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Chapter Text

“Westerosi Andal”

“Old tongue”

Thenn, 293 AC.

Syrg sighed with relief when he saw the village still sitting in the valley, his father’s house still standing strong on the hillside. He’d been away far too long. His pack was heavy with tools, tomes, and diagrams. He’d been away far too long, but he’d had to go. At least his mission had worked.

“Brother! ” Sigorn cried, rushing Syrg. Syrg smiled and embraced him easily, laughing as they slapped each other on the back. “ Gods, it’s been too long. Come, father will want to see you.”

“Good, ” Syrg said. “ There is much we need to discuss.” Sigorn nodded, leading his brother back up to their father’s house.

“How was it?” Syrg laughed.

“Large, brother. Too large. There were cities with more people than the whole of Thenn. More than the entire North, possibly.”

“That’s impossible! How could they stand it? How did you stand it?” Syrg laughed again.

“I know not how they can live like that, it is filled with the stench of shit and too crowded. As for how I stood it, I had to.” Sigorn nodded, his eyes misting over slightly.

“It’s bad, brother.”

“How bad?”

“The wights have begun to gather. They started testing our defenses recently. Thank the gods we had mother to tell us fire can kill them.”

“How many?” Sigorn grimaced.

“About one hundred. Including Ör. They killed him, then we had to. ” Syrg swore, stopping and turning towards his brother, who continued talking. “ The former crow is forming a horde. He’s trying to get everyone.” Syrg laughed, and started walking again.

“The day we all unite is the day the Lands of Always Winter melt.”

“He already has the Giantsbane and the Frozen Shore. Harma Dogshead and the Lord of Bones have agreed to talk with him.” Syrg’s eyes widened, but he nodded and they continued.

“Times have changed. We will need to leave soon enough.”

“What have you seen?” Syrg shook his head.

“I have seen nothing new. I read some things. The best accounts of the Long Night were held in Yi Ti and by the Red Priests.”

“And who are they, that know of our enemy?” Syrg smiled.

“Sorry, brother. I have lived among them too long, and forget most have not. Yi Ti is a great kingdom far to the east, past the Narrow Sea, two mountain ranges, a great plains, and a desert. Their wealth--I have never seen anything like it.” Sigorn listened in rapt attention as his brother talked of his travels. Sigorn would have gone, but his place as eldest was at his father’s side.

“They had immense statues of jade and quartz, ” Syrg said. “ Large as the Giants. One of those statues was of their Bloodstone Emperor, from long ago, when they ruled more land than there is south of the Wall. ” Sigorn’s eyes widened in shock, amazed that such a place could exist. “ He brought the Long Night to them. As for the Red Priests, they worship a god of fire, and believe the Night’s King is a servant of some Great Other, who they must fight at all costs.”

“Syrg!” a large, bald man said, rushing to embrace his son.

“Father! It has been too long.”

“Far too long. I hope the trip was worth it.” Syrg nodded, pulling off his pack.

“I know how to craft the blades, though it comes at a cost. ” His father and brother looked at him, concerned. Syrg sighed. “ It takes blood to craft. If we wish to survive the Night, we must abandon the Sacred Rites and drain our dead so they might feed our weapons.” Both family members stared at him, wide-eyed, before Styr, their father, nodded.

“Your mother said we would lose something. If this is it, so be it.”

Winterfell, 298 AC

Maester Luwin walked down the stairs from the ravenry, two scrolls in his hands. He entered Lord Stark’s solar, where the lord was talking with his wife. The King had asked him to become his Hand. A thankless job, and an impossible one, if the rumors of the King’s excess bore any truth. Still, it was a duty, and as such Lord Stark would perform it.

“My lord, my lady,” Luwin said. “There are two ravens. One from you sister, my lady, the other from Commander Mormont for my lord.” His lord and lady took the respective messages, and quickly opened them.

“Oh gods!” Lady Stark exclaimed, eyes wide with shock as she read and re-read her letter. “Lysa says the Lannisters killed her husband!” Ned immediately set aside his own letter, instead talking about his wife’s. Even Luwin got involved as they debated whether or not Lord Stark should go south to become his friend’s Hand.

“Lord Stark,” Maester Luwin said as he moved to leave. “What was the letter from Commander Mormont?” Lord Stark shook his head.

“Just a report on the wildlings. Reports of a large horde, and a ranger saw some Thenns along the Antler.”

“Isn’t that far from their home?” Lord Stark shrugged.

“Aye, but it is likely a small raiding party. Send word to the Mountain Clans, the Umbers, and the Karstarks that some Thenns might be raiding.” Lord Stark then exited his solar, leaving Maester Luwin to puzzle over the statement. From what little he knew, the Thenns were proud, they rarely raided, instead forging their own weapons and armor. He shrugged, and followed his lord out of the solar. Who knew the minds of the wildlings?

Skagos, 299 AC.

“My lord! Lord Crowl!”

“Aye,” the grumpy old man answered, scowling at the young dockworker who had forced him from his family. Both were large men, but the old man towered over the dockworker.

“Sh-ships have been spotted, my lord.”

“So? We are an island, we ships all the damn time boy.” The dockworker shook his head and Lord Crowl once again regretted following his father’s footsteps in forging a fearsome reputation. It had its uses, but damn his people being scared of him was getting old.

“Th-th-it’s a convy, my lord. Or a fleet. Of longships. My lord.” Lord Crowl sighed, massaging his forehead.

“What flag did they fly?”

“None, my lord.” Lord Crowl’s eyes widened, looking down at the man.

“None?” he asked, unable to believe it.

“None, my lord. Their sails were unstitched, my lord.” Lord Crowl’s brows furrowed as he tried to work out this puzzle. Not flying a flag usually signified pirates, but most of them used stitched wool or cotton sails. Besides, with the exception of the Ironborn, they always had a few larger ships that could carry loot.

“Gather the men,” Lord Crowl said. “We can set sail in a few of our skeids, see who comes close to our shores.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said, running off to the barracks. Lord Crowl walked back to his family.

“There are some flagless ships off our coast,” he said. “Ragnar and Ormind will join me. Ygett, Bael, ready more ships in case things go poorly.”

