From: King Stannis Baratheon
To: Warden Jon Stark @Red Robyn
If you were not already on your way, your presence is required in Winterfell to see to a matter raised by the Master Galbert Glover of Deepwood Motte.
*grinds teeth
I also entrust you to bring my wife and daughter to Winterfell under your guard. The queen's men currently at the Wall have orders to stay and continue reinforcing the position at the Wall. However I believe it better for my family to maintain themselves at court in Winterfell for the time being.
From: King Stannis Baratheon
To: Warden Jon Stark @Red Robyn
If you were not already on your way, your presence is required in Winterfell to see to a matter raised by the Master Galbert Glover of Deepwood Motte.
*grinds teeth
I also entrust you to bring my wife and daughter to Winterfell under your guard. The queen's men currently at the Wall have orders to stay and continue reinforcing the position at the Wall. However I believe it better for my family to maintain themselves at court in Winterfell for the time being.
In the central solar of the Stormkings' of the past, the Dragons were plotting their moves. At the centre was the King, Aegon of House Targaryen, the sixth of his name, very much the handsome and kingly figure yet still young, perhaps too young, he had yet to see battle, true battle, after all, but that would come.
For one could not become a conqueror, or seize a throne, without fire and blood.
Around him, stood the Hand, Jon Connington, and various lords, Rowan and Strickland among them. The King had his eyes set upon the table, with a map of the Stormlands.
The King spoke. "Does Lord Swann continue in his refusal?"
"He does, Your Grace." Answered the Hand.
The King could only sigh, "We need to focus north, not south! We need to move boldly towards the capital, yet this lord continues his senseless loyalty to a King who has never felt any sense of duty!"
The Lysono Maar, the inferior of the Spider when it came to the use of spies, but no slouch spoke up, "Maybe, if your uncl…"
"Ah yes, my uncle. He hasn't answered my letters yet. I only need him to cross those mountains of him and yet…"
The grand oaken doors opened with a thud, as a guardsman announced.
"Presenting Her Grace, Princess Arianne of House Nymeros Martell, daughter of His Grace, Prince Doran of House Nymeros Martell, and heir to Dorne."
A beautiful woman emerged from the doors, she was surprisingly short for one who held her confidence, and position, yet she looked every part a Princess of Dorne, buxom with olive skin, full-lipped, with large dark eyes and long, thick black hair that fell in ringlets to the middle of her back.
She was not alone, by her side, though slightly behind, held evidently a knight. The guard was quick to announce him as well.
"Her sworn shield, Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace."
He seemed to contrast the princess in every way, a bastard where she was trueborn, tall where she was short, sky blue eyes where hers were dark. He was handsome no doubt, with a strong jaw and light, sandy, brown hair.
Flanking them both were two women.
"Her companions, Lady Jayne of House Ladybright, and her Grace's cousin, Lady," The guard stopped a moment, unsure if to continue, seeming lost, but after a few moments, where he gazed meaningfully at Aegon, proceeded, "Elia… Sand, natural born daughter of the late Prince Oberyn of House Nymeros Martell."
There was not much to say of them, though they too contrasted well with each other. Lady Jayne was what was to be expected from a noble lady of the Seven Kingdoms, demure, quiet, docile, her eyes had stayed on the ground. All the while Lady Elia… it was a rather bold move to send a lady who shared the purported dragon's mother's name. She gazed forward defiantly, haughtiness and wildness coloured her eyes, though, it was evident that she was doing her best to remain at least slightly within her station.
"And finally, the guards, Ser Garibald of House Shells, and Ser Joss of House Hood."
The last and the least, indeed even for the fellow guard they were an afterthought. The two guards did not seem offended, they stood emotionless at the flanks of the delegation, they would be the first to die if there was violence here today.
But why would there be violence?
This was after all exactly what the young king had desired, news from his uncle down in Dorne, and here it was, delivered directly by his cousin.
Though, the rest of the party left much to be desired, two bastards, and three scions of three minor houses. When Prince Oberyn had rode to King's Landing he had been accompanied by the lemons of Dalt, the cockatrice of Gargalen, the flame of Uller, the golden hand of Allyrion, the crowned skull of Manwoody, the scorpions of Qorgyle, the quill of Jordayne, and the vulture of Blackmont. The great houses of Dorne, all riding to meet an incestuous bastard they called king.
For a meeting with the true king, this party was all that the Prince of Dorne offered?
The Dornish knights bowed, while the ladies curtsied, even the Dornish Princess, though soon after she offered her hand to Aegon, for him to kiss, as was well and proper.
The young dragon, ever gracious, and remembering the many lessons with his septa, took her hand and gave it a kiss.
"Princess Arianne, Cousin, I wasn't expecting a visit, not so soon. Did my uncle send you here?"
Before she could reply, he turned towards the rest of his group. "Thank you, everyone, we shall continue this afterwards." While the others started walking toward the exit, he added "Jon, You can stay."
The Hand returned to the table while Aegon motioned for her to join them and take a seat.
"We shall have bread and salt for you cousin, even if I hope you don't think they're necessary."
The Dornish knights tracked the leaving men with keen eyes, but as soon they were gone, they visibly relaxed. The Princess took the invitation, seating herself opposite that of Aegon, all the while her bastard sworn sword stood at her side, comfortably close. The ladies and other guards stood a respectful distance away from their princess, even the bastard whose smirk screamed she did not even know the word.
"We live in a dangerous world… cousin," She seemed uncertain of the word, her gaze resting on Aegon's were dimmed, there was no spark of recognition, of course, there would not be. She was seven when Elia had been murdered, they had said she held Princess Rhaenys once when she was far too young to have remembered, this Aegon though, was a total stranger, "We were told at Griffin's Roost that you would face battle, but I see no banners, see no dead, indeed, was that Lord Mathis Rowan that I saw leaving earlier? I see you accomplished with words, what you might have done with swords… most impressive." She spoke with a small smile, that did not quite reach her eyes, she instead seemed to be considering him, glancing him up and down.
Aegon let a great smile appear on his face. This was it. This was the moment he has been waiting for a long time. Griff had told him about his family, a sister killed by the Lannisters that he shall never hear laugh or smile but also several cousins, Arianne, Quentyn, and Trystane, alongside the many children of the Viper. And he was finally meeting one!
"Thank you for the compliment, cousin. It was indeed Lord Rowan who has wisely chosen to bend the knee. And you will see that I do hope to prevent any senseless killing if a little bowing, smiling and talking can lead to a Lord or Lady bending the knee. Westeros has suffered enough deaths for years and years."
At that, the Lord Hand started talking "The King has already received the support of most of the lords of the Stormlands who now recognize the dragon as their Lord."
Aegon nodded at Lord Connington "Indeed. And I hope to obtain the support of my family in this endeavour. Revenge is not very kingly I agree, but justice needs to be obtained, for my sister and my mother. And there's only one place where I can obtain it." He looked at the map, where in one corner the words King's Landing can be seen.
"I am certain you would find yourself in good company with my father then, in this War of Five Kings, only one Dornishman has met his end." Arianne spoke, she felt her skin crawl, just as it did when she had seen Lysono Maar, he looked just like a Targaryen… and she did not find that to be a good thing.
Just as when she met Lysono Maar, she found herself thinking of Viserys Targaryen. Perhaps it was a good thing he was dead.
It was strange, her father had feared this was just a feigned boy, some commonborn child from the pits of Lys used to champion Jon Connington's effort to retake his home. Yet here he was, every bit the Targaryen who had ruled this continent for three centuries… and she found her skin crawling. Was this some Valyrian boy? Maybe, though calling him a boy was far from fair, she was older, that much was true, but he did have the looks of a man, just a fresh one, he was handsome in his own way, a Valyrian way, but he was neither nor dangerous.
Her gaze turned to that of the other speaker, Aegon's advisor who had remained with him. He had called him Jon, so was this the Jon Connington they had all heard of? The one who rumours said killed Red Ronnet's brother, and raped his maiden sister. Or was this the one that Young John Mudd spoke of, the one that disallowed the Golden Company to rape and pillage?
"But do they recognise him as their King?" She spoke with the slightest hint of venom at her lips, "They served Renly, Stannis, Joffrey, Tommen, shall they serve you with the same loyalty?" She said turning to look at Aegon.
"A real dragon would keep them in line, but I do not see your aunt here." Nor her brother, she knew neither was here, the Lysono Maar had told her that, yet she had still hoped… or at least she told herself that.
Aegon took an apologetic tone of voice "I've heard about our uncle passing. He seemed like a great man, one who loved his family dearly. If only I could have met him…"
His eyes turned toward his cousin. Could he find some resemblances between them? He didn't have his mother's looks and yet, he dreamed of sharing some similarities with this cousin just met.
"In manners of loyalty, my Hand, Lord Connington here present, and Lord Varys shall keep me aware. Yet, I know most of those lords aren't loyal to me in particular. Most of them want a return to peace and prosperity. And I hope, no I'm certain, that I will be able to bring them just that and thus gain their loyalty. The Lannister are falling and with them, the Baratheon dynasty. I only need those lords to be with me for a few moons."
Lord Connington continued "The Stormlords are spent. They fought each other, they followed different lords and kings. As long as the King brings them a ruler, they won't be opposed. They are also not stupid, princesses. They have no force to resist the Golden Company and Lord Rowan. And, if you do join us, they will have even less reason to rise against the Dragon."
Meanwhile, Aegon was thinking about his aunt. Already a queen in the faraway city of Meereen. How was she? Who was she? Grif– Jon had never met her, unlike Viserys, and nobody had really taken the time to present her to him. He was supposed to marry her, unite the claims and obtain the dragons necessary for a second conquest. But he had decided to roll the dice, and he was going to live with that.
"My aunt is already living the life of a monarch, in the city of Meereen. If she wants to join us, she's free to do it at a time of her own choosing. But remember cousin, the Targaryen's dynasty reign didn't end after the Dance. My ancestors ruled for two centuries afterwards. I will not lie, Dragons would have been helpful, but I hope to create a realm where such means of creating loyalty aren't needed. To create a strong realm. A lasting realm. One where the lords are loyal because the King rules wisely, not because he has weapons able to raze cities and burn armies."
