh of men and horses alike. Arrows struck in eyes, throats, chests and shoulders, in the necks and flanks of horses. Some fell wounded from the saddle to be trampled to death by the hooves of their comrades, but the charge continued unchecked. These were only the light flight arrows used for the longest ranged harassment. The true execution had not come yet.

Like a beast enraged by stinging flies, the khalasar roared onwards, the hooves of its foremost riders rolling on. Forty thousand riders whooped and shrieked and brandished arakhs and lances, and forty thousand horses neighed and screamed and ripped up the very earth before them. Valandil wondered how the Ghiscari could stand before such an onslaught and not flee. Was it courage? Madness? Or did the very will of the Captain of Umbar pin them in place and hold them enthralled to his design?

The range was closing rapidly, less than twice a normal bowshot, and the steelbowmen drew back for their second volley. Again they held it for a moment, and then the drum rumbled its signal. Again two thousand bow strings sang in unison. Death speeding on swift wings, the arrows of Umbar arced straight into the khalasar.

Warriors cried out and fell. Horses foundered and tumbled. Dead and wounded men and beasts littered the field behind the khalasar's passing, in dozens and hundreds. Valandil recognized the darts: Arrows of mid-weight, longer and heavier than the flight arrows. He had many like them in his own quiver. On the fields of Westeros, they wounded, but amongst the Dothraki there was not a mail shirt to be had amongst them, nor even a shield, nothing more than a vest of hide. The Dothraki were struck without protection and fell senselessly, without even coming to grips with the enemy. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he knew what was coming next. The killing arrows. The Black Arrows.

They were as long as a man's arm, black from tip to nock, fletched with black feathers, tipped with black steel. As calmly as if they were at practice and not in battle, the steelbowmen drew the black arrows to their ears and aimed them flat and straight at the oncoming horde. They waited with the infinite patience of hunters watching their prey. The khalasar hurtled on towards them. Less than a bowshot away they were now, and closing quickly. Their arakhs shone like the stars in the sky. From horseback, they shot a hail of arrows of their own, filling the air and falling amongst the Ghiscari like snow. Cries of pain and fear arose from the squares. The men of Umbar ignored it as if it were the patter of rain. They waited, unperturbed, unbothered, unmoving.

The drum rolled a final time.

Again the steelbows sang.

Smote down as if by lightning, the front ranks were struck dead. Black arrows bored through hide and flesh and bone alike. Galloping too swiftly to swerve aside, the horses of the warriors behind them tripped and fell over the carcasses of the leaders, tossing their riders to ruin. In the blink of an eye, in a grisly instant, a mound of dead horses and men appeared, yet through it all Valandil still saw Drogo ride, untouchable it seemed, upon his red stallion. For a moment he allowed himself to hope. Perhaps the Numenoreans would not be enough. Perhaps the Ghiscari could not withstand the Khal's coming. Perhaps they would run. The Dothraki's horses were leaping over the mound, still charging, the strings of their warrior's double-curved bows were humming as they filled the air with missiles of their own, the bright blades of their arakhs and tips of their lances were thirsty for blood.

The steelbowmen, as one, turned and fled from the charge. Valandil sat up in his saddle, and glanced over at Jorah, who grinned back at him. Hope, wild and unlikely hope, flared for them.

It was not to last. The squares stood, unfought and unbroken still. The men of Umbar retreated, they did not rout, and the icy hand closed around Valandil's chest once more.

The Numenoreans fled to the squares, seeking shelter from the flood in the closest bastions they could find. The Dothraki were on their heels, hissing and roaring victoriously. As the last steelbowman slipped into a square, suddenly the Ghiscari roared out in return. They lapped their broad shields and the outer ranks dropped to a knee with a war cry, butting their spears into the ground. Spears which had been shouldered were now pointed and braced, a phalanx of iron and steel pointing out in every direction like the spines of a porcupine.

The flood seethed and crashed around the bastions, rocks amongst a raging river, as horses screamed, shied away, flowing between the squares like the current gushing into the dikes and ditches that watered a farmer's fields. Huddled behind their shields, the Ghiscari left no mark for arrow to find.