“Yes father,” his children said, quickly running off to gather their weapons and leathers. Steel armor on a ship was inadvisable. Nonetheless, being at least somewhat protected was good. Ragnar, and Ormind, his two eldest, joined him in the seventy-seat drakkar, Jormandir , named after a mythical serpent said to have served the King of Night before parting ways to attack Skagos, the Stepstones, and later the Iron Isles.

Jormandir was joined by eight smaller ships, all fully crewed with warriors. Lord Crowl had the rudder whilst his sons rowed. As they approached the ships, he saw a flicker of light. Looking closer, he saw the bronze armor and weapons of those onboard. He also saw women, elders, and children gathered in the center of the ships whilst warriors, men and women alike, rowed.

“The hell are Thenns doing in a ship?” he asked of no one in particular. As his ships neared, the Thenns moved, forming a protective semi-circle. The outer ships had no civilians. A single ship pushed past the others, heading for Lord Crowl’s ship. Onboard, Lord Crowl saw a large man, bald but with a thick (if short) black and grey beard in bronze armor. Two men stood beside him. One bore a bronze shield with a sword strapped to his hip, and wore bronze scales. The other wore hardened leathers, with bronze on the forearms. He had a sword strapped to each hip.

Slowly, Lord Crowl noticed the shadowy ripples and dark spots throughout the Thenns’ bronze. As they approached, he spoke first.

“Why do you sail so close to my shores?” he asked. The bald man looked confused, until the man on his left whispered into his ear. Lord Crowl sighed, and spoke again.

“ Why sail near my waters? ” he asked. The older man smiled, nodding towards him.

“ We seek to live, ” he said simply. “ I am Styr, Magnar of the Thenns. These are my sons, Sigorn and Syrg. You need have no fear, we seek not to land upon your lands. ” It took Lord Crowl a while for his brain to fully process the sentence. After all, he had not spoken the Old Tongue in several years.

“ Where you land? I am sworn to the Starks. ”

“ The gods guide us, ” Syrg said, his voice ringing clear and confident. “We follow the path of the greendreams.” The second sentence, spoke in the Common Tongue of Westeros, started whispers across the ship.

“ Where do they guide you? ”

“ Away from our foes. Away from the Long Night. ” Lord Crowl’s eyes widened, as did those of the few of his men that still spoke the Old Tongue.

“ We have fought their wights, ” Styr said. “ We left as the Others approached. A former crow gathers everyone to march south. We chose to sail. ”

“Head back to shore,” Lord Crowl said. “I need to write the King.” As his ship headed back, he spoke again. “ Lord Styr, it was a pleasure. Gods be with you on your journey. ”

“ May the speed us all to safety, ” Syrg replied. He, his brother, and his father bent their heads in recognition to Lord Crowl, who did the same thing. As the ships parted ways, Lord Crowl stared into the distance. This deeply complicated things. While their young king had yet to call the Skagosi to his army, they were still a part of his kingdom. He needed to warn him of this possible foe, or possible ally, as well as their story. Their fleet was truly massive, lending credence to the tail. It seemed the whole of Thenn had set sail, which was from their tale quite possibly true. Especially if the Others were back. He needed to prepare his men. Like the Free Folk and the Mountain Clans, the Skagosi remembered their legends and their gods. They remembered their ancient enemies, even when the rest of the North forgot them. They would need fire. Fire, and dragonglass.

The next day, Syrg took over the forge processes. As they melted tin and copper to forge the bronze they used for weapons, Syrg chanted over the large cauldron, one by one hefting the bodies of their dead and opening their veins. Their blood flowed into the cauldron, which began to glow as they added more and more. Exhausted, Syrg stumbled home to bed. The magic took much out of him. At least they would survive, he thought as he lay sleeping.

Chapter Text

Riverrun, 299 AC.

Robb closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, his war council was still in front of him, awaiting his answer.

“Uncle, you will lead the Blackwood, Keath, and Roote armies to retake Darry and avenge Lord Lyman. Surround it before anyone can see you. It’s time we send Lord Tywin a message.”

“What message?” asked Lord Karhold, still hoping for the execution of Jaime Lannister.

“His favorite dog’s head,” Robb said with an evil glint. He turned back to his uncle. “March under the black banner. The Mountain has no honor, you need not confront him with any.” The Blackfish smiled and bowed his head. His eyes had a murderous glint, like they did whenever he went into battle. But there was something especially exciting about fighting under a black banner. It was a way of announcing your enemy had no honor, and that you would kill them by any means necessary.

“Our matters are settled. Theon will go to Pyke and convince his father to raid the wealthy Westerlands. My mother will go to treat with Lord Renly, and my uncle will avenge House Darry. We are adjourned.” Bowing his head again, Brynden Tully left, smiling grimly. He gestured at his personal men, who followed him as they walked towards the Blackwood camp.

“Ser Brynden,” a young man called, smiling.

“Lord Brynden,” the Blackfish responded. “I must talk to your father.” Brynden Blackwood, heir to Raventree, jerked his head towards the larger tent.

“He’s in there. Meeting with some of his bannermen.” The Blackfish nodded, gesturing for his men to stay before walking into the tent.

“And you, Ser Harmen?” Lord Blackwood’s voice came from the tent. The Blackfish entered just in time to see the man in question sigh.

“We have around eight hundred, seven-fifty ready to fight.” Lord Blackwood uttered something in the Old Tongue the Blackfish didn’t understand, but he was pretty sure he was swearing.

“We’ve won damn near every battle, but we’re losing the war,” Lord Blackwood said. “We can’t keep this up.”

“Ser Brynden,” one of the bannermen said. “What brings you to our council?”

“My lords, sers,” the Blackfish said. “We have new orders. We are to retake Darry.” A collective sigh was heard in the tent before one of the bannermen spoke.

“Again?” the man asked, furious. “We can’t trade blow-for-blow with the Lannisters, they outnumber us! We can’t keep fighting like this!”

“Master Hernden!” Lord Blackwood said, his tone sharp.