He spoke… commonly. Was this evidence that he was not Aegon? Or was he simply not trained enough for this role? Arianne could not quite tell. His words of her uncle passed by her as the waves passed by the sands of Dorne, he did not know her beloved uncle, he had no regard to mourn him. Still, thoughts of Oberyn were not kind to her, Oberyn had once threatened to rise Dorne for Viserys, had once travelled to Braavos to pledge her to Viserys, and had died to kill that monster, the Mountain, to gain his confession.
Would he be impressed by the man sitting opposite her? Would he see his sister, Elia, her aunt? Would he believe this was truly her son? Arianne did not know, but she found herself making unfair comparisons already. This Aegon was kind, naive, apologetic, he held some quiet confidence she supposed, the one that came with declaring yourself king. But it was not the confidence that simply exuded Oberyn at his mere presence, it was not the darkness or danger, that drew her to her uncle.
Her cheeks warmed considerably, as the hand of Daemon Sand rested upon her naked shoulder, her eyes left that of Aegon's and travelled up to his. She began to wonder again, why had her father assigned, Daemon Sand, of all people to be her sworn shield. The one who took her maidenhead, was far from a diplomat, even at the best of times.
"So you have the Golden Company, you have Goldengrove, and you have the spent Stormlands," Arianne spoke, her eyes returning to face Aegon's, while Daemon's hand never left her olive skin, "though we too desire our own justice," She had learned from her father the difference between that and vengeance, "against the Lannisters, why should Dorne advance its armies on the Prince's Pass and the Boneway, either you shall succeed without us, and give us our justice, or you shall be crushed, as the Golden Company always has been, and unlike them, Dorne cannot simply flee across the Narrow Sea."
At that, Aegon felt shocked. He launched a quick glance to Griff, no not Griff, to Jon, before returning to face Arianne.
"Why should Dorne advance its armies? Family bonds to a long-lost cousin you have never met before, never knew that he was still living. The honour of a people long ignored, long mocked. And the wish of a man speaking fondly of his sister, who sadly is not amongst us anymore."
Lord Connington seemed ready to speak before Aegon gave him a look, no longer to look for assurance or help, but to keep him calm.
"Cousin. I understand if the family bonds that I feel are real don't seem enough for you. You probably are sceptical, and I gather that is why I'm speaking with you rather than with my uncle. But I am Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. And, Dorne if it pledges to us wouldn't have to flee, because we wouldn't lose. Already division amongst the supporters of Tommen Baratheon has appeared. The Faith Militant is creating chaos in the capital, the Tyrells are quite probably angry with the treatment of their daughter and Cersei Lannister doesn't seem to be the Regent needed for her son."
He rose from his seat.
"So why should you advance your armies? Because there's no better time for Dorne to obtain justice, rather than be given justice. In twenty years, the Lannisters have never been this weak. And if you do not take the step necessary to obtain the justice Dorne desperately needs and wants, you will never."
He spoke passionately, she would give him that much if only passion was enough to convince the daughter of Doran Martell.
He had taught her, only to play the Game of Thrones if you were able to win.
And how would she win, if she simply commanded the Dornish armies to die for a dragon?
She stood from her seat, and her companions suddenly became alert, while Daemon Sand's hand went to the pommel of his blade.
She looked at his hand, hissing an order to stand down, before gazing back up at Aegon.
"If that will be all, Your Grace, I shall need to make my way back to Sunspear," She spoke with a certain emotionless tone, "Dorne shall not risk itself, Dorne remembers, we remember the ten thousand spears and sons we lost at the Trident, we remember the humiliation that Prince Rhaegar committed against Elia, and all of Dorne. Should you take the capital, should you be crowned there, should you kill Tommen, Cersei, and the Tyrells, you can count upon fifty thousand Dornish spears, but not a single sword, until that day comes." She turned to the direction of the door whence she came.
Aegon realised that he had failed. His cousin would leave, and leave him alone. Without Dorne, the conquest would be way harsher. Yet, if he could get them to his side, they could be trusted. He was no fool, Rowan and the others were not as loyal as Jon.
"And if we renewed our vows of alliance by a marriage? I am unwed and in need of a Queen. A queen that would cover my weaknesses."
It was all he could do. The last card he had.
That stopped her in her tracks. She had not considered it, she had not considered it since she had been told about Viserys' death and their betrothal. She had not considered it for she was to be Princess of Dorne, Quentyn was to be King, with his Dragon Queen. Yet just as she realised when she considered it days before… it sounded so silly.
She could be Queen.
The most powerful woman in Westeros.
Lord Rowan has bent the knee, and Lord Connington shows no trepidation of this man as Aegon… could it truly be so? Perhaps this Aegon was the son of Elia, and at the very least this Jon Connington was the real one. She had completed her mission, as much as she could have. Now, the question was if this man would give her the strength to rival Quentyn and her Dragon Queen when they arrived.
Dorne had defeated dragons before.
She was her father's eyes, ears, and voice, but would he allow this? The fullness in her chest gave out at that question. She was older now, older and wiser than her plots and schemes out in the desert to bring the wrath of the Iron Throne down upon Dorne by crowning Myrcella. She would need to act cautiously, just like her father.
"A marriage would please me," It would not, a man he might be rather than a boy, but he was simple, he was clean, there would be no darkness, no danger, but they all had to sacrifice much for their desires, at least he was no Walder Frey, "It would please Dorne all the more," she stepped out from Daemon's hand on her shoulder, missing the dark look that he was glaring at Aegon, "Yet, I am in no position to accept. Allow me to write to my father, and write to him yourself. I shall remain here until an answer is given, and should he agree, the spears of Dorne shall be yours, Your Grace." She spoke with a smile that again did not meet her eyes, the things she did for duty.
"Then we shall do as you say, princess. I will write to your father and ask him his opinion on this matter." Aegon smiled. "I hope that this is the beginning of a bright future for our two houses."
To: Doran of House Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear @Linbot
From: Arianne of House Nymeros Martell
Father, I have done as you instructed. Though my previous ravens reported misgivings of Aegon and Lord Connington, I would like to inform you now that all is well. The Golden Company has taken Storm's End, much of the Stormlands has risen for Aegon, and even Lord Mathis Rowan has joined him. What they lack in dragons that only fly, in far-off Essos, they make up for in elephants which I have touched and heard their trumpeting cries.
I am confident father, this is Aegon, son of Elia.
Moreover... he has offered his hand in marriage to me if it would bring the might of Dorne onto his side.
I would not be opposed to such a match, should you desire to pursue it… he is comely enough, and with his successes I do believe that he could triumph over the Lannisters. At this point Daenerys and Quentyn with their dragons are off far in the east, Aegon is here.
Yet, I leave it to you, father,
Signed,
Princess Arianne of House Nymeros Martell, Heir of Dorne, your loving daughter.
Ornela was used to the staring. She had suffered it all her life. Ever since Khal Ogo had seized her from Lashkar and put a brutal end to her childhood, she had suffered under men's gaze. But she had grown used to it. That was her life. Her second life, after the first one had been ended. A lamb split from her herd, become a broodmare for the horse lords that had sheared her, removing all her modesty, and placed her under a leash. She had accepted her fate long ago. She remembered her teachings from her first life, back in the temple. Once, she had studied to become a godswife, a healer, a priestess. She trusted in the Great Shepherd's plan, and when she finally rested and left her trials and tribulations behind, she would be handsomely rewarded upon rejoining his flock. She had believe it.
It had been the only way to survive.
But this man was different. He was hard to read. There was desire in his stare, but there did not seem to be lust. He seemed to be young, eighteen or nineteen years of age, though his eyes told a different story. He was growing out his beard, which made him all the harder to ascertain. At first, Ornela had taken him for a Dothraki, for his copper skin, almond-shaped eyes, martial disposition and dark hair, though he had neither a braid nor silver bells to boast of his victories. The illusion was short-lived, for Ornela could not help but notice that she almost never saw him without his armor. It was a strange notion to her. Having lived a decade with the horse lords, mail and lamellar had not been a common sight among their warriors. The Dothraki considered that metal armor made a man weak, slow and cowardly. No, a Dothraki would never carry himself as this man. And yet, the man looked so familiar.
"Khaleesi," she approached the Mother of Dragons one day, after she had granted an audience to Ser Grandfather and Grey Worm. The mysterious man had been there too, and he could barely take his eyes off her. And yet, when Ornela had looked back and their eyes had met, he had been the one to divert his gaze, and not her. It was usually the opposite. When one of Khal Ogo's bloodriders wanted her, they took her without shame. This one was shy, a notion as foreign to her as a man in mail. It was as if he was ashamed of looking. She did not understand him as she did other men.
She couldn't restrain herself from asking, as she was helping Daenerys Stormborn change into her nightgown. Irri and Jhiqui were nowhere to be seen, for which Ornela was grateful. They did not seem to like her. She could guess why. "That young bearded warrior who was just here. What was he named?"
"Ser Levon," Daenerys replied after a brief moment of thought. "I believe that's the name he chose for himself when he was knighted. But everyone knows him as the Red Lamb."
Ornela froze.
"Lamb?" She asked, in shock. Can it be? "Why is he known as the Red Lamb, Khaleesi?"
"He is from Lhazar," Daenerys informed her. "Does that surprise you?"
"It does," Ornela confessed, though it should not. In hindsight, it seemed obvious. "I had never seen a Lhazarene such as him. The haesh rakhi are not a warlike people. They do not ride and they do not fight. They were born to be slaves."
Daenerys looked at her sadly, her expression softening at the lost lamb's words.
"You are not in a khalasar anymore, Khaleesi," she told her kindly. "You must not force yourself to repeat such lies. Slay them, as I did your Khal. Nobody is born to be a slave."
Ornela nodded sheepishly.