More men stood up behind the spearmen. Bowmen, javelineers, slingers. Ghiscari and Numenorean alike. From every square came a murderous hail of darts and missiles. Forty thousand riders had poured in between the squares. The teeming mass of them was too tightly packed and too close for any missile to miss a mark. The slain began to pile up, struck dead by stone or arrow, run through by spear or javelin. Dark blood of man and horse alike ran freely in the dirt, pooling on the ground.

Yet though ten men would fall to his left and a hundred to his right, Drogo rode through unharmed and undaunted. His standard stood still, unchallenged and unfought. Though dart and stone fell thick around him, he was unwounded still, the lord of a fierce warrior people, and he came clear through the ranks of the Ghiscari without a mark upon him.

Now the khas of the khalasar were pulling back, away from the slaying, dispersing in all directions. The Dothraki turned around in the saddle to loose parting shots backwards at the foe. The Dothraki drum was beating out the rally.

DUN-dun-dun-DUN-dun-dun-DUN!

The khas flowed together in the manner of a flock of birds in flight, or like a school of fish in the water, and Valandil made out Drogo and his red stallion once more, riding with raised fist, shouting for his warriors to rally to him. As suddenly as they had charged, they pulled free of the corridors of death, leaving behind them the wreckage of the attack: Horses and men lying together in mounds; man and beast pierced, hacked, hewn and slain.

Yet even as they retreated and reformed, the ranks of the Ghiscari squares opened and the scarlet cloaks of the steelbowmen of Umbar were seen. They poured out, reforming their thin line. Quickly they drew wounding arrows and loosed a volley, which hissed viciously as it flew through the air. Into the backs of the Dothraki, the arrows buried themselves. More men tumbled from the saddle, more horses screamed and founded or bucked their riders in shock from the sudden pain of an arrow in their haunch or flank.

"They cannot charge that again. They cannot," said Jorah, slamming his fist against his leg in frustration.

The khalasar wheeled around. The blowing of the horns echoed across the field above the rumble of the hooves. The Dothraki drum beat up a rapid roll. With fresh war whoops, the horde surged forward again.

"They are," Valandil replied, despairing, and he covered his face with his hands. The bows of Umbar were humming from use.

Again and again and again the khalasar charged. The sun climbed into the sky, morning wearing away towards the noon. It stared down, uncaring, upon scenes of horror and slaughter. With fresh fury and seemingly endless reserves of courage, the Dothraki storm boiled and raged around the tight ranks of the Ghiscari. As besieged castles amidst hosts of foes, the squares stood unyielding, shield walls and hedgehog-arrays of spears unbroken. Again and again the steelbows shot into the khalasar, slaying some and wounding others. Again and again the khalasar poured into the channels, seeking in vain to find some way to break the legions that barred them. Some brave young men urged their horses even to jump over the shield walls and down amongst the men behind them, where arakh would flash and slay two or three, but never was it enough to break a square, for every man who did so was pulled from his horse and slain in turn.

The dead piled up in mounds round each square. The ground grew dank with blood and slick with the viscera. In all the carnage, the viscera of Dothraki and their horses grew indistinguishable from each other. Their numbers dwindled slowly. The khalasar's line became thinner and thinner with each charge, and still the Ghiscari stood defiant and unbroken. Still the archers of Umbar shot their black arrows and slew rider and mount alike.

Horses heaved and panted in exhaustion, sweat-streaked. Riders slumped in the saddle. Their quivers were nearly empty of arrows. Weariness pressed upon them. They leaned upon their saddle horns and stared down at the hated foe. The legions of Umbar still stood in their checkerboard squares, the thousands of banners flapping in the breeze, as if to mock the Dothraki for their impotence. Valandil spotted Drogo and his bloodriders in the centre beneath the Khal's standard, unwounded somehow still. All morning he had led his khalasar into battle. All morning he had searched in vain for some means, any means, of breaking the squares before him. They had charged them, showered them with arrows, tried to draw their men out of formation with faked retreats, tried to flank them, they had ridden and attacked ceaselessly and fruitlessly.

"Any other host, in Westeros or the east or anywhere, would have broken and run by now after such a ceaseless onslaught," said Jorah after a long silence. His fist was clenched on his sword hilt. His eyes were troubled. He turned to Valandil.

"What devilry is at work here? Ghiscari do not fight like this, they have never fought like this. They should have broken ranks a dozen times today before the khalasar. What keeps them standing there in such silence?"