“No need, Lord Blackwood,” the Blackfish said, his piercing eyes staring at Hernden. Hernden swallowed hard, but refused to look away. “We will not keep fighting like this.”

“But--” Hernden began.

“We march under a black banner,” Brynden Tully said. “Our orders are to kill the Mountain and send his head to good Tywin Lannister.” The men’s eyes lit up as dark grins broke out.

“Who marches with us?” Lord Blackwood asked.

“Keath and Roote. We are to surround Castle Darry before we attack. The Mountain must not escape.” The bannermen and Lord Blackwood nodded.

“Very well,” Lord Blackwood said. “We shall be ready to march in the morning.” The Blackfish left smiling.

The march took ten days, too long if they had wanted to avoid detection. Normally, anyways. But the Blackfish was crafty. He always had been. The men split into small groups, all marching without flags. They would not meet back up until Darry, where they would raise the black banner and attack at night.

“Are we ready?” Brynden Tully asked, midday of the tenth. Lord Blackwood nodded.

“Our men fully surround the castle, and are fully hidden behind the tree lines. The Mountain is still inside.”

“Have you raised the black banner?”

“Yes, ser,” Lord Keath responded. “Every company bears a black banner now.” The Blackfish smiled darkly.

“Then we wait.”

The attack began with a fire. The wagons holding the whiskey, ale, and food for the Mountain’s Men was set on fire, and the men came running out, unarmed and unarmored. They were greeted by a hail of arrows and a foot charge. At the back of the castle, more men rushed in, battering down the doors before anyone noticed they were there.

The Mountain fought like a devil, his stature and strength uncontestable. But without his thick armor he bled like any man. Arrows poked from his chest and arms, even with his shield. His sword still caused devastation across their ranks, but he bled. And anything that bleeds can be killed. They slashed at his legs, his arms, his stomach, any part of him they could reach. Brynden Tully was sent flying from a backhand, Ser Hoster Keath had his head smashed in from a pommel blow, and when the Mountain shield-bashed Lucas Blackwood, he was thrown into a tree. Eventually, however, Brynden Blackwood charged the Mountain. He threw a spear which pierced the Mountain’s shoulder, then feinted with his sword. He attacked, but was blocked by the Mountain’s shield. He dodged the swing, then the shield bash, and move to lunge, but stepped to the side at the last moment when the Mountain attacked. In the same moment, Lord Tytos Blackwood ran up from behind, greatsword in his hands, and beheaded the Lannister dog.

“Good job men,” Ser Brynden said after the battle, his grin wide and eyes glittering. “Now we fortify the castle. Alyan, preserve the Mountain’s head while we work on the defenses.”

“Yes, ser,” Alyan said.

“Should we not move?” Lord Blackwood asked. “Castle Darry is large and has good defenses, aye, but not enough to resist the Lannister army, nor to hold our men.”

“My dear lord,” the Blackfish began, a smirk on his face. “You seem to be under the impression that all our men will be within the walls. We were given permission to fly the black banner. We will use it until permission is revoked. Let Tywin Lannister learn how it is when the world plays by his rules.” Lord Blackwood gave a chuckle and a dark smile. “The Vances of Atranta join us tomorrow,” the Blackfish said. “We will position our men in ambushes throughout the forest, from Harrenhal to here. Once we are readied, the fun begins.” Lord Blackwood nodded, then turned to order his men.

Pyke, 299 AC

“What an idiot,” Balon Greyjoy said. His brother nodded, while Asha just spat on the floor. Balon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Victarion, Asha, you are the only ones I can rely on. I am. . . less than well. I will not likely see the coming winter.”

“Brother,” Victarion said, his face in horror. Asha was shocked, simply looking at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

“Father, are you sure?”

“I am,” Balon said. He held up his hand as Victarion and Asha opened their mouths. “I have consulted our healers, the maesters we’ve stolen, even brought over an actual one. It’s, well, I’m not sure. The last man said something was growing in my head, that it would kill me.”

“So we cut it out!” Victarion said. Balon shook his head.

“No, brother. That will simply kill me faster. That I am dying, they all agreed upon. The Drowned God calls for me and while I will not cheat him, neither will I arrive early. Now listen to me,” he said, and both Victarion looked at him, concerned, but no longer glancing at each other or trying to talk. “I know you both seek to be my heir.” When they tried to talk, Balon held up his hand to silence them, and began to cough. Asha grabbed him a cloth, and he spat into it.

“There is no problem with ambition,” he said. “But you need to stick together. With my death will come a kingsmoot. Euron will come back. He is a mad, arrogant fool, but he is charismatic, and people will follow him. Asha, my daughter. You always were my favorite child, and in truth you are now my only child. But you will need to back Victarion this time.”

“Why?” Asha demanded. “Because I’m a woman? Because the priest--”

“Asha!” Balon shouted. He took a deep breath before continuing. “In part, yes. Arrogant men still hold much sway, one of them being Aeron. More importantly, Victarion can fight Euron easier, and brings the captains of my old Iron Fleet with him. Sway the Harlaws to him, and the Euron cannot win the Kingsmoot. You will lead after him. Victarion is not likely to sire any children.” Victarion snorted at that while Asha just raised an eyebrow.

“I definitely should have noticed that sooner,” she said. Victarion rolled his eyes.

“During his reign, you will lead the Iron Fleet and be his right hand. That will give you time to win over Aeron’s supporters, or some of them at least. Do you agree to this?” Asha sighed.

“Aye,” she said.

“Aye,” Victarion said after a pause.

“Then swear it by the Drowned God and your mother.”

“I swear by the Drowned God and my own mother that I shall abide by these terms,” Asha and Victarion said. “If I am false, may the Storm take me.” There was a pause.

“Good,” Balon said. “Now, as we’ve discussed, Theon is an idiot. Victarion, assign him to one of your crews. Hopefully he’ll die. Asha, you will take Deepwood Motte. Victarion, I need you to take Moat Cailin, and turn it into the unbreakable fortress it once was. My goodbrother, Rodrik Harlaw, will take Barrowton. The Goodbrothers will take the Rills, the Drumms the Stoney Shore, the men of Great Wyk Flint’s Finger, and the rest Bear Island and the Flint Cliffs. Erik Ironmaker will lead those that remain to attack Torrhen’s Square and frighten the Northmen. We will own the North’s coastline soon enough.” Asha and Victarion nodded, and made to leave.