"It is known," she agreed unconvincingly, continuing to undo Daenerys' braid, falling silent even as her thoughts went back to that strange Lhazareen man. He was growing out his beard and allowed his hair to reach his ears, whereas most Lhazarenes were clean-shaven and kept their hair cropped short. He wore armor like a sellsword, and she could sense he was not a man to be crossed. He was a warrior. The Lhazarenes were a peaceful people. To be sure, they took up arms to defend themselves when needed, and the sacred cities even employed militias, but warring wasn't their way of life. To take a life was unnatural, a sin against all that was good and holy. Yet this Lhazarene was a killer. She had lived among killers long enough to know one. But if he is so fierce, why is he restrained when with me? Why not just take me?
It was a mystery she couldn't begin to fathom.
"You are awfully quiet, Ornela," the Khaleesi said, after a while.
A quiet tongue preserves itself, she thought in silence.
She had been quiet in the khalasar too. Quiet, and compliant. Those who weren't were often silenced altogether. Sometimes she wondered if that would not have been better. No, she reminded herself. All life is precious. It is the Great Shepherd's gift. Only Daenerys Stormborn had prompted her to break her silence, away from Khal Jhaqo's ears, in the dead of the night after the Khal had mounted her. He had not done so under the open starlit sky, for even though Ornela was a khaleesi, she was one of four, and was not as favored. After he was spent and had gone back to his bloodriders around the campfire, she had slipped out of the tent, making her way to where the Silver Lady was being held.
She had seen her once before, when Khal Drogo defeated Khal Ogo at the edge of Lhazar. She had been placed together with the Dothraki prisoners, but she had seen glimpses of the Silver Lady's kindness, and what she strove to do for her people. She hoped she was different. She knew she was different. She was bargaining her life on it.
"Is it true that you have three dragons?"
"I do," the Bride of Fire had responded.
"And they breathe fire?"
The Silver Lady had nodded.
"Would you like to see them?"
Ornela had had no answer to her question.
"Have faith in me, Khaleesi," the Silver Lady had requested instead. "Do not betray me."
The next day, Khal Jhaqo and his bloodriders burned, and Ornela had been one of many who, in utmost reverence, knelt before the Mother of Dragons.
"Why did you ask of the Red Lamb?" questioned Daenerys, bringing her back to the present. "Did you know him, from before?"
"No," Ornela replied. She could not lie to her. "I don't know. I think he wants to lay with me."
Daenerys looked over the shoulder at the Lhazarene she had taken in as a handmaiden, rather than condemn her to living out the rest of her days with the Dosh Khaleen.
"Does that bother you, Ornela?"
She paused.
"No," she lied.
She had learned long ago to never refuse a bloodrider. Even if this Red Lamb wasn't one, he was close enough. Daenerys seemed doubtful of her answer, but did not press the issue. Instead, she offered her a look of reassurance that did much to pacify Ornela's heart. Her purple eyes were not like any she had ever seen. But they would often have a strange glint to them, almost as if the Mother of Dragons saw someone else when she looked upon her. A ghost from the past, perhaps, but one that brought out kindness and compassion all the same.
She had no complaints.
Later that night, as they were cuddling together on the bed they shared in their small chamber next to the Queen's apartments at the top of the Great Pyramid, her daughter called to her.
"Mai?" Zhisi had said quietly, the nine year old having rolled around on the sheets to face her unsuspecting mother. "Where do people go when they die?"
Ornela was caught off guard by the child's question. She had been deep in thought about this Red Lamb and her conversation with the Khaleesi, in what was bound to become yet another sleepless night. She hadn't even noticed Zhisi was awake, even as she absent-mindedly stroked the hair around her ear with tenderness.
They become stars, Ornela almost said. Every star in the night sky is a horse, and every one of them is ridden by the dead. The fiercest they were in life, the brighter they shine in the night lands. That was the Dothraki custom. It was how she had forced herself to raise her children.
But she was no longer in a khalasar.
She took in a deep, nervous breath.
"They follow our songs," she explained in a whisper, a cold shiver running down her spine as she bade herself to recall her days inside the mud brick walls of the temple. These had been the happiest moments in her life, but they had been like poison among the Dothraki. A glimpse of a life that was not hers anymore. That would never be hers again. Yet she had never been able to quell them completely, even if remembering was a daily torture to her. No more, she thought. No longer. She stroked Zhisi's hair, conjuring up a smile to conquer her memories.
"We sing to them. When someone dies, the gates of El'aat are opened, and our world is bonded to theirs. We sing, so that our songs and spells reach the El'aat. When they hear us, our ancestors come to the El'aat, and they sing back. The spirit of the dead must follow their song, or else be lost in darkness. If they were good and innocent, they will make their way from the El'aat to Mir'eh, who some call El'hassar, the Great Pasture, where they rejoin the Great Shepherd's flock. Those who were wicked cannot follow the songs to Mir'eh, because they do not hear them, so they remain in El'aat, until they can sing as we do, or are reborn as the virtuous to learn anew."
The more Ornela spoke, the deeper the frown on Zhisi's face became.
"It is not known," the girl eventually protested with a pout. "They go to the night lands to ride together for all time. Those who couldn't ride become babies again, with a new mai. You said it before."
"It is known," Ornela insisted. "Those were just stories I told you. Children's tales. This is the truth. The only truth."
Zhisi pondered that in silence.
"You said Father was riding the night lands. Is he in Mirri now?"
"Mir'eh," Ornela corrected, before her expression grew dark. Qhorlo had been a bloodrider to Khal Ogo, and had taken her to wife when Ogo's khalasar plundered Lashkar. She had been twelve. "And no. He was wicked. We did not sing for him. He wanders the night lands, yes, in darkness, and despair."
Zhisi grew quieter.
"Mai?" She asked after a long time, so long, in fact, that Ornela thought she had fallen asleep. Opening her eyes, the girl looked up at her. She was worried to see a glimpse of fear in her eyes. It was a familiar sight as well, but one that she could never grow used to.
"What is it, darling?"
Her daughter looked grief-stricken, which broke Ornela's heart.
"We… we didn't sing for Khammo either."
A lump formed in her throat, so large that it nearly suffocated her.
"Is that what this is about?" She eventually asked softly, planting a kiss on the girl's hair. "You miss your little brother."
Zhisi gave the smallest of nods.
"I was talking to Missandei today," the girl confided in her. "She had a brother too, did you know? I think he was called Mossador. He was killed, just like Khammo. I asked if Mossador could become Khammo's older brother when they were reborn. He was dovoeddi and he didn't ride, just like Khammo, so he didn't go to the night lands. I thought, maybe, they can be reborn together. Then Khammo could teach him to ride and Mossador could teach Khammo how to fight with a spear. Then Missandei and I could go find them together, when we were old enough, and become sisters."
"It's a sweet dream, child. But it's only that, a dream," Ornela replied gently, though it pained her to crush the girl's fantasy. It was one the Khaleesi wished could be true. "Only the wicked are forced to be reborn in this world, so that they can learn our songs from the beginning. Khammo wasn't wicked. I believe Mossador wasn't either."
Zhisi's eyes watered, and she started to cry.
"Hush, little lamb," Ornela cooed under her breath, as if Ko Qhorlo could still hear her. Her own voice was rapidly becoming a broken mess. She wrapped her arms around the girl and pulled her close. "I'm so sorry. I miss him too."
Zhisi, weeping, nodded into her chest.
"I promise you, you will see Khammo again," Ornela vowed shakingly. "In many years, when you pass, your children will sing your song, and Khammo and I will listen. We will come together from El'hassar to fetch you in the E'laat. We will sing to you, and you will follow our voice and rejoin us in the flock. This I promise you, my love."
"B-But mai…"
"Yes, little lamb?"
"Khammo is all alone. He wanders the darkness, without even a horse."
"He does not," Ornela insisted, her heart thumping. "He is beyond this world."
Zhisi shook her head in a frenzy, tears flowing freely.
"B-b-but y-you didn't sing f-for him! H-How could he f-find his way?"
It was as if a dagger had been plunged into Ornela's heart, all over again. Despite her will, she couldn't master the tears that unwittingly flooded her eyes. They slid down her face as well.
"I sang for him," she lied, though she could not lie to herself. She placed a finger on Zhisi's chin and tenderly lifted her head so that they could look at each other. "You will see Khammo again."
"D-Do you promise?"
"I do," she confirmed, with more confidence than she possessed. "And even if I hadn't sung for Khammo, which I did, you would see each other again. The day will come, far into the future, where every man and woman and child knows the Great Shepherd and accepts him as their god. On this day, all the barriers and boundaries that keep our realms apart will disappear, and everyone will be welcomed into his flock. We shall all be one single herd in the Great Pasture that the world will become, all living together in peace, happiness and harmony."
Zhisi, though still teary-eyed, seemed to take her mother's words to heart and began to calm down. Ornela still held her close, as an infant to her chest. Her ribs still hurt, especially in this position, even after all this time. She didn't think they had healed properly. But she would never allow Ko Qhorlo's brutal birthing gift stop her from embracing her daughter as she wanted, and as she needed. She took heavy breaths in and out, and slowly steadied her breathing. The regular rising and falling of her chest encouraged Zhisi to do the same. Before long, their tears were gone.
"Mai?"
"Hmmm?"
"What about Mossador?" asked Zhisi. "Nobody sang for him."
"We can sing for him," Ornela promised truthfully. "The Khaleesi mentioned him to me. He died in Meereen, and he is buried here. We can go to his grave and sing, so that he can find the El'aat."
"But can he go there even if he didn't believe in the Great Stallion?" the girl questioned in confusion. "Even if he didn't ride?"
"The Great Shepherd," Ornela corrected her kindly. "And yes. All men are one flock. It doesn't matter to the Great Shepherd who believed in who, or who rode what. We were sent to earth to heal all his lambs, even those that strayed far from the herd."
Zhisi nodded contently, though she still didn't fully understand her mother's teachings. "I think Missandei would have liked Khammo."
"Sek," Ornela agreed with a wistful smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "He was a lovable boy."
She stroked Zhisi's hair until she drifted off to sleep.