"I do not know. I fear it is some power, some force of their Captain's will overpowering their own and holding them under his sway," Valandil replied darkly, staring hard at the endless sea of flapping banners. He was troubled still. There was something off about all this. Even in Westeros, armies did not carry so many banners.

"Drogo must stop this. He must retreat. There can be no victory in this," said Valandil. Jorah shook his head sadly, as if resigned to the doom before them.

"They are Dothraki, and he is Khal Drogo. For Khal Drogo and his warriors to retreat before milk-men on foot, that is unthinkable for them. They would die rather than live with such shame," said Jorah. The carrion-fowl were crying out eagerly for the meal laid before them on the plains below.

The flight-arrows of the steelbowmen were falling amongst the khalasar again. Drogo was heedless of them, and still he remained unwounded and undaunted. His arrows were long spent, yet his lance was in his hand still and he still had his arakh at his side. Around him rallied his bloodriders and the bravest and strongest of the Dothraki left unwounded and unslain. The Khal brandished his lance bravely.

With a final flourish of horns and drums, the khalasar began to charge again. Its ranks were thinner now, its onset hindered by the dead bodies that littered the field, yet still they cantered into the fray shrieking their war whoops and battle cries defiantly. Again the field echoed with the clamour of their coming.

Then, as if in answer, there came another horn. Long, shrill and powerful, it drowned out all other noise upon the plain. The drums of Umbar beat out a rapid roll. Suddenly the ranks of the inner squares parted, and the banners that floated above them parted, and Valandil saw horses and men swinging up into the saddle. There was the enemy's cavalry, dismounted and long-hidden amongst the infantry and the forest of banners, now revealing itself. For Valandil, any hope he still had drained out of him.

From every square in the Ghiscari checkerboard streamed a company of horsemen. Bitter spears they carried in hand, and broad shields, and they wore helms and shirts of scales or mail. No great horsemen were the Ghiscari, but they were fresh and unbloodied. A thousand of such horsemen formed up on the left, and another thousand on the right.

Yet in the centre there formed a company, the sight of which made hearts quail and despair. There Valandil saw tall men on tall horses, and he knew that there formed the Numenoreans, the King's Men. They were not great in number, perhaps only five hundred strong, but each man of the five hundred was sheathed in steel. Their arms and shoulders and legs covered by overlapping scales and bands of metal, their necks protected by mail coifs, tall-crested helms upon their heads, and every man's face concealed by a polished mask, wrought in an image of cold contempt. Their chests, however, could not be seen, for every man was wrapped in a cloak of the richest purple. Even their horses were encased in metal, for they were caparisoned with scale armour of their own, covering faces and necks and flanks. Gold and silver and gems glinted in the sun. Crests of feathers and horse hair stood up upon every helm. Splendid and awful they were to look upon. They formed in cold, gleaming, silent ranks, knee to knee, rows of lances resting on their shoulders, their razor-edged tips poised above their heads.

Long and thin, but well-ordered, the line of Umbar's cavalry trotted to meet the khalasar. There were no war cries, they met the shrieks of the Dothraki with only silence. Behind them came tramping the scarlet-cloaked steelbowmen, and behind them the squares advanced in perfect order to the reverberating dooms of the drum.

Seeing his foes advance at last, Khal Drogo cried out in gladness, then he let loose a bestial war shout that rose across the plains even above the shrieks of his people. The ground soared away beneath his red and he and his bloodriders outpaced all the Dothraki about them. Again the flood of horsemen came seething up the plain, filling the air with their din, an immense and irresistible onset. The arrows of the Numenoreans fell thick amongst them, wounding and killing at will.

The voice of Belzagar, Captain of Umbar, cried out in a strange tongue which sounded, clear and terrible, all the way to the hills where Jorah and Valandil watched. The sound of it, and the cruelty in that voice, sent a shiver down Valandil's neck.

At the Captain's command, the King's Men stopped their advance. The Dothraki hurtled down upon them, as wolves glad to find their prey. In one swift movement in unison, the Numenoreans cast back their purple cloaks. The black rings of their mail gleamed suddenly, cold and bright.
Rows of lances snapped down, leveled. So long were their lances that even the men of Numenor had to hold them in both hands.
The Dothraki charged, and in silent order the men of the Sea charged to meet them.