“Oh, and Victarion!”

“Yes brother?”

“Leave the Neck alone. Our ancestors learned not to bother the crannogmen the hard way, I would rather not repeat the experience.” Victarion nodded.

Balon Greyjoy sighed and relaxed into his chair. Thank the Drowned God, he thought. I will have a successor and the North, as shall he.

Chapter Text

The Bite, 299 AC

“ I hope you’re right about this. ”

“ So do I, brother. ” Syrg took a deep breath, then stepped off the boat. He had traded his leathers for a bronze breastplate, grieves, and arm braces. Two swords hung at his hip, one on each side. He had three daggers, on on his belt, two hidden on his person. All were made of the spell-forged bronze he had been making the last six years. As were the arms and armor of the rest of the Thenns, from the Magnar to the newest warrior. Well, almost. They didn’t have enough dead to make the armor for all of them. He continued forward, his father following behind him in ornately carved bronze armor and with a weirwood spear and a bronze shield. Behind his father, his brother walked out, still wearing his bronze scales and shield.

“ Chella, daughter of Cheyk? ” Syrg asked.

“ Aye. ” Syrg bowed his head, acknowledging her position, then stepped aside for his father to talk.

“ Styr, son of Styør. ”

“ Why have you called this meeting? ” Sigorn chuckled, until Syrg elbowed in the ribs.

“ I seek an alliance, ” Styr said. “ I heard of the southron lord’s offer. I have one better. ”

“ And what is that? ” Chella asked. “ Better than their steel, arms, and gold? ”

“ Their lands, ” Styr said. “ I am Styr, son of Styør, Magnar of the Thenns. We have come to take back lands from the Andal invaders. We have come with arms and armor beyond theirs. ” Chella laughed.

“ You are bold, but your armor is bronze, your weapons the same. Even we know it is weaker than steel. ”

“ Try my shield, ” Sigorn said. “ Hit it with your steel, hard as you can. ” Chella raised an eyebrow and looked to her allies, then to Styr. Styr gestured for her to do that. She paused, then shrugged, drawing her sword. It was well-made, and the moonlight shone off it, but it did not have the shadowy waves of spell-forged metal. She swung it hard at Sigorn’s shield, expecting the sharp and hard blade to cut through the bronze. Had it been normal bronze, her sword likely would have cut several inches into the shield. Instead the sword bounced back, though Sigorn staggered backwards as well.

“ You hit hard, ” Sigorn said with a smile and a laugh. Chella rolled her shoulder in its socket, then looked at the shield, which was undented and unscratched.

“ How? ” she asked, simply. Sigorn pointed at Syrg, while Styr gestured for him to speak.

“ Do you know of Valyrian Steel?” he asked.

“ Aye, my mother’s grandmother stole a dagger from some lowlander. ”

“ We came across some nearly sixteen years ago, ” Syrg said. “ I was sent to find what it was and how to make it. ”

“ Why? ” Syrg sighed, and grimaced.

“ You know of the Long Night? ”

“ Of course. ”

“ My mother had the Sight. She saw the Others coming again, and that Valyrian Steel could kill them, even easier than dragonglass. ” Chella’s eyes went wide at that statement, looking to her clansmen, all of whom shared her concern.

“ I learned its secrets, ” Syrg said, continuing. “ It takes blood to forge, which must be mixed with the molten metal. The Valyrians used dragonfire to melt steel. Bronze we can melt without dragons. ” Chella nodded slowly, looking apprehensive.

“ What do you seek from us, what will you give? ” she asked. It was Styr that answered.

“ We seek your aid in taking these lands. Your knowledge of secret paths, of weak spots, of where and when to attack. We hope that you will ride beside us. We will give you spell-forged bronze, and domains over these lands. ”

“ Why us? ”

“ You are the only Free Folk south of the Wall, ” Styr said. “ And yours the only kingdom isolated from the southron war. The lowland lords have no allies and their men remain in the fields and untrained. ”

“ If we agree, when do we get the weapons? ”

“ After the first battle, ” Syrg said. “ We brought tin, copper, and dragonglass. We will use the bodies of the dead for their blood and forge new weapons. ”

“ Only the bodies of the dead? ” Chella asked.

“ Aye, ” Syrg said, somewhat insulted. “ We do not kill or harm our own. ” Chella looked at Sigorn, who nodded, and Styr, who did as well.

“ In that case, Magnar Styr, we have a deal. ” Styr smiled, and took out a dagger. He drew a cut across his palm, then handed the blade to Chella, who did the same. They shook hands.

“ How many warriors do you bring? ” Chella asked.

“ Two and twenty thousand, ” Styr said. “ Though not all are fully equipped. We have four and ten thousand who cannot fight. What are your numbers? ”

“ I lead the Black Ears, ” Chella said. “ We have near one thousand warriors, and perhaps two hundred others. We are close with the Moon Brothers, who are led by Umar, son of Ulag. They number two and ten hundred warriors. ”

“ Excellent, ” Styr said.

“ Follow me, ” Chella said. “ I will led you and yours to our caves. There should be room for near everyone. ” Styr bowed his head slightly.

“ Thank you, though I cannot bring our whole host. Our families will stay here, along with nine thousand of our warriors. The rest shall come with you. ” Chella grinned widely. Styr and Sigorn gave the signal for the other ships to land. Syrg went to join them, but Chella stopped him first with a hand on his shoulder.

“I image you speak the Andal tongue as well?” she asked. Syrg laughed.

“Aye, but few among my people do,” he replied. “Our culture is the same as before the Andals invaded. Most of the Free Folk cannot write, and speak Andal more than our own tongue. We use the same runes, the same metals, the same rites as our ancestors. Some have changed, but it is why my father called you fellow Free Folk, not fellow First Men. He views us Thenns as the last of the First Men.” Chella shrugged.

“Fair enough, I suppose. Though I hope you do not look down on those who raid, drink, and laugh rather than carve runes into stone.” Syrg laughed at that, smiling at Chell.