(TW: trauma, violence and implied rape. The wholesome content ends here. Read on at your own discretion)
Against Ornela's own expectations, sleep eventually claimed her too, the distress of the night having exhausted her. She dreamt an old dream, one that plagued her even in the waking hours. The well was damp and dark. It was impossibly deep, far deeper than it had been in reality. There was only the faintest of lights at the very top. The darkness used to scare Ornela in the past, but in here she felt safe; or at least safer than it would have been outside. That is, until the screaming started. It always began with the men shouting warnings and alerts, with the high-pitched screams of a woman here and there.
Then came the hooves.
Thousands upon thousands of them, trampling the ground. They descended upon the quaint little village, which the girl in the well knew to be called Lashkar. They caused the ground to vibrate, the water to splash, her eardrums to hurt, as the small underground space became unbearably loud with the shaking of the ground. They tore the mud walls down and soon joined their unnatural battlecries and the imperious neighing of their horses to the cacophony above, their bells, as small as they were, a grim herald of the terrors to come. The darkness closed in, as black smoke and soot covered whatever light that was allowed through the opening, even as the sounds of agonizing men and the wails of women and children in despair engulfed them from all sides. The walls became grimy with the stench of dead, and the water of the spring turned into blood.
The screaming slowly stopped, as it always did. Only the ringing of the bells remained, but these too were growing sparser. The girl in the well permitted herself to have hope, even though she knew the outcome. She always knew how the dream would end, but she still hoped anyway, every time. That was always the worst part. The painful anxiety, the swelling of her chest, the churning of her stomach, and the constant thought of just one more moment, and they will be gone.
Of course, they were never gone. She hoped every time, only to have her hopes crushed, time and time again. It always happened the same way. A falling body, a rain of innards, the splashing of the water, and the startled scream of a little boy. They know now, the gut-wrenching realization always dawned, they know, they know, they know!
They climbed down, their laughter unbearably loud, the ringing of the bells attached to their braids beating at her ears. The girl struggled. In the dreams, sometimes she didn't, but this time she did. She clawed, bit and kicked like a feral animal. Sometimes they would put arrows in her right then and there. Those were the better dreams. But in this one, they grabbed her by the ankles. She kicked and screamed, but they pulled her up all the same. The girl tried to hold on, desperately grabbing at the walls of the well until her nails were broken and her hands were bleeding, but it was to no avail. They were too strong, and she was too weak. They dragged her out onto the smoldering ruins that had once been called Lashkar. The houses were burning, black smoke rising to the evening sky. The temple of her god, where she had been spending so many hours in the past years, laid to waste, the onion dome collapsed, the beautifully engraved altar dragged through the mud. But it was the sight of the headless bodies, as far as the eye could see, that broke her. She stopped flailing. They pushed her against the well and pinned her to place, ripping at her sheepskin gown. With the strength she had left, she whispered a song to her god, asking for death, though the ringing of the bells drowned out her prayers.
It always did, and it would always do.
When she finally turned around, after what felt like an eternity, she was met by the hideous face of Ko Qhorlo, who often haunted her dreams. They were still in the ruins of Lashkar by the bloodied well, though that had not been the case in reality. Qhorlo, as he did in life, was missing an arm, where only a bloody stump remained. An arrow had pierced his chest, and he had yet to pull it out.
The body of a little boy laid behind him, in a pool of blood.
"What did you do?!" She shrieked in tears. "What have you done?!"
"I won't let my seed become slaves to Drogo and his ilk," Ko Qhorlo shot back, spitting at her. "Get out of my way, haesh rakhi!"
Terror consumed her, overwhelming her more than anything else in the dream.
"You cannot have her!"
Ko Qhorlo kicked her aside and made for the ruins of the home that had once belonged to her family, though in life he had intended to venture into his sandsilk tent instead, where she had hidden Zhisi away. The pain in her leg, where Qhorlo had kicked her, was only surmounted by the pain in her ribs. It felt like he had broken them all again, as he first had when she had dared to birth him a daughter.
But she pushed the pain away. She wouldn't let him claim her too. A lamb she might be, but she was a mother as well. Screaming, she launched herself at him from behind, pushing her fingers inside his wounds, twisting the arrow embedded in his chest, tackling him from the back and biting his ear off with strength and courage she didn't even know she had, not since that day at the well eight years earlier. Ko Qhorlo fell, and she picked up his bloody knife. By the time she was done with him, she was covered in blood from head to toe.
But it was the blood in her hands that hurt her the most, as she cradled the unmoving form of Khammo in her arms, rocking him to wish him back to life amidst the ruins of the temple of Lashkar, where the altar would have been below the onion dome. The boy's lifeless eyes stared accusingly at her, but when she looked back at him, it wasn't Khammo's face that she saw, but one belonging to another she had all but forgotten years ago.
"Forgive me," she pleaded in the singsong tongue of her ancestors, for the language of the horse lords lacked such a word. The tears were flowing freely now, and they were tears of blood. "We will meet again in the Great Pasture."
But when she opened her mouth to sing and guide him to the world to come, she found that the Dothraki had ripped out her tongue, and, with it, her soul. Drowned in her own silence and sorrow, she could say nothing, see nothing, sense nothing, hear nothing.
All there was was the ringing of a thousand bells.
To: Doran of House Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear @Linbot
From: King Aegon of House Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm
Prince Doran Martell, Uncle,
As per my previous missives, We are standing in Storm's End and the rule of the Dragon has returned to the Stormlands. I had the pleasure to be the host to your daughter, Princess Arianne, and i have made her an offer, an offer i'm now asking for your approval.
I wish for your daughter hand.
Together, we shall ensure a return to peace and prosperity, and a new era of justice for the realm. I believe that with the Dragons and Dorne united, we could put an end to the Lannister. An alliance would mean a quick end to the war, a restoration and some justice for my sister and my mother.
I hope to hear soon from you.
Signed,
King Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm
Even as the less-than-fearsome host of the Crossing trundles back up the Trident to the Twins and Edwyn stays locked in his war tent, dreaming of stately coronations and nightmarish paranoid conspiracies, an embarrassingly cautious fourscore men ride back to Riverrun to deliver these messages and to have the castle loose its ravens with them, being the closest Seat at all trustworthy in these dark days of outlaws and wolves in the night.
Dear Granduncle Emmon,
I would be delighted to attend this wedding at Riverrun- just as soon as Lord Grandfather is given his final respects and the family is set to rights with myself carrying on the burden of Lord of the Crossing as is right and proper. Meanwhile there is much lordly business to be done, as quick as we can manage too, for as dear a paternal influence as Lord Walder was to all of us of Frey, with his passing House Frey is in as sore a state as it has ever been, since the coming of the dragons. To this end there are a number of other missives that will strike sooner on dark wings then in the hands of a herald climbing over hedge and bower, especially with how the Kingsroad has treated even one such as my late father Ser Ryman, at the cusp of Fairmarket itself no less! Thus I would courteously ask, as one Riverlord to another, for you to grant my messengers the use of your Ravenry as we set to our great task to see the Riverlands through the coming Winter.
P.S. Genna Lannister, when you take and read this message before you hand it to Emmon, you will find more wax with a stamp of the Crossing enclosed, to make a new unbroken seal, as you remove this section for your eyes only.
To you I say this, Riverrun cannot and will never be an island of peace amid the deluge, the River Road back to the Westerlands is too easily cut if ever shall the Pipers or the Vances turn outlaw, and the outlaws and the Stark wildings gather far too much of their strength in between our Seats for any commander to be at ease. As strong as Riverrun's potential as a fastness she has an equal potential as an overextended liability that cannot be sustained. Only if the Crossing and all those loyal to the Iron Throne stand through the night, can Riverrun too. So to that end, Riverrun's chief possession is its stores and provisions, of which I shall require half to come with me, as my men and I retire from the wedding revels to once more make for the Twins and set to survive the Winter. Though if you'd like, I'm sure I could get an order officially drafted from our Lord-Paramount to such an effect, seeing as dear nunle Emmon has been making such a tumult about Lord Baelish's unworthiness in such an office. But I'd much rather avoid that ugliness and legal sophistry, after all you are a Frey by your lord husband, and as Freys, We Stand Together.
Respectfully, Lord Edwyn Frey, Lord of the Crossing
To Lord Steward Lothar Frey and Ser Walton Frey @The_Red_Baron
Dearest uncles, it is clear that the Riverlands cannot remain in such a state in the grips of a starving Winter and these marauding bandits. Even as all funerary custom are seen to in interring Lord Grandfather in the lichyard and mine lordly coronation is made as is right and orderly, Lord Petyr Baelish is now Lord-Paramount of the Trident, and it is to him and all the swords and grain stores of the Vale we shall have to turn for our salvation. To this end I shall charge you Lothar with the assembly and outfitting of a grand embassy to the Vale to force Baelish's hand as our liege lord, and set you Walton with your Waynwood blood to the leading it. With you Walton shall be your wife Deana Hardyng and your children Steffon the Sweet and Fair Walda, as well as my own wife Janyce Hunter and our own daughter Walda, and as lordly a party as we can muster for the passage over the Trident and across the sea from Maidenpool to Gulltown. We Freys have no few cousins in the Vale from Lady Waynwood's wards of Frey to Maester Willamen in Longbow Hall, to Harry the Heir himself, as cousin to your wife, Walton. Between those connections, the offered hands of the best of the maidens of Frey, the attack on Lord Baelish's competency to the continued pressure of our petitions would represent, and the appeals to coming together to keep the peace and in the defeat of the Starks preserve the line of Ser Edmure Tully and the women and children of the Riverlands, we cannot fail. You, specifically, are not allowed to fail. Dangle in front of them the lands betwixt the Green Fork and the Mountains of the Moon, if you have to. I care for naught but the flow of men and material I expect to see you facilitating in Gulltown and shipping to Maidenpool.
Oh and Lothar, if upon my arrival to the Twins I find my brother Black Walder is granted the leave of the castle and not blocked at the gates, I'll string you up by your own wretched malformity and let the crows have their fill of you.