All along the plain, the horsemen of Ghis met the riders of the Dothraki, clashing with spear and sword in bitter and bloody combats. The Ghiscari were well armed and courageous, but they were not born to ride and fight like the Dothraki, and soon many of them lay hewn on the field, but amongst them the dead of the horselords were scattered.

But it was in the centre that the Great Khal had chosen to fight, and it was in the centre that he met the men of Umbar. Like a speeding falcon in flight, he raced to meet his foe, the bells in his hair ringing, his long lance outstretched. The horsemen of Umbar charged, rolling on in a closed fist of iron and men, knee to knee, not a single war cry from behind their arrogant masks.

Too swift was Drogo's charge to be stopped. He bent like a willow in the wind around the long lance of the leading Numenorean. With a single sure thrust he stabbed his lance into the eyes of his enemy. The foe fell, tumbled from his mount, dead in an instant, the lance buried in his masked face. Drogo's arakh shone, hungry for blood, and his red stallion leapt amongst the ranks of the King's Men. His standard-bearer and his bloodriders followed their Khal, whooping for the kill, and the ranks of the Numenoreans closed up around them as if they had been swallowed whole. Valandil could see them no more.

Unchallenged, the rest of the Numenorean horsemen rode through the field, killing as they willed. Their lances, eager for blood, struck down horse and rider all the same. Few could withstand their coming, and by the hundreds the Dothraki fled before their terrible masked faces. No swords were drawn, but with lances, maces and axes, lariats and whips cruelly cracking, they drove through the khalasar, a scythe through a field of wheat.

"Valandil," Jorah said in a hoarse voice "We have to warn Daenerys,"

Casting his gaze across the field, Valandil saw only slaughter now. Though the Dothraki fought fiercely, it was in desperation and increasingly in vain. Wherever the Ghiscari horsemen were driven back, they fled to a square which sheltered them behind their warding shields and spears, and wherever the Dothraki pursued them they were met with a killing hail of arrows, stones and darts. The Khal was nowhere to be seen. Dothraki were fleeing, Dothraki were casting away their arms, Dothraki were being cut down. Wherever the Numenoreans rode, none would bar their coming. Everywhere the sea of banners was rushing forward, and the tide of the Dothraki drew back before them.

The khalasar was shattering apart before their eyes. Against the hosts of Umbar, it had broken itself.

Valandil searched the field for the Khal's standard. He could not see it.

"Valandil," Jorah's urgency was growing. "We have to get Daenerys out of here,"

"Let's go," Valandil said, a hard edge in his voice. He seized his own steelbow and nocked an arrow.

The Ghiscari cavalry were breaking ranks, shouting gleeful cries of victory as they pursued their hated foe. A long ragged line of them was headed for the camp, and Valandil knew well the greed and depravity of victorious soldiers after battle.

"You find her. I will cover you," Valandil said. Jorah nodded grimly. Steel whispered against leather as he drew his sword.

"Noro lim, Velo, noro lim!" the son of Isildur whispered. Immediately the horse sprang away into a gallop, the wind of his speed stinging Valandil's eyes. Jorah cried aloud and set the spurs to his own mount and followed.

The rout, with eddies and pools of ferocious bloodletting, was flowing in its chaos past the hill. Down, down, down from the rocks sprang Valandil and Jorah, their horses kicking up a cloud of dirt. At the base of the hill, they saw a band of Ghiscari. Without even breaking Velo's stride, Valandil drew his arrow back to his ear and aimed his shot. He loosed it and with a strangled cry a Ghiscari fell from the saddle, fingers clutching at his throat, gushing up dark blood around the dart buried there.

They passed amidst the shocked enemy like a wind in the grasses. There were cries of outrage, hooves pounding behind them in pursuit. Turning around in the saddle, Valandil drew a second arrow. He counted five Ghiscari riders behind them, brandishing spears and swords. Another shot sent a horse tumbling to death, and then there were four.

All around them they raced through bloodshed and carnage. The Dothraki were brave still, they were a grim and fell-handed people even in despair and they did not ask for quarter, nor did their enemy offer it. Horses were neighing and screaming, men were shouting, and behind them they heard the endless tramping of the approaching host. Hacking and stabbing and slaying, the horsemen of Umbar were everywhere.
Valandil cast a glance over his shoulder again. Their pursuers had joined the Ghiscari cavalry headed for the camp, and Jorah and Valandil raced before them like animals seeking shelter from the forest fire. He turned around again and loosed another arrow. This time a horse fell stricken, and the riders following it were tripped and fell. It was not enough though. There was a murderous cry of rage and the foe spurred their mounts to even greater speed.