“I do not, nor do most of my people. Those that do stayed behind. They will likely be slaughtered by the Others. The rest have made peace with the fact that we need allies.”

“The Others, they are real then?” Chella asked incredulously. Every expression fell from Syrg’s face, his eyes became hollow as he looking at hers.

“They are. The wights have been coming for years, since before I left. They picked up, but the Others did not reach us until last year. Wights can burn, they can be cut though it will not kill them. They are rambling bodies, little more, too sluggish to kill a decent warrior without the advantage of numbers. But the Others, they--” he paused, forcing himself to breathe, to remember he was no longer in Thenn, no longer fighting them. “Fire does nothing to them,” he said, his voice quieter than normal, but the same sharp, scared edge in it. “Fires go out when they come near. They are made of ice, evil, and malevolence. They move as if liquid, faster than anyone has a right to. Only dragonglass or dragonflame can kill them.” Chella looks at him, seeing across his scars, his black hair and beard, sees a man born and a warrior made, who is scared. Terrified, and that scares her as well.

“We thought we could beat them,” Syrg said softly. “That was why I left. Why I studied and learned more tongues than I knew existed. Why I traveled twice the length of Westeros and back. Our weapons can kill them, and so we survived. Most of us anyways.” He turned from the unloading ships to look back at Chella. “When we fought them, we had to burn and cut our way through the wights before we could even reach them. When we finally got there, they cut and sliced through us. Their ice blades could not cut through our armor, but they found our eyes, knees, anything. For each Other we managed to kill, we lost dozens. We celebrated the night we killed one with seven and twenty dead and three and ten injured. Normally, it was closer to seventy, maybe eighty.” Syrg closed his eyes and swallowed, willing away the thoughts.

“I apologize,” he said. “That was--”

“There is no need to apologize,” Chella said. “I would rather know who I am allied with, and who I might face should they break through the Wall.” Syrg bowed his head and tried to force a smile, though it came out as more of a grimace. Chella laughed, slapping him on the back.

“Never lie Syrg,” she said. “You have not the face for it.” Syrg laughed as well, genuinely smiling this time.

Chapter Text

Harrenhal, 299 AC

Arya moved quickly through the camp, trying to find Needle. Jon had given the blade to her, and gods damn it, she wanted it. She found it in the armory, and grabbed it. She danced back through it, using the training Syrio gave her to avoid waking anyone. She headed back, moving outside the walls to avoid detection when she heard a rustle in the leaves. She turned, staring into the treeline. Curious, she approached, closing the distance.

“Arya?” a voice whispered from the treeline. She looked into the man’s eyes, confused. They were blue, his hair silver, his jawline sharp and with a sword in his hand.

“Uncle?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Fighting a war,” he replied. “And you?”

“Stealing back my sword.” Brynden Tully bit back a sigh.

“Hide in the treeline niece. What we do here will not be pretty, and we will need to run quickly after.”

“No!” Arya whisper-yelled. “Let me get my friends first, then--”

“No,” the Blackfish said, eyes flashing dangerously. “You are quiet and sneaky. Can you say the same for them?”

“Well,” she began.

“Can you?”

“No.”

“Then wait. When the attack begins, they will run. Everyone will. They’ll be free, and so will you. Okay?”

“Fine,” Arya said. The Blackfish smiled, then turned back towards Harrenhal.

“Stay here little wolf,” he said. Behind his back, Arya rolled her eyes.

A flaming arrow flew over the God’s Eye, and the Blackfish smiled again, this time a dark grin that gave away his intent. The first signal. Seconds later, the sentries fell, pierced by a dozen arrows, and the Blackfish began to sneak forward along with his men.

They silently climbed the walls of Harrenhal, surrounding the Lannister camp, leaving their ropes for a quick escape. Brynden led a small group of men into the halls. They checked room-by-room, but found nothing in most. In some they found a sleeping officer, in others an officer or a sergeant and a whore. They killed the men and knocked the women unconscious.

“Motherfucker!” the Blackfish whispered. “Anyone know where the Old Lion is?” His group shook their heads, sighing.

“I do,” Arya said, suddenly emerging from the back.

“Dammit girl, your mother’s going to kill me,” he said. “Fine, where is he?”

“Bedroom’s on the third level,” she said. “On the south side. Solar’s on the second, same side.”

“Damn,” Ser Brynden hissed. He sighed. “Fine, let’s go there.”

Step by step, the men followed Arya, deeply confused but still silent, all having abandoned their steel armor for the night. They made their way towards his solar, with Brynden Blackwood and a bannerman named Valor killing the guards along the way.

The door was locked, but Arya managed to pick it. She had a thin sword, much like that of a bravo, the Blackfish thought. They checked the solar, but did not find the Old Lion. Valor did, however, find his letters, which the group stole.

They carefully climbed the stairs to the third level, walking carefully down the damaged hallway. Ser Brynden opened the bedroom door once Arya had pointed it out, and quietly swore when it creaked. Loudly. He paused, but no one seemed to move. He crept into the room, sword drawn. Next to Tywin Lannister, he prepared to swing.

The Old Lion beat him to it, yelling and swinging the sword hidden beneath the bed sheets. The Blackfish made a poor block, stunned by the sudden activity. Brynden Blackwood, thinking quickly, rushed to the side, throwing a torch into the encampment. The arrows began to fly before it even landed.

The Old Lion lunged for the Blackfish, who barely avoided the blow by stepping back. Those in rooms nearby began to wake as the Old Lion stood, fighting in his night clothes. He parried the Blackfish’s swing and dodged his thrust, then blocked a cut to the head. He moved to his left, sword swinging down in a back hand, cutting into Ser Brynden’s belly, prompting him to groan and swear. The Old Lion’s eyes smiled, and batted away the Blackfish’s next swing. He thrust forward, and was barely pushed away from a vital area. He blocked another attack, and then felt cold. His arm dropped his sword. He wasn’t sure why until he heard the all-too familiar voice of his cupbearer say, “Don’t worry. I’ll soon send your family down to join you.”