In full faith and affection, Lord Edwyn Frey, Lord of the Crossing
To Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord-Paramount of the Trident and Protector of the Vale @Andre Massena
My lord, it is with sorrow that I report to you that your leal and faithful Bannerman Lord Walder Frey has passed in the night, leaving me, heir to his eldest line, as now Lord of the Crossing in his stead. As such I now send the feudal submission of my House to you and your heirs as our true and rightful Lord-Paramount, with my steadfast uncle Ser Walton Frey to soon come to the Vale in person to present you the seal of the Twins and kiss your rings, acting as my proxy. However, there is yet grimmer news of your lands, mere then mere Broken Men, aimless soldiers killing without a cause and simple mindless peasant mobs, there is a conspiracy of malefactors behind these attacks upon your subjects and your possessions, one that is now clear as day with the treacherous seizing of your own fief Harrenhal for the false dragon, the so-called "King Aegon". Between them and the secret agents the usurper Stannis no doubt has his heathen witch to let loose and spread all manner of poison into your dominions, I fear the Riverlands can no longer bear your absence, and the absence of the true knights of the Vale, to bring order to chaos and reforge the King's Peace. All Rivermen and the sons of the Crossing in particular shall be undoubtedly appreciative of such efforts, from this day to all days to come.
And if in the course of such heroism chastising the over-bold Hill Tribes and bringing law to the Riverlands you find yourself... coincidentally remunerated in certain long running disputes over the proper boundaries and land rights of the Green Fork and of the rising foothills of the Mountains of the Moon, then such would be the will of the Gods in exulting proper chivalry, would it not? And likewise in the ownership of certain mills and pastures that need to be... clarified between Harrenhal and Harroway, or in the possession of certain incomes and stipends that legally might be more properly due to the Lord-Paramount, yes? I trust I make myself clear?
Your most obedient servant, Lord Edwyn Frey, Lord of the Crossing
From: Lord Commander Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard
To: Lady Amerie Frey of Darry
I write to you as the Riverlands is on the brink of collapse. I predict a collapse if Harrenhal isn't immediately retaken. While I can admit faults for my appointments to Castellan of Harrenhal, I will not need to for its siege and destruction. I ask kindly to know if you possess men to send to the siege which will soon begin.
My army has stolen a march from the enemy at Harrenhal as well as the Brotherhood who won't be able to take advantage of logistics as they had when my father was in the Riverlands. If Harrenhal can be secured in time, you can rest on your laurels.
I hope this letter reaches you safely and quickly and that you are able to provide men as requested.
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To: Jeyne Poole, Lady of the Dreadfort @The_Red_Baron@Skrevski@Pax Americana
From: Jon Snow
King Stannis has designs for both of us--you will be made his Lady of the Dreadfort and I his Warden of the North. Both positions will guarantee that we will have many suitors.
Just as you do not desire a husband after what happened with Bolton, I also do not wish for a wife. A marriage of convenience will mean we will both be left alone. What do you say?
To: Jon of House Stark, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Warden of the North @Red Robyn
From: Jeyne of House Poole, Lady of the Dreadfort
Of all that lived in Winterfell, we are the only ones left... apart from Theon, but he is also dead now. I am so sorry Jon, for how I treated you when we were children, I could give you any number of reasons, excuses, Sansa, Lady Stark... but none would make it right. All I know is... I felt so happy seeing you at Castle Black... even though I know you were not as happy to see me...
I am sorry for making you hope that I was Arya, I hope beyond hope she still lives... even though I must offer her apologies as well if I ever see her again. That much will be a small price to pay.
R
Ram
Ramsay
I cannot be touched by a man, Jon. I begged that His Grace give the Dreadfort to someone else, for he desires only for me to marry and provide heirs to the seat.
It should be tore down, burned like Winterfell was.
Yet, I think like with all things... I do not have much of a say do I? The Ryswells look at me like I am a prize to be caught. Rickard Ryswell has been giving me flowers of late, he thinks himself charming, but I remember that he is lusty lad... I can't Jon.
You might be right, in our positions we might be the only ones for each other.
But Master Glover is right, if Robb... sweet Robb desired you to be his heir, then you need a Lady who can provide you with heirs. That cannot be me.
Greetings from Riverrun Ser Daven; we in House Frey wish you the best in your role as Warden of the West. As you would recall, our families have previously agreed that you will be wed to a woman of House Frey - my family has discussed this and we have decided to present you with two potential options, both great women and great brides for as great a man as yourself.
Firstly, my half-sister Tyta Frey. As the daughter of Alyssa Blackwood - my father's fourth wife - she has ties to one of the more powerful houses of the Riverlands and is a fully grown woman more or less of an age with yourself.
Secondly, another of my half-sisters - Arwyn Frey. Her mother is Annara Farring, my father's seventh wife, and she is of a younger generation than Tyta - born in 285 AC, and therefore rather younger than yourself.
Please inform me whether either of my sisters would make a suitable bride, and I will begin to make the arrangements for you to be wed at Riverrun as agreed. Your wedding will truly be a day for celebration for the people of the Westerlands and the Riverlands alike, and together may our families bring peace and prosperity to the realm.
To: Emmon of House Frey, Lord of Riverrun @EmuEmperor
From: Daven of House Lannister, Warden of the West
Please send my warmest regards to my cousin as well.
Between the two options presented, a woman fully grown, and a babe barely grown, I know where my desires and tastes lead. I shall wed Lady Tyta of House Frey, and it would be my request that we should wed quickly. Not that, Lady Frey does not deserve a good wedding, but with your own father's death (I sympathise, and offer my condolence), alongside the chaos within the Riverlands and elsewhere, speed shall be a necessity.
I shall remain in Riverrun then, until I am able to meet my bride, we shall then be wedded and bedded in short order.
It was all Daenerys could do not to scream. Dragonbinder. The word itself was abhorrent. A cursed thing meant to take a dragon and turn it into a slave. She had thought Rhaegal's flight had been some reaction to being chained, her fault, for betraying her children. The thought had tortured her since the battle, but this news was far worse, even if her conversations with the Red Priest (a Red Priest who wore black) had prepared her for it.
I should kill this man. She thought. This oafish pirate, for costing me my dragon. For endangering everything. And yet...
His fleet had more than proven its worth, and she would only need more ships as time passed. Groleo was dead, that poor man, who only ever wished to go home. Grey Worm, Ser Barristan, and Rakharo could all lead armies, but none had skill at see. She needed this man. More, he had clearly been used, and badly. His brother, this "Crow's Eye" - that was her true enemy. Something they apparently had in common.
Then there was the other one. The Lion. Kinslayer. Could the Mad King's daughter, who had watched her own brother drown in molten gold, truly judge anyone for the sins of their family?
"You wish to advise me on the politics of Westeros." She said, turning to Tyrion. "So advise me. Should I ally with Lord-Captain Victarion of House Greyjoy?"
Tyrion considered his answer for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it was clearly and with conviction.
"Your Grace, I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock, which lies close by the Iron Islands; ironborn reavers are no strangers to our shores. Over the centuries, they have burned Lannisport at least thrice and raided it two dozen times. Westermen know what savagery the ironborn are capable of."
Tyrion paused, letting the silence linger, and glanced at Victarion meaningfully.
"But now the slavers know it too," he said. "Thanks to the Lord Captain and his Iron Fleet, our enemy's ships were sunk and burned and taken, their men put to the sword or frightened into flight. He was key to our victory on sea and land, and I believe you will continue to need him in the battles to come. In war, savagery is more often a virtue than a vice."
My father taught me that well enough, Tyrion thought. I will treat my family to the same mercy he gave to the Reynes, the Tarbecks, and the Starks. If the gods are good, these ironborn will help me to do it.
He turned back to Daenerys and gave her his most convincing look of sober intelligence. "I know that this man, though he has fought for you, and shed blood for you, has also cut you to the quick. He has, through an act of supreme foolishness, cause one of your dear children to abandon you. Your Grace is understandably distraught. But I urge you to give him another chance to redeem himself through leal service. I advise you to recognize his hatred towards his brother, the true dragon thief, and wield it like a dagger against all your enemies. You need not wholly trust someone to accept them as an ally… and you will need allies, Your Grace, if you hope to sit the Iron Throne."
Tyrion registered the look of surprise on Victarion's face and had to stifle a laugh. Oh, how sweet it would be to see this brute make a salt wife of my sweet sister. And how prettily King's Landing will burn when his reavers sack the city! Once I warm my hands over the glowing cinders of the Red Keep, all will know the debt is paid.
Having achieved victory in Winterfell and made more aware of the situation in the North. The following instructions are to be entailed to you for journey to Braavos.
1. Maintain the agreement with the Iron Bank, that I Stannis Baratheon First of hIs Name do hearby assume the debts of The Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. This includes debts accrued by my Brother Robert Baratheon, and debts and interests unpaid by the Lannister Usurpers of King's Landing during such times as the Iron Bank lent to them under the mistaken apprehension that they were the legal inheritors of the debts.
2. The purchase of the debts of Northern and Stormlands Houses loyal to House Baratheon. The debts will be renegotiated into a single sovereign fund with one interest rate based on the totality of debt owed.
3. The New Funds negotiated with the representative Tycho Nestoris must have a portion set aside for the payment of the interest on the bundled loan, unless interest exceeds total principle of the New Fund negotiated. This is to establish the credibility of the debt measures in the short term, to open the way for new loans if necessary.
4. Money raised by the New Funds is not to be used to obtain a mercenary army, as was previously discussed. Instead, capital is to be used for the purpose of fulfilling the requisition orders of grain and other essentials that will be sent to you shortly. Enclosed are details on bushels of grain, tools for farming, carts for transportation, artisans to be hired, construction equipment and material, and other necessities to be purchased to ensure the survival of the North through the winter.
5. Another portion of the wealth is to have its purpose set aside for the hiring of mercenary drillmasters and instructors for the mustering of the levies. If such are unavailable or do not exist, disregard this proviso.