"Fly Jorah! Fly! I will hold them here!" Valandil cried. The valley yawned before them. The son of Isildur seized a fistful of arrows with one hand and, steelbow in the other, he vaulted down from the saddle, hitting the ground at a run beside his galloping steed. Jorah disappeared down towards the camp, and Velo followed.

The horsemen of Ghis were just about a bowshot distant from Valandil. His heart was pounding, yet his mind was strangely calm. He skidded to a halt, turning to face them and shoving his arrows point down into the ground. He drew back, picked his target, and loosed. The arrow sped unerring and a man fell from the saddle.

He drew again and loosed. Another Ghiscari fell.

He drew and shot, and drew and shot, as automatically as a smith beating on steel. Foe after foe fell, struck by his arrows in throats and chests and faces. The line swept down upon him, hooves pounding, riders shouting. He grasped for another arrow, but only air filled his hand.

Valandil turned and hurled himself down the slope of the valley. Dirt swirled around him as he slid down, rolling and tumbling. The world spun. Above him he saw the bellies and hooves of leaping horses. Down the slopes the Ghiscari leapt, swords glinting as they turned in air. Below them stretched the camp, blockaded on all sides by walls and barricades of circled wagons. With the glee of wild dogs glad to find a carcass, the Ghiscari cavalry swept down towards the encampment, eager for plunder and women.

Gritting his teeth, Valandil slid to a stop against a thicket of brambles. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword forth as he did. With steelbow in one hand and blade in the other, he ran down the hill after the Ghiscari. His legs burned, his lungs felt like they would burst, but still he ran after them in growing desperation.

Every galloping stride of the Ghiscari cavalry carried them farther from him and closer to the camp. It was too late. Even the wagon barricade would not hold them back for long.

Images of Pyke burning flashed in his mind. Valandil pushed himself even harder. There were hundreds of Ghiscari horsemen charging the camp. He would kill every one of them if he had too.

Then there appeared a pale figure standing atop the wall. Short and slender, unarmoured, with long silver-gold hair that blew in the breeze like the flame of a candle flickering. Heedless of the howling band of horsemen hurtling towards her intent on depravity, heedless of the slaughter upon the plains, heedless of all the world, Daenerys Targaryen stood with fist raised defiantly.

"NOW!" she cried out in a voice fair and clear and strong, slashing her arm downards. Then another figure jumped up upon the cart next to her, with drawn sword and battered armour and a bear blazoned on his shield.

"Loose!" roared Ser Jorah Mormont, brandishing blade above his head.

All along the wagon-wall, people were leaping onto the wains. Some were cowards who had fled the slaughter. There were callow youths who had seen no battles, old men who had seen too many, weathered old Dothraki wives, even slave-girls and eunuchs. A motley and ragtag assortment of camp-dwellers and hangers-on, yet in every hand was a bow, a fistful of javelins, a sling, even just stones and cooking knives.

Valandil threw himself face down in the dirt just as he saw them. At their Khaleesi's word, they poured forth a hail of missiles upon the Ghiscari. It was too late for the cavalry to swerve aside, they were too close; their charge had betrayed them.

Men cried out in pain, horses screamed, and arrows hissed. Valandil heard the sound of pounding hooves passing on either side of him. When he looked up again, the sounds of cheering filled the air. Stung and bloodied by the sudden volley, the Ghiscari recoiled. In the very moment of their triumph, they had been cut down. Those few who pressed their charge home found themselves trapped fruitlessly against the wagon-wall, whilst the defenders hacked them down with arakh and axe and stabbed from above with lances and spears.

The Ghiscari horsemen turned their faces from the impassable wall, turned away from the unlikely but grim band of defenders, turned away from the slender Khaleesi standing there indefatigable. They wheeled around and fled back for the hills as swiftly as their mounts could carry them.

"Thorongil! There is Thorongil!" cried one of the defenders. Valandil spotted Rakharo standing by Daenerys and Jorah, pointing at him and gesturing wildly. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the wagon-wall.