The Blackfish smiled as his niece (his two and ten namedays niece, Brynden Tully reminded himself) pulled her thin sword out from Tywin Lannister’s heart.

“I guess he had a heart after all,” Brynden Blackwood said. He cocked a grin, but bit back the laugh.

“Come on,” he said. “We need to go.”

They ran down the stairs, Valor helping Ser Brynden along while the others fought off the few men who came to respond to the Old Lion’s yell. At last they neared they end, shimmying down the walls of Harrenhal. Arya darted back into the keep, the injured Brynden unable to stop her. Fortunately, she quickly returned with two others as they hightailed it through the woods.

They arrived at their hidden camp just past dawn. Arya followed her uncle as he limps towards the medic, swearing as he did.

“The hell have you done now?” the medic asked. As the Blackfish rolled his eyes, Arya answered.

“He opened the door wrong.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “How did I--ow! Gods damn Talisa, the hell was that.”

“That,” she began. “Was for trying to sit up just now. Lie down and let me heal you.” Brynden gave an exasperated sigh, but complied nonetheless, leading Arya to raise an eyebrow.

“From mom’s stories, I’d’ve thought you’d rather stitch your own wound than do what someone tells you.” Her uncle glared at her, but the medic laughed and smiles up at Arya.

“He learned his lesson,” she said. “After I had to rip out the stitches from a wound he forgot to clean properly.” Arya grimaced and looks at her uncle, who pointedly avoided her gaze.

“Talisa,” the woman said, holding out one hand while washing the wound with the other. Arya shook it and smiled.

“Arya,” she replied.

“Any last name?”

“Tell you mine if you give yours.” Talisa sighed, and went back to cleaning the wound as Brynden lay there, grimacing silently and clenching his jaw.

“Maegyr,” she said softly. Brynden tried to sit up to ask her, but he was thrown down again.

“Stark,” Arya replied.

Chapter Text

Oxcross, 299 AC

“Lord Crowl sent you a message?” The confusion in Lord Glover’s voice was clear. “Since when to the Skagosi care about anything other than Skagos?” The rest of the room shrugged, but Robb looked up and at Robett Glover.

“The Skagosi clans are still my bannermen,” he said coldly. “And we may need to call upon them sometime, so let us hope this is not a letter of secession.” The room, having little choice but to agree, nodded, and Robb opened the letter.

Robb Stark, King of Winter, King of the North and the Riverlands, King in the North

I write you regarding a strange occurrence that may be of import. One of the men at my shipyard spotted a fleet of longships that bore no flags nor banners. Curious, and in an attempt to ensure they did not mean to attack our lands, I sailed to approach them.

The men claim to be Thenns, and I believe this much true. Their weapons and armor were all of bronze, and only one man spoke aught of the common tongue, the rest knowing only the Old Tongue. They claimed to be fleeing a return of the Long Night, and following the will of their gods in fleeing south.

As hard as it would be to believe, we must consider this possibility. There have been rumors of other wildlings gathering into a large horde along the Millwater, and of a mass movement to Hardhome. The Thenns seemed to come with their entire people. They had between four and five hundred longships, almost all of which carried women and children as well as their warriors.

Your loyal subject,

Raymun Crowl, Lord of Deepdown.

Robb paused after reading the letter, then read it again before folding it and sticking it into his pocket. He cleared his throat.

“Lord Crowl sends news of strange tidings,” he said. “The Thenns have set sail and flee south.”

“What?” the Greatjon exclaims.

“Who?” asks Karyl Vance.

“The Thenns are a wildling tribe,” Harrion Karstark explained. “Unlike the others, they have laws and craft their own weapons. They rarely raid. What are they doing in the ocean?” Robb shrugged.

“I have no idea,” he said. “But they were sailing further south than our lands, so let that issue wait for another time. We must plan our next move.”

“Let’s take the Casterly Rock!” the Greatjon suggested. “Shit on their wealth, we’re at their front door and it’s sitting open.” There was a bit of laughter, but it was Lord Karyl who responded first.

“We cannot advance upon Casterly Rock yet,” he said. “There is an army between us and our supply line. We must take the Golden Tooth before we can do anything else.”

“My scouts say they are marching towards us already,” Lord Karstark said.

“When did they begin their march?”

“This morning.” Robb nodded, and looked down at the map.

“We will meet them at Sarsfield,” he says. “It is a defensible castle, and the area is good as well, but House Sarsfield has not the men to defend either.” The lords around him nod.

“When do we leave?” Lord Glover asked.

“In an hour,” Robb said. “I want two days to prepare for the attack, we must take Sarsfield tonight.”

“Yes, your grace.”

The Battle of Sarsfield was short. Within thirty minutes the castle was theirs and the remaining defenders surrendered. In fairness, the army that gathered at the Golden Tooth had left them only fifty-eight soldiers, and the Oxcross army took the rest save ten. The next morning, Robb gathered his council, ready for the day. He ordered that a trench be dug across the Ocean Road, and that it be filled with spikes. They men were to begin building fortifications on both sides of the road, up the mountainside where archers would reside. Rockslides were rigged further up the Ocean Road, to be triggered by tripwires when the Lannister army came marching.

“That concludes my ideas,” Robb said after laying out his plan. “Anything else?”

“Your grace,” Lord Robbett said. “Would it be possible to hide our own cavalry in the mountains, further up the Ocean Road?”

“It should be, but why, my lord?”

“Once the battle begins in earnest, they could charge from behind. Our horses and lances are heavier than the ones these southron ponces use, your grace, and would easily break their ranks.” Robb smiled slightly at the suggestion.

“It shall be done. Anything else? Any updates?”

“I have one, your grace,” Ser Marq Piper said, somewhat nervously. “It concerns your great-uncle.”

“Yes?”

“He succeeded in recapturing Castle Darry, and killed the Mountain, whose head has been preserved in a jar.” Cheers were sounded throughout the tent, until Marq Piper continued. “He then attacked Harrenhal, your grace.”

“What? Why?”