6. Finally your own reward for the substantive work you are doing on my behalf in this Matter is a new position of Master of Laws, that you might negotiate with the Iron Bank of Braavos and others with the authority of one that sits on the Small Council. On the successs or partial success of these stated aims, you might expect more long term rewards in the future.
Signed,
Stannis Baratheon First of His Name, King of Westeros
To: Stannis of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Lord of Dragonstone and Storm's End. @jankmaster98
From: Justin of House Massey, Master of Laws.
I am glad to hear word that Your Grace is alive. You shall be pleased to know, I hope, that your orders for me to return to Braavos with that Braavosi Banker, inadvertently aided in the putting down of the coup in Castle Black, though I report that the Queen's Men, Night's Watch and Wildlings have taken heavy casualties, all the while trust between the Watch is at an all-time low.
As for your commands Your Grace, I shall do my utmost to succeed. I also give you my thanks for the honour bestowed upon me with the position of Master of Laws. I shall endeavour to conduct myself to the highest of manners, for the best of the realm.
However, though implied, I would be remiss to ask. Lady Asha Greyjoy's hand is still free, and as I am no longer hiring the ten thousand sellswords. Might I ask what I must do, to be worhty of her hand, Your Grace?
To Lord Steward Lothar Frey and Ser Walton Frey @The_Red_Baron
Dearest uncles, it is clear that the Riverlands cannot remain in such a state in the grips of a starving Winter and these marauding bandits. Even as all funerary custom are seen to in interring Lord Grandfather in the lichyard and mine lordly coronation is made as is right and orderly, Lord Petyr Baelish is now Lord-Paramount of the Trident, and it is to him and all the swords and grain stores of the Vale we shall have to turn for our salvation. To this end I shall charge you Lothar with the assembly and outfitting of a grand embassy to the Vale to force Baelish's hand as our liege lord, and set you Walton with your Waynwood blood to the leading it. With you Walton shall be your wife Deana Hardyng and your children Steffon the Sweet and Fair Walda, as well as my own wife Janyce Hunter and our own daughter Walda, and as lordly a party as we can muster for the passage over the Trident and across the sea from Maidenpool to Gulltown. We Freys have no few cousins in the Vale from Lady Waynwood's wards of Frey to Maester Willamen in Longbow Hall, to Harry the Heir himself, as cousin to your wife, Walton. Between those connections, the offered hands of the best of the maidens of Frey, the attack on Lord Baelish's competency to the continued pressure of our petitions would represent, and the appeals to coming together to keep the peace and in the defeat of the Starks preserve the line of Ser Edmure Tully and the women and children of the Riverlands, we cannot fail. You, specifically, are not allowed to fail. Dangle in front of them the lands betwixt the Green Fork and the Mountains of the Moon, if you have to. I care for naught but the flow of men and material I expect to see you facilitating in Gulltown and shipping to Maidenpool.
Oh and Lothar, if upon my arrival to the Twins I find my brother Black Walder is granted the leave of the castle and not blocked at the gates, I'll string you up by your own wretched malformity and let the crows have their fill of you.
In full faith and affection, Lord Edwyn Frey, Lord of the Crossing
From: Lothar of House Frey, Steward of the Twins
To: Edwyn of House Frey, Lord of the Crossing @bookwyrm
I am glad that you have taken up your duties so seriously and so... forcefully, nephew. As I prepare arrangements for the funeral, I shall do as you command.
Signed,
Lothar of House Frey, Steward of the Twins
From: Lothar of House Frey, Steward of the Twins, conveyed through an unsigned letter.
To: "Black" Walder of House Frey @Hyvelic
Edwyn intends to march on the Twins, and you are likely the only obstacle in his path. Do with this information what you will.
Unsigned.
From: Walton of House Frey
To: Edwyn of House Frey, Lord of the Crossing @bookwyrm
I thank you for this honour, brother. I shall take my leave once all is assembled, and do my utmost to finally bring the Vale into the war, on our side.
From: Lord Commander Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard
To: Lady Amerie Frey of Darry
I write to you as the Riverlands is on the brink of collapse. I predict a collapse if Harrenhal isn't immediately retaken. While I can admit faults for my appointments to Castellan of Harrenhal, I will not need to for its siege and destruction. I ask kindly to know if you possess men to send to the siege which will soon begin.
My army has stolen a march from the enemy at Harrenhal as well as the Brotherhood who won't be able to take advantage of logistics as they had when my father was in the Riverlands. If Harrenhal can be secured in time, you can rest on your laurels.
I hope this letter reaches you safely and quickly and that you are able to provide men as requested.
To: Jaime of House Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard @specialzendos
From: Amarei of House Frey, Lady of Darry
Greetings Lord Jaime, I am glad to hear you are alive and well, it has been a time since we last saw each other, know you are always welcome to Darry... and welcome to more should you desire.
You will be happy to hear that I am to wed another of your cousins, as Lancel left me to become a husband to the Faith. Tywin Frey, I wonder if he is as fearsome as your late father, though I doubt he is, we shall see soon, I suppose. Perhaps he shall be as fierce as you, but I likely shall not be able to compare, will I?
As for your request, I am afraid that I shall be unable to spare any troops. Darry lands are dangerously exposed after the war, Darry was taken three times as you know. All the while the Brotherhood without Banners and all sorts of other brigands plague our lands, along with a wolfpack that is rumoured to be led by a Direwolf of all things. I take the safety of my smallfolk with the utmost seriousness, and as I have lost my father to the Brotherhood... I trust you understand the seriousness.
A bedraggled Ser Jorah Mormont stands before Daenerys Targaryen. His armor is dented, and his face horribly disfigured by a demon tattoo across half of it.
"My Queen, take my head if you will. I know I have disobeyed your order to never appear before you, but I know I have done you a great service today. I have delivered to you Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, brother of Jamie Lannister and Cersei Lannister. The son of the man who ordered Rhaegar's wife and children murdered in cold blood. The brother of the man whose treachery ended your Father, and the brother of the woman who married Robert Baratheon, the man who murdered your esteemed brother Rhaegar. I know you would be well within your rights to execute him on the spot, your grace.
But I also know he has great value alive. He is a learned man, one who was privy to the inner circle of the Usurper's regime. Should you sharply question him, he may reveal extremely valuable secrets. He is also a skilled administrator - he was Hand of the King for a time after all. He also claims to be the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock, and could serve you well as a catspaw in the West. I know that, whatever path you choose for the imp, he will be of great service to you. That is why I returned, Your Grace. Tyrion Lannister is worth my life. I have always loved you, Daenerys. Let this dwarf cure you of any doubt. Judge me if you must, but accept this last gift."
Tyrion considered his answer for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it was clearly and with conviction.
"Your Grace, I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock, which lies close by the Iron Islands; ironborn reavers are no strangers to our shores. Over the centuries, they have burned Lannisport at least thrice and raided it two dozen times. Westermen know what savagery the ironborn are capable of."
Tyrion paused, letting the silence linger, and glanced at Victarion meaningfully.
"But now the slavers know it too," he said. "Thanks to the Lord Captain and his Iron Fleet, our enemy's ships were sunk and burned and taken, their men put to the sword or frightened into flight. He was key to our victory on sea and land, and I believe you will continue to need him in the battles to come. In war, savagery is more often a virtue than a vice."
My father taught me that well enough, Tyrion thought. I will treat my family to the same mercy he gave to the Reynes, the Tarbecks, and the Starks. If the gods are good, these ironborn will help me to do it.
He turned back to Daenerys and gave her his most convincing look of sober intelligence. "I know that this man, though he has fought for you, and shed blood for you, has also cut you to the quick. He has, through an act of supreme foolishness, cause one of your dear children to abandon you. Your Grace is understandably distraught. But I urge you to give him another chance to redeem himself through leal service. I advise you to recognize his hatred towards his brother, the true dragon thief, and wield it like a dagger against all your enemies. You need not wholly trust someone to accept them as an ally… and you will need allies, Your Grace, if you hope to sit the Iron Throne."
Tyrion registered the look of surprise on Victarion's face and had to stifle a laugh. Oh, how sweet it would be to see this brute make a salt wife of my sweet sister. And how prettily King's Landing will burn when his reavers sack the city! Once I warm my hands over the glowing cinders of the Red Keep, all will know the debt is paid.
Daenerys took a breath- more than one- as she made her decision, then spoke.
"All of us have been wronged by our families." She said. "For Lord Victarion and myself it was our respective brothers. For Lord Tyrion it was his father and sister. For Ser Jorah it was his wife. Those who were supposed to support us the most failed us, and we have suffered for it, lost for it. have been sold like a broodmare. I've been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. You three bear more obvious scars. We have been battered and beaten, pushed aside, exiled, enslaved and left for dead."
She stood up from her basalt throne, and the Unsullied began to beat their spear butts against the ground in slow salute to punctuate her words.
"But we did not die. We endured, and here we stand. Renewed. Victorious. Strong. The mistreated and downcast masses of Slavers Bay- The Bay of Dragons- have been forged into a roaring throng, but this is only the beginnining. Our distant enemies think us broken, but we shall show them our strenght, and those who have wronged us shall die screaming. By Fire and Blood I swear it so."
Daenerys looked down at the trio. "Rise. I accept you into my service. Ser Jorah, you will assist Ser Barristan until such time as you can earn my full forgiveness- though that day may never come. Lord Victarion, I name you Lord Reaper of Pyke and Master of Ships. Lord Tyrion, I name you Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the Queen. This I proclaim as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and as such is beyond contestation."
She sat back down. The drumming of spears reached crescendo, then stopped as she raised a hand.
"We will reclaim everything that was taken from us in Westeros- lands, titles, dragons, all of it- but there are matters to attend to first. I will not abandon my children, not those with us now nor those that still cry out in bondage. We stand yet at war with Yunkai, with Ghis, Qarth, Volantis and places not worth naming. Our victory by the Skahazadhan has humbled them, but we will require more of them than that. We stand with one hand around the throat of half of Essos. Now it is time to close our grip."