Rakharo and Jorah offered their hands and hauled him up the side of the wagon when he reached it. All around them the defenders teemed, laughing and jeering at the retreating horsemen, patting each other on the back heartily.

"I saw you on the heights Thorongil! Standing alone against the foe, that was bravely done!" Rakharo said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Do not congratulate me yet, the day is not over," Valandil replied darkly, sheathing his sword and slinging his bow over his back.

Daenerys stepped forward, pushing Rakharo aside gently. In her eyes was a desperation and a fear that her face did not show.

"What tidings of the battle? Where is Drogo?" she asked, looking back and forth between Valandil and Jorah. The old Bear Islander shook his head.

"It went ill, Khaleesi," Jorah said sadly.

"You need to flee this place, my Queen, while time remains to us," Valandil told her. He glanced over his shoulders back at the hills. The distant sounds of the battle were dying away. The tramping still remained.

"What are you saying?" Daenerys asked. Though her face was still a composed mask of courage, the fear was growing clearly in her eyes.

"I am saying we have to take the swiftest horses we can find and fly as quickly as we can ride. Now, Khaleesi, before it's too late," replied Valandil in growing desperation.

"What of Drogo?" she asked insistently, a hand upon her pregnant stomach with the same protective air she wore when the Khal had ridden to battle.

"We-We lost sight of him, Khaleesi. He charged into the enemy's ranks and disappeared. I know not if he lives," said Jorah.

For a long moment, Daenerys was silent, staring at the ground, looking unsteady. Then she looked up again, her face fair and proud, a fire burning in her eyes.

"I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki. My khal has gone to battle. I will not abandon his camp to be plundered. I will not abandon my people to be slain and enslaved. I stay here,"

She turned and walked away, chin raised, and disappeared amongst the crowds of old men and young boys and eunuch-slaves.

"Truly she is a Targaryen," said Jorah, shaking his head again.

"We can't hold this wall against the host that approaches Jorah, you know that," Valandil replied, turning to watch the valley walls with searching grey eyes.

"Aye, we cannot," Jorah sighed in resignation. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, looking like a great weariness weighed him down. He reopened them with a steely look on his face.

"When that host comes down upon us, this barricade will not hold long. In the confusion though, we just might be able to take Daenerys and slip away," Ser Jorah said. "Make for the coast, take a ship to the Free Cities. It is the only hope I can see,"

"A fool's hope," said Valandil with a cold hard glint in his eyes "But a hope nevertheless,"

"But what if the Khal returns?" asked Rakharo suddenly. The young warrior stood with crossed arms, brows furrowed with uncertainty.
"Rakharo," Jorah said gently "I do not think Drogo is coming back from that battle,"

"How can you know? The Khal is a great warrior, he has cut his way free of many foes before," Rakharo replied.

"Not foes like this Rakharo, not foes like this," said Valandil.

"Look there," said Rakharo, pointing away to the hillside. They looked and saw bands of Dothraki riders streaming down towards the camp. "Our warriors return. Defeated on the field, perhaps, but the Khal could rally them. And the drum has stopped! Our foes are up there, looting and celebrating as we speak. We could fall upon them and turn a defeat into victory! This place may yet be marked by a mound of their skulls!"

"There's nothing to loot," Jorah grumbled underneath his breath.

Trickling back, the warriors of the khalasar returned in dozens and hundreds. Though they carried with them a tale of defeat and ruin, the sight of riders returning kindled hope in the hearts of the camp-dwellers. With our warriors with us, women and children said, the khalasar might still escape, bloodied perhaps but unbowed.

Then the heights and the hills were crowned by the sea of banners and all hope left them.

There flew the winged harpy of Ghis. There shone the golden star on red and blue that was for Umbar. There fluttered the alien standards of wild tribes from half the world away. Beneath them were seen the painted shields of the Ghiscari legions, and the scarlet cloaks of the steelbowmen of Numenor, and the purple cloaks of the Numenorean knights. A glitter of arms and armour stretched across the horizon. The whole host, in all its power, stood and stared down silently. Women wept and children wailed and the old covered their faces in despair.

"Jorah, my friend," said Valandil.

"Aye?" the old knight replied.