“I do not know, the letter I received was not from him, but from a friend of mine who serves as a knight for House Vance of Atranta. They conducted a nighttime raid and went room-by-room killing all the officers before shooting at the encampment below. Lord Tywin Lannister is dead, and Ser Brynden has been injured, though he is recovering well. The rest of the army around Harrenhal has moved, and is marching towards Darry, along a road where I am told many traps and ambushes have been lain. Lord Tywin’s body was left hanging from the walls of Harrenhal.”

Following this announcement, the room became a cacophony of noise, some protesting the tactics, others justifying them by the results.

“My lords!” Robb shouted after ten minutes of chaos. As the room calmed, he turned to the messenger. “Ser Marq, how had my uncle justified these tactics?” The lords who had been defending the Blackfish began to speak, but were silenced when Robb glared at them.

“He still flies under the black banner, your grace. He has said he will continue to do so until told otherwise by you.” Robb sighed, massaging his forehead. Of all the people to have given him a headache, he did not think it would be his uncle.

“He also says your sister Arya has been found, your grace.”

“What?” Robb asked, jerking upright. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, my lord. She had been at Harrenhal, posing as Lord Lannister’s cupbearer. It is rumored that she killed him.” The room was silent for a while, until the Greatjon began to laugh.

“Now that’s a Northern lass!” he bellowed.

Robb had still not decided what to do about his uncle when the Lannister army was spotted. Robb, along with the nobles, sat on their horses a few paces back (just beyond the reach of a lance) from their trench. Hopefully, the Lannisters would charge before they could see it.

Robb’s hopes were realized when the Lannisters broke into a charge from sixty paces away, rushing towards the Northern host. On the mountainsides, the rock slides were triggered as the cavalry passed, large stones crushing the less mobile foot soldiers. The archers on the mountainsides opened fire as the foot soldiers came within range, arrows peppering them from far up the hills. As the Lannister horsemen came closer, Robb smiled, and held still. He saw the confused look on Ser Damon Lannister’s face. They didn’t stop though, and fell into the eight-foot trench.

As the first of the knights fell the others yanked their horses back, many falling off them or stumbling away, most in the second row failing to stop from falling in. Robb yelled, “planks!” and his men stepped in front of their cavalry, solid wood planks covering the pit. The few mounted northmen on that side of the trench, expecting this, charged before the Lannisters could. As they ran across the trench, the could hear the screams of those who were pressed deeper onto the spikes. The northmen’s charge pushed the Lannisters back, and the infantry charge behind it further pushed them, forcing them back north as arrows continued to rain down on them.

Towards the back of the Lannister host, men turned as they heard hooves beating on solid ground, but they turned too late. The heavy northern lances, combined with the larger destriers and their momentum broke the Lannister lines by force. The Lannisters, trapped between two enemy lines and suffering from a hail of arrows, looked to where they could run. Their chain of command was obliterated, with Ser Damon Lannister, Ser Tyrek Lefford, Lord Damon Marbrand, Ser Gareth Clifton, and Lord Quentyn Banefort were all dead before they could create a plan.

Chapter Text

Sarsfield, 299 AC.

Gods dammit, Ser Kennos thought as he looked around for the last member of the command chain, Ser Gareth Clifton. He found the man in question lying on the ground and bleeding profusely. Ser Kennos continued to look around, praying he could find someone, anyone who could give orders. He found no one.

Fuck it, he thought as he mounted his horse again. He pushed towards the bugler.

“Sound the retreat, then a charge!” he yelled. “We’re charging the mountainside.”

“Yes ser!” the man said, shouting to be heard over the din of battle. The contrasting sounds confused the army, creating the pause in the sound that allowed him his moment.

“Follow me!” Ser Kennos yelled, and charged up the mountainside to the south. The men responded instantly, rushing after him even as arrows flew. He blocked most of the ones aimed at him with his shield as he rushed the hillside, hacking at the archers as he came upon their hideouts and they were forced to switch weapons. It was always easy to kill someone grasping at their sword belt.

Thank the fucking gods, Kennos thought as he neared the last of the archery hideouts. How was a boy of six and ten smarter than the entire Westerlands command? Kennos forced those thoughts from his head as he blocked an arrow with his shield and pressed his thighs to his horse, urging her on. They raced forward, and Ser Kennos swung his sword. It made contact with the archer, slicing through his head. He moved on, hacking at another, then another, until one managed to stab his horse. Kennos rolled from it and stood up. He ran towards the last few archers, sword thrusting through one man’s neck as he ducked beneath a swing and blocked the third man’s attack with his shield. He pressed forward, his shield smashing into the third man as he parried the second’s attack, his foot kicking out at the soldier. The man fell to the ground and Ser Kennos thrust down at him, sword breaking through his back and piercing his heart. He pulled it out quickly and sliced upwards into the third man, sword slicing off the man’s arm. He screamed, and Kennos lunged, his sword punching through the man’s ribcage and into his heart.

“Come on!” he yelled. “Follow me, retreat!” The remaining foot soldiers followed after him as he broke into a jog. He kept going for a while, then gestured for the men to follow, stopping to let them pass him, trying to make sure the Stark forces weren’t following. They weren’t. His gambit had worked. The northern destriers, for all their vaunted toughness, were too heavy to race up the mountainside. No, if they wanted to climb, they’d have to walk, or race around the mountains.

Ser Kennos ran, pushing himself back to the front of the group. He kept the group walking, encouraging the men when it helped, ordering them when he needed to. He pushed them on, pushed them to keep walking, even as dusk approached and came, even as the first stars appeared.

They arrived outside Lannisport just after the sun had set, exhausted. Ser Kennos told the men to set up camp. While they set up the tents and the fires, he grabbed a horse and rode into Lannisport.

“Ser Kennos of Kayce, here to see Lord Tygett,” Ser Kennos announced as he stood outside the Lannisport Lannister mansion. The guard was confused, but went inside. A few minutes later, a balding man, though tall and fit, stepped out, dressed in a red doublet with a bronze lion.

“Why have you come?” the man asked, hand on his sword’s pommel.

“To request you send some food from the Lannisport stores to the army about a half-mile from the city limits.” Lord Tygett’s brow furrowed.

“Why are you asking me? What army is this?”