To: Jeyne Poole
In the face of the horrors we faced and the tragedies that destroyed our families, my treatment in Winterfell seems... small. I have left that behind, and you don't need to apologize for such a petty matter.
Not when there are greater concerns in front of us
You don't have a choice and neither do I. But just as that bastard has left you broken and scarred, that has happened to me as well. Ever since I came back, I feel more like a beast than a man. And my memory... whatever the Red Woman has done to bring me back has taken some of humanity. I cannot have sons, no matter what Robb's last will say; the duty of following through with the Stark line lies with Rickon.
But even if we can never share a bed, we can still share warmth. Those who are broken should cling together, after all...
Big post where Mace Tyrell does the following things:
Orders Jaime Lannister @specialzendos to return to King's Landing to lead the Lannister forces
Mace orders the nobles of the Crownlands @The_Red_Baron@Pax Americana to send forces to King's Landing to help support the few remaining Tyrell forces that will remain to defend the capital.
Mace orders Warden of the West Daven Lannister @The_Red_Baron@Pax Americana to assemble forces to bring more order to the Riverlands
To Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord-Paramount of the Trident and Protector of the Vale @Andre Massena
My lord, it is with sorrow that I report to you that your leal and faithful Bannerman Lord Walder Frey has passed in the night, leaving me, heir to his eldest line, as now Lord of the Crossing in his stead. As such I now send the feudal submission of my House to you and your heirs as our true and rightful Lord-Paramount, with my steadfast uncle Ser Walton Frey to soon come to the Vale in person to present you the seal of the Twins and kiss your rings, acting as my proxy. However, there is yet grimmer news of your lands, mere then mere Broken Men, aimless soldiers killing without a cause and simple mindless peasant mobs, there is a conspiracy of malefactors behind these attacks upon your subjects and your possessions, one that is now clear as day with the treacherous seizing of your own fief Harrenhal for the false dragon, the so-called "King Aegon". Between them and the secret agents the usurper Stannis no doubt has his heathen witch to let loose and spread all manner of poison into your dominions, I fear the Riverlands can no longer bear your absence, and the absence of the true knights of the Vale, to bring order to chaos and reforge the King's Peace. All Rivermen and the sons of the Crossing in particular shall be undoubtedly appreciative of such efforts, from this day to all days to come.
And if in the course of such heroism chastising the over-bold Hill Tribes and bringing law to the Riverlands you find yourself... coincidentally remunerated in certain long running disputes over the proper boundaries and land rights of the Green Fork an d the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon, then such would be the will of the Gods in exulting proper chivalry, would it not? And likewise in the ownership of certain mills and pastures that need to be... clarified between Harrenhal and Harroway, or in the possession of certain incomes and stipends that legally might be more properly due to the Lord-Paramount, yes? I trust I make myself clear?
Your most obedient servant, Lord Edwyn Frey, Lord of the Crossing
I thank you for writing me. My deepest condolences for the passing of your great-grandsire and my staunchest ally and vassal, the late Lord Walder Frey. I am certain you will more than capably fill your great-grandsire's seat as Lord of the Crossing and his prodigious legacy.
I welcome your delegation to the Vale and shall accept your oath of fealty at the Gates of the Moon. We shall discuss the affairs of the Riverlands, which shall soon be put to right.
With Condolences,
Lord Petyr Baelish
Lord Paramount of the Trident
Lord Protector of the Vale
Lord of Harrenhal
To: Emmon of House Frey, Lord of Riverrun @EmuEmperor
From: Daven of House Lannister, Warden of the West
Please send my warmest regards to my cousin as well.
Between the two options presented, a woman fully grown, and a babe barely grown, I know where my desires and tastes lead. I shall wed Lady Tyta of House Frey, and it would be my request that we should wed quickly. Not that, Lady Frey does not deserve a good wedding, but with your own father's death (I sympathise, and offer my condolence), alongside the chaos within the Riverlands and elsewhere, speed shall be a necessity.
I shall remain in Riverrun then, until I am able to meet my bride, we shall then be wedded and bedded in short order.
I wish you all the best in these turbulent times, sister. In accordance with our agreement with House Lannister, Ser Daven Lannister is to be wed to you at Riverrun; any relatives who wish to accompany you are welcome to attend. Travel here as swiftly as possible and soon, you will be a Lannister.
As per our agreement with House Lannister, I have arranged the marriage of Ser Daven Lannister to my half-sister Lady Tyta Frey. You and any of our relatives are invited to attend, however the wedding is to be held at Riverrun as soon as possible so please make your way here with haste.
As per our agreement with House Lannister, I have arranged the marriage of Ser Daven Lannister to my half-sister Lady Tyta Frey. You and any of our relatives are invited to attend, however the wedding is to be held at Riverrun as soon as possible so please make your way here with haste.
I am pleased to announce that Tyta Frey is to wed Ser Daven Lannister at Riverrun. All Lords, Ladies and their families across the Riverlands and Westerlands are invited to attend, though I ask that you respond with the names of any attending, including servants, as none who are not on the guest list will be admitted into Riverrun. The wedding is to be held once the bride arrives so please make your way here with haste if you wish to attend.
To: Doran of House Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear @Linbot
From: Arianne of House Nymeros Martell
Father, I have done as you instructed. Though my previous ravens reported misgivings of Aegon and Lord Connington, I would like to inform you now that all is well. The Golden Company has taken Storm's End, much of the Stormlands has risen for Aegon, and even Lord Mathis Rowan has joined him. What they lack in dragons that only fly, in far-off Essos, they make up for in elephants which I have touched and heard their trumpeting cries.
I am confident father, this is Aegon, son of Elia.
Moreover... he has offered his hand in marriage to me if it would bring the might of Dorne onto his side.
I ask of you father now, even though Quentyn was to sit on the Iron Throne alongside his Dragon Queen, that you instead pursue this match. What use do we have for Daenerys when she sits in far-off Meereen? Aegon is here, the one true king, and he intends to make me his Queen.
Please, give me permission, father.
Signed,
Princess Arianne of House Nymeros Martell, Heir of Dorne, your loving daughter.
To: Doran of House Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear @Linbot
From: King Aegon of House Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm
Prince Doran Martell, Uncle,
As per my previous missives, We are standing in Storm's End and the rule of the Dragon has returned to the Stormlands. I had the pleasure to be the host to your daughter, Princess Arianne, and i have made her an offer, an offer i'm now asking for your approval.
I wish for your daughter hand.
Together, we shall ensure a return to peace and prosperity, and a new era of justice for the realm. I believe that with the Dragons and Dorne united, we could put an end to the Lannister. An alliance would mean a quick end to the war, a restoration and some justice for my sister and my mother.
I hope to hear soon from you.
Signed,
King Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm
The Peakes of Starpike were famed as warriors, archers, hunters, the wisest of Maesters, and the most pious of Septons. A House of an impeccable bloodline, stretching back to Florys the Fox, and Garth Greenhand himself. We sired countless heroes of the Reach. The names Urrathon the Shieldsmasher, Meryn the Scribe, Yrma of the Golden Bowl, and Barquen the Besieger, to name a few, are still the subject of song and story to this day. Such was our power that all the Great Houses of the Reach sought the hand of our daughters. Even Highgarden itself was once within our grasp.
What do they say of the Peakes now? Traitors, Kingslayers, Murderers, and Madmen. A House with a reputation as black as the stones of our single remaining Keep. Starpike, this immense island of stone amidst the Dornish Marches holds a history as storied as its masters. Here we withstood the fury of the Storm Kings, here we threw back the Vipers of Dorne, and here we paid the price for slaying a Dragon. To this day Starpike has yet to completely recover from my great Grandfather's ambition. And yet, despite the decay, the crumbling battlements, the owl infested towers, and the haunted hallways, this castle stands defiant to its fate. Starpike remains as one of the mightiest castles of the Marches, of the Reach! As do we.
"It seems our friends have outdone themselves." Titus commented, a smug smirk of satisfaction across his face.
We stood my study. A map of Westeros splayed out across a desk, with various markers and letters from friends old and new strewn about its surface. The letters all spoke of something my predecessors had dreamt of for generations. The restoration of House Peakes power, after centuries of decline, and the return of a King worth fighting for. A righteous and just King. A King who bears the Sword.
"Aye, Storm's End has fallen, and with it the Stormlands have risen for Aegon." The gaunt faced Ser Graeve remarked.
"More will follow." Lady Gerta, the immense and fiery haired dowager of Starpike commented.
"Margot dear, Has there been any news from King's Landing? From Highgarden?" Titus inquired, his smug smirk shifting into a warm smile reserved for his dear wife.
"None. The Queen bitch has deemed us beneath her notice." Lady Margot replied. The indignation at her kin shunning one of their own, taking its toll.
"Hm Figures. Well then… UNLOS!" Titus bellowed to his son and squire, jolting the boy from his musing.
"Yes Father?" Unlos replied, alarm written across his face.
"Back your things…"
Titus strolled to the dais at the end of the room, holding one of the few remaining treasures of House Peake. A black hued blade, the pommel bearing a large opal, and the hilt inscribed with passages from the Book of the Warrior.
Longtable was not one of the great seats of the Reach. It was no Highgarden, seat of the Kings of Reach from time immemorial, and for the last three hundred years, occupied by upjumped their stewards. It was no Oldtown, the greatest city on the Summer Sea, and once the largest city on the continent, held by the Hightowers who once waged a war with dragons and killed them all, and now rested upon their laurels atop the Hightower.
Yet as Orton stood atop the balcony, gazing upon the sapphire waters of the Mander flowing near his seat, he could not help but smile. For it mattered very little how small his seat was, for by the end of this, he and his house would be seen among the greatest lords of the Reach.
His eyes travelled away from the Mander, and his smile could only widen. They were all here, well, almost all of them. Oakheart, Ball, Costayne, Cuy, Beesbury, Bulwer, and of course his own Merryweather, with Rowan, Peake, and Meadows to soon join them, with all their assorted banners and vassals. It was not the greatest army that the Reach had ever assembled, it was not even a host larger than that at Highgarden and King's Landing, but that was not the beauty of its creation. It had been masterwork intrigue to coordinate the trickling exodus from the loyalist lords and their banners from King's Landing and Highgarden, it had been a masterstroke conspiracy to assemble them here at Longtable, without any notice by Highgarden... though the ruse would not last any longer, it had been a perfect plot to put an army between Highgarden and King's Landing.