"If we do not leave this valley, then let us make a stand here which men shall sing songs of in years to come," said the son of Isildur, setting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Valandil, my brother, between us we shall make this a place which those bastards remember in their nightmares," Jorah said, smiling grimly.

Forth from the lines of the host of Umbar came the hundred streaming banners of the Captain once more. Still in finery and robes, followed by all his shining lieutenants, Belzagar came riding down upon his white charger. His bearing was that of a jovial prince returning from a successful hunt. They reined up before the wagon-wall and arrogant masked faces stared up at the defenders. The herald dismounted again and planted his banner in the ground beside the Captain.

"Belzagar son of Aglahad, Servant of the Great King of Kings Ar-Azulakhor, Lord Captain of all the Great King's Hosts and Vassals in the East, and bearer of the royal mace of command, would treat with Daenerys daughter of Aerys of House Targaryen, Princess of the Eight Kingdoms!" shouted the herald.

"I am Daenerys Targaryen," she replied loudly, no quiver in her voice, standing forward from the huddled mass of men and women upon the barricade.

The Captain of Umbar stared at her from horseback, then he reached up to his face and pulled away the mask. Hair of red-gold fell down around his shoulders, alongside a short trimmed beard. Keen eyes like chips of blue eye were set in a pale face of perfect symmetry. Only a scar near his right ear marred him. A stern lord he was, a master of lesser men.

"Hail Daenerys daughter of Aerys. It is my most absolute pleasure and honour to meet you this day," Belzagar said warmly, bowing in the saddle with a courtly flourish. He used the voice of one who had long admired someone from afar and never expected to speak with them face to face. He cast a brief back over his shoulder at the host waiting behind him, and the Ghiscari cavalry amongst them.

"You have my apologies, Princess, for the difficulties today. Particularly for the men who attacked your camp, not knowing that one of royal blood was amongst it. You have my oath that the men responsible shall be flogged and beheaded," Belzagar smiled, with all the benevolence and friendliness of a beloved and dear companion.

"Speak what you came here to say, Umbarian," Daenerys said, her strong voice cutting through the courtesies of the Captain. Belzagar laughed, the sound like the tinkling waters of a mirthful fountain in some sunlit courtyard.

"Your brother spoke highly of your will. You have not failed the test. My Lord sent me hence, Princess, to wait upon your person with all the grandeur accorded to your station and bear to you his invitation,"

"An invitation?" Daenerys repeated, as if unbelieving. Then the fire that burned in her eyes came into her voice as well: "You come here with force of arms, you attack my husband and my people, your men try to plunder our camp and carry off the women and the children, and you tell me you come here with an invitation!?"

As if he hadn't heard her, the Captain of Umbar went on in the same courteous voice.

"The Great King of Kings expects that you would attend him at his court in Umbar. He greatly desires to see the beauty of the last dragon eggs, and the greater beauty still of the Princess of the Eight Kingdoms," he smiled again, but there was a strange hungry light in his eyes. "He has called often, but received no answer, for which cause I have been sent with great pomp to wait upon your reply and escort you to his side,"

"I am not a helpless Princess at your beck and call, Umbarian. I am a Khaleesi, I am wife to the Great Khal Drogo and I carry his son inside me. My place is at his side, with my people, and I wait here for my lord husband to return," In Daenerys' voice, Valandil heard the dragon awakening, uncoiling, the fires of its furnaces growing.

"Well then, my Princess, here I may shorten your wait," Belzagar said, still smiling. He turned around in the saddle and shouted out something in the same unknown language he had spoken before.

In the forest of a hundred banners behind him, two men dismounted and stepped forth. They were Numenoreans. They pulled something from the backs of one of their horses. Amidst the flapping coloured silk and cloth, Valandil could not make it out. Between them they dragged it forward and threw it down without ceremony upon the dirt. Then he recognized that it was a man. Slowly, the man struggled to his feet.

"Drogo," Daenerys gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

From a dozen wounds on his chest and sides, the Khal bled dark blood freely. His face, once so proud, was blood-stained and worn. As if to mock him, the bells in his braid rang with his every step as he walked forward beneath the banners of Umbar, beneath the eyes of his khalasar and his khaleesi, and beneath the uninterested gaze of the Captain of Umbar. His black eyes stared into the air, looking but not seeing. Slowly he trudged towards Daenerys, as unsteady as if he had never walked with his own legs before. In all the khalasar, there was not a sound heard, not even the crying of a babe.