It had not all been foolproof, however. His smile dimmed as he gazed down and saw the lack of Redwyne banners. There had been many a plan of theirs that had not come to fruition. They had been sure that without Lannister support Baelish would have been forced to step down as Lord Protector, placing someone far less friendly to the Lannisters in power. They had cut against Qyburn's proposal to begin the execution of Freys, believing they would make good allies for Aegon, yet even now they stood behind the lion. Both failed, and both remained Lannister allies, and that would make this war far more difficult to end. Perhaps they should have agreed with Qyburn... an execution of Freys would have certainly brought war against the Lions and the Towers...
If only that was the worst of their mistakes, however. He gripped the railing suddenly, his smile being wiped from his face.
Greyjoy.
Greyjoy would be the worst of their mistakes.
The Greyjoy fleet was meant to have joined them, not sunk the Redwynes on their own strait. With them, full control of the seas would have been theirs. With their Iron Fleet, the Redwyne Fleet would have been unstoppable... instead, it was sunk at the bottom of the sea.
A hand tanner than his came to rest by his own, and he felt himself breathe out deeply, the smile slowly reappearing on his face.
"You are stressed, my love." A sultry Myrish voice spoke at his side, the voice which he knew far too well, from many an encounter, belonging to a woman he had truly married out of love.
Taena would be why they had nearly as much success as they did.
Who knew that manipulating the Queen would be so simple?
Choice words of the Imp, promises to aid, refusing to speak of Tywin, and praising her beauty, led Taena into her good graces.
Talk of spies, of Gardener Golden Hands, and distrust between the Lion and the Rose grew.
Speak of the Redwyne twins convorting for the hand of Margaery Tyrell... and well, both Tyrell and Lannister women were imprisoned by the Faith.
When the twins were arrested, it gave the excuse for the Redwyne Fleet to leave the Narrow Sea, when Margaery was arrested, it made Mace Tyrell break his siege of Storm's End. The sea and land were open for the Golden Company, for Aegon.
He looked to the fluttering in the wind, Oakheart, Ball, Costayne, Osgrey, Cuy, Peake... there would certainly be talk across the realm that these houses had declared for the dragon. He had certainly thought the same... still thought the same. They all called him Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his name. Yet did their loyalties lay with the son of Rhaegar... or with the heir of Daemon? None spoke of it out loud, yet all wondered. Was this dragon red or was he black?
Orton could not claim to definitively know the answer, he had met the King years ago, when he was still but barely a boy. Lord Jon Connington had been confident this was the son of Rhaegar, and he seemed the right age, he would admit. But they all knew the story, of how the Mountain had smashed Rhaegar's son's head against the walls of the Red Keep. He had accepted Connington's words, Varys' and Illyrio Mopatis' assurances, as he was granted back the seat of House Merryweather by Robert Baratheon. But landing with the Golden Company? Supported by these Houses? The rumours would fly.
"I shall be able to relax when this is all over." He said simply in response, offering a wider smile as he turned to face her.
"We all will be." Ser Horas Redwyne spoke from behind them both, he and his brother, along with their guards, were all that was of the Redwyne contingent of the army. The rest all bottled up on the Arbor, as they prepared themselves for the Crow's Eye's invasion. It was a poor showing for the heir to the Lord Paramountcy of the Reach, but they could only fight this war with what they had, not what they wished they had. Still, that did mean there was time to teach the lad... and let him enjoy his new Tyrell wife, Alla was it?
"Lord Titus Peake has agreed to take command," The other twin, Ser Hobber Redwyne spoke up, the newly made heir to the Arbor, having married a child likely had far less opportunity to enjoy his marriage, thus throwing himself to war seemed the obvious path, "It is time, Lord Merryweather."
"So it is," Orton spoke, some nerves finally showing themselves in his voice, quickly tempered, as the hand around his tightened in a comforting squeeze, "Show the banners."
And as the army outside gazed upon the walls of Longtable, they would give out a riotous cheer.
As red dragons upon black fields, fluttered in the wind.
It was to be the end of House Baratheon, the end of House Lannister.
A message bearing the seals of House Stark as well as Jon's own personal coat of arms, to be delivered to Lord Howland Reed by a trusted courier @Pax Americana@The_Red_Baron
Lord Reed,
Father always spoke highly of you as one of his most trusted and esteemed friends and companions. Hoping that this friendship may continue well into the future, I hereby summon you to swear fealty to the new Lord of Winterfell, Rickon Stark. Your advice and care will matter a lot for him.
However, though implied, I would be remiss to ask. Lady Asha Greyjoy's hand is still free, and as I am no longer hiring the ten thousand sellswords. Might I ask what I must do, to be worhty of her hand, Your Grace?
To receive royal asset to the suit of the Lady Greyjoy your new goal in the task is the acvhiement of an additional set of instructions.
Proviso seven is as such
The acquisition of new loans from the primary Banks of the Cities of Pentos, Tyrosh, and Myr in large amounts for the purposes of reconstructing a new royal fleet with the shipyards of White Harbor. If you can gift the new Master of Ships a fleet for her to command as a dowry, mayhaps you might stand a chance. Though that is all up to the discretion of the admiral of course.
For once in his life, Ser Shadrach was happy he was short. When orders came down from Littlefinger, he was to lose his first joust. Finally, a defeat that wouldn't be his fault. He complied perfectly, being thrown from his saddle in the first pass.
Now he could get down to his real business - stealing 50,000 Gold Dragons right from beneath the nose of the Lord Protector.
Oh, he had dyed her hair and trussed her up with a different name, but Ser Shadrach was no fool. He recognized Sansa Stark as soon as he saw her. The only question was how to get to her?
The tourney was extremely inopportune, Ser Shadrach decided. "Alayne Stone", as the Lord Protector called her, was seated front and center, under the gaze of the whole crowd. For the first day of the tourney he was busy losing, but by the second day he had basically determined she was secure. This tourney was not his best moment.
That left watching the tourney, which Shadrach was not keen to do. He loathed tourneys, this one was no exception. But it was either that or stick his thumb up his ass, so he watched. He saw Mychael Redfort dominate his bracket, as he expected. But about halfway through the second day of the tourney, something very interesting happened. Harry the Heir, darling of the Vale (whom Ser Shadrach had seen once and immediately disliked), was unhorsed in his final bout by, of all people, Symion Sunderland, youngest of the Sunderland brothers. The look of pain upon Littlefinger's face was, oddly enough, mirrored by Sansa. But nevertheless. Shadrach noted the first member of the Winged Knights, who was Knighted by Ser Donnel Waynwood, the Knight of the Bloody Gate, himself.
As the tourney entered it's final round of tilts on the third day, the victors, and thus hostages, began to emerge. Mychael Redfort and Symion Sunderland of course had won their brackets, but so too had Roland Waynwood, Andrew Tollet, Lymond Lynderly, and Albar Royce. Not that Shadrach particularly cared about them. He knew their houses were minor, and nothing more. That left one more bracket to finish, and in Shadrach's point of view, the most interesting by far.
A mystery knight bearing the sigil of a wolf's head had entered the tourney, as mystery knights tend to do. This created somewhat of an uproar, Ser Shadrach noticed, almost certainly due to the connotations of such a sigil. There were many in the crowd who has wanted to fight for the Young Wolf, and had only stayed in their halls with deepest regret. His subsequent gruesome death was a source of deep shame, Shadrach had noted. It was not a surprise that almost everyone rooted for the wolf knight. And there was a lot to root for. He dominated his bracket, defeating worthy knights and higborn lords. When he finally claimed victory, the clamor for him to reveal himself was great.
Ser Shadrach himself did not recognized the old bedraggled knight whose head appeared from under the helm, but many around him did. They whispered his name all at once, with excitement and worry to each other. Littlefinger himself had a look of shock and concern when he heard the name himself. Brynden Tully - the Blackfish.
When he began his speech, Ser Shadrach didn't listen. He knew what the Blackfish was going to say before he said it. Restoring the honor of the Vale. Naming the lords present and his connection to them. His service as Knight of the Bloody Gate. His duties and oaths to Robb Stark. His call to arms. Ser Shadrach was much more concerned with the opportunity that laid before him - it would be much easier to kidnap Sansa Stark if the strength of the Vale left her side, or would it be if she joined them in an army camp? He was almost oblivious to the rapturous reception the Blackfish received when he denounced the Freys as godless murderers, and did not pay attention as the first knights came forward to swear themselves to revenge. He did note with wry amusement however when Walton Frey joined the lot, denouncing his kin in an effort to save himself. He wondered what the butch Brienne would do here. Probably join their fool's crusade. Now he turned his eyes to the Lord Protector, the most important man here. How would he react? How would old Bronze Yohn? That would truly decide the fate of this old man, the Mouse decided. He would wait and see.
Alayne rose, and when she spoke, her voice carried over from where she was in the first row over the gathered knights and spectators. She wondered if the light might help her out and catch her hair in just the right way, showing some auburn at the root...
"Knights of the Vale! Nuncle!" her voice was a little hoarse, but clear enough and bold, loud, proud. Everything depended upon this moment. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and his lady wife, Catelyn of House Tully. With Lady Lysa's help, I dyed my hair brown and hid away in plain sight, awaiting this day. And now it has come! Winter. has. come! A time for vengeance, for justice, has come! Littlefinger can attest to all I say. Lord Royce, you were in Winterfell when I was. Blackfish, you knew my mother better than anyone here. Question me all you like, I am sure my answers will satisfy you. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell and in the name and memory of my brother, the Young Wolf, I place myself under your protection and call upon you all to march with me, to avenge the Red Wedding and purge these Seven Kingdoms of our enemies."
She had arisen Alayne Stone, but now it was Sansa Stark who faced them all, come what may.