Finally the Khal came and stood between the Captain of Umbar and the Khaleesi atop the wagon barricade. A light seemed to come into his blank eyes when he saw Daenerys. He mumbled something that Valandil could not here, and then reached out an arm towards her, as the man dying in the desert reaches towards a mirage of water.

Belzagar nodded at one of his men. With purple cloak cast back, a Numenorean man-at-arms in mask and mail strode forward. He drove a steel boot brutally into the back of Drogo's leg. Without even a cry, the Khal collapsed to his knees. In utter nonchalance, the Numenorean drew a dagger from his belt. He grabbed Drogo's braid and pulled it taut above his head. With two quick slashes it was cut off. Black hair fell loosely around the Khal's hanging head. The man of Umbar held the black braid aloft for a moment, displaying it for all to see, then he threw it unceremoniously into the dirt before them. One swift push sent the Khal falling face-down onto the ground. His work done, the knight turned and returned to the ranks.

No one spoke. Unshed tears shone wetly in Daenerys' eyes. She stood, rooted to the spot as if she had been struck down by a sudden bolt of lightning from a clear sky. All Valandil could think of was getting her away from here, shielding her from this, turning her eyes away from the horrid sight of her husband and lover bleeding his life's blood on the cold ground.

"Your husband is returned, my Princess," said Belzagar, smiling amiably. "Now will you not come down and go to the Great King's call? In Umbar, you shall shine as the jewel you are meant to be,"

"Umbar," Daenerys repeated quietly. Tears were falling from her face, but her purple eyes were flashing with enmity. Her voice was quiet, there was no quiver or grief in it, only the anger of a roused dragon. She did not threaten or bluster, her words were a promise.

"My son shall be the Stallion that Mounts the World. His is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Drogo, Tamer of Horses. I swear, by all the gods known and unknown, with fire and blood he and I shall tear Umbar down stone by stone and cast it into the sea, and you, you Belzagar son of Aglahad, you will die screaming,"

If Belzagar understood these words, if he even heard them, he did not show it. His easy smile remained fixed, unchanging.

"Truly, my Princess, it would be a great tragedy if these primitive barbarians you have…" he paused as if in search of the right word "Befriended would try to bar you from answering the invitation of the Great King of Kings. As the Great King's servant, we would be obliged to cut you free with force of arms. It would be unfortunate indeed if all these brave savages perished so that you may escape their ignorant clutches,"

Behind his warm smile, the host of Umbar stood, poised in all its silent power, upon the heights above them. Steelbows and spearheads caught the light. Banners snapped and flew in the wind.

As if she had been under a spell suddenly broken, Daenerys looked back at her people behind her. Weary faces of warriors who had tried and failed all day to break the host before them. Wide-eyed women. Frightened children. All eyes were upon her, wondering upon the choice she would make. Their lives were held in her hands. Valandil could see the choice she was making.

"No, no," He pushed his way through the ranks of the Dothraki to her side. Uncaring of her rank or station, Valandil grabbed her by her arm.
"Do not do this Daenerys, I beg you," he whispered urgently.

"Look at the children's faces Thorongil," she said. The sorrow and fear in her eyes was too deep for any words.

"There is a warning in my heart against this. Daenerys, if you go to Umbar, you will find only pain awaiting you there. Do not do this!" he said, in growing desperation. Again he felt the onrushing sea dragging him towards the cruel rocks, heedless of all his words and deeds.

She looked away from him and tore her arm out of his grip.

"Belzagar, Captain of Umbar, if I go with you, will these people be spared?" she called out loudly.

"On my honour as a servant of the Great King of Kings, I swear to you that none shall be harmed if you accompany us," Belzagar replied, speaking loud enough that all could hear, his hand over his heart, his head bowed solemnly.

All was silence again. Daenerys' eyes were fixed upon Drogo. The Khal lay unmoving, his shorn hair matted with blood. She wiped away a tear from her cheek. The world seemed poised on a scale, about to fall one way or another. Valandil grabbed her by the arm again.

"Daenerys, no," he whispered. She spoke as if she had not heard him.

"Then I shall go with you to Umbar,"

Above them, the circling clouds of carrion fowl filled the airs with a hungry chorus.

 

[horngeek]

Hoooo boy.