“It used to be Ser Damon’s army, my lord. He died, along with Lord Marbrand, Lord Banefort, Ser Gareth Clifton and Ser Tyrek Lefford. The northmen trapped us, I was forced to lead the men up a mountainside to avoid a wholesale slaughter.”

“Fuck,” Lord Tygett said before composing himself. “I apologize.”

“No need, my lord.”

“I will see that your men are fed.”

“Thank you, my lord. May I have your leave, so that I can inform Ser Kevan?”

“Lord Kevan,” Lord Tygett corrected. “And yes.” Ser Kennos’ brows furrowed, but he said nothing, instead mounting his borrowed palfrey and taking off.

“Who goes there?” a guard in steel armor and a red surcoat shouted.

“Ser Kennos of Kayce, here to see Ser Kevan Lannister! It’s urgent; I come with Lord Tygett Lannister’s permission.” The guard looked at his sergeant, who nodded.

“You may enter. Leave your horse and sword.” Ser Kennos dismounted  and unbuckled his sword belt, handing it to the guard along with his shield. He bit back a laugh when the guard fumbled to try and balance it on top of the halberd he already had.

“Enter,” Ser Kevan said after Ser Kennos knocked on the door to the Lord’s Solar. He entered, but Ser Kevan kept writing his letter, just as he’d heard Lord Tywin did. After a few minutes, the man finished, setting it aside to dry.

“Ah,” Ser Kevan said. “And you are?” Ser Kennos tried to keep his face blank but felt his brows furrow as he noticed Ser Kevan’s vaguely bloodshot eyes.

“Ser Kennos of Kayce, ser,” he replied. Ser Kevan sighed.

“It’s Lord Kevan now, I’m afraid.” Ser Kennos didn’t even try to keep his brows from furrowing this time, instead staring, confused, at Kevan Lannister.

“What?” he asked, unable to stop his confusion. The new Lord Lannister grimaced.

“After your report. I am told you are in Ser Damon’s army?”

“I was, my lord.”

“Was?” Ser Kevan asked, leaving the next question silent. Did you desert?

“Yes, my lord. Ser Damon died at the Battle of Sarsfield.”

“When?”

“Earlier today, my lord. The Starks had advanced from Oxcross. They hid archers in the mountains, along with rockslides. They had a trench, eight feet wide, filled with spikes, across the Ocean Road. Ser Damon ordered the charge when we were sixty paces away. There was no chance to stop for the first two ranks.” Ser--no, Lord-- Kevan sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

“That can’t be all, otherwise you would have retreated to the Golden Tooth.”

“No, my lord,” Ser Kennos said. “The northmen then placed wooden planks across the trench. They charged before we could realize what was happening. They hid the rest of their cavalry in the mountains further up the path. Once our foot soldiers reached our position, they charged. The rest of the command chain died in the ensuing moments. I believe several hundred, possibly a couple thousand, of our foot soldiers deserted, along with some of our horsemen. I led our retreat, charging up the the southern mountainside. We marched for seven hours. We have a few dozen horse and around seven thousand foot.”

“How many dead? And which nobles?” Ser Kennos bit back his comment about how most people were more noble than the nobility, and instead responded.

“Most of the horsemen and knights died, we were completely trapped. Our dead probably numbered a little less than four thousand. The Stark dead were closer to four to six hundred.”

“That much? Gods,” Ser--Lord--Kevan said. “And so few Starks?” He shook his head. “Please, continue. I need to know who we lost.”

“Of course, my lord,” Ser Kennos said. “I saw Ser Damon Lannister, Ser Tyrek Lefford, Lord Damon Marbrand, Ser Gareth Clifton, and Lord Quentyn Banefort die. I heard Ser Samwell Spicer, Lord Rolph Spicer, Ser Derek Banefort, Ser Melwyn Sarsfield, and Lord Alton Drox did as well. Lord Regenard Estren, Ser Lambert Turnberry, Ser Alyn Drox, Lord Boren Sarsfield, Ser Raynald Westerling, Ser Edric Jast, Ser Forley Prester, and Rollam Westerling were in our army, but I haven’t heard what happened to them. Rumor is Ser Drox was captured, but I am not sure.”

“None were with you when you retreated?”

“None of those, my lord. I believe the young squire Josmyn Peckledon is, but I am not so familiar with the look of his face, and his surcoat was destroyed.” Lord Kevan bit back a string of curses, instead asking a question.

“And the enemy nobility?”

“One of the Goodbrooks, two Freys, some of their Mountain Clan men, and someone with a black two-headed axe on white for a surcoat. The last one was only injured.”

“Cerwyn,” Lord Kevan said absent-mindedly. He shook his head, refocusing. “You are sure that both Lord Quentyn Banefort and his son, Ser Derek died?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ser Kennos said, somewhat confused. “Their false king killed Lord Quentyn, and a burly giant of a man stuck a greatsword through Ser Derek. Nowhere near Ser Gregor of course, my lord, but large enough to challenge him.”

“One of the Umbers,” Lord Kevan said. “The lord is called the Greatjon, his son, a half-inch shorter, is called Smalljon.” He sighed, grimaced, and rolled his neck to release some of the stiffness.

“Since you mentioned Ser Gregor,” Lord Kevan said, “This is as good a start to this conversation as I can hope for.”

“My lord?” Ser Kennos asked, extremely confused. Lord Kevan looked down at the desk, sighed, then looked back up at Ser Kennos.

“You will be continuing to lead that army, Ser Kennos,” he said. “So I must tell you this. Both Ser Gregor and Lord Tywin are dead.”

“What?” Ser Kennos exclaimed, almost falling out of his chair. “How? When?”

“The Blackfish,” Lord Kevan spat. “He left Riverrun at the same time as Robb Stark. He split his men, then hid in the woods around Castle Darry and raised the black banner.” Ser Kennos gasped.

“I--I never thought the Starks would do that,” he said. He truly hadn’t. The black banner was something use very rarely, only in extreme cases.

“Robb Stark allowed it against Ser Gregor,” Lord Kevan said. “Which, considering what he did to Princess Elia, Prince Aegon, and his murder of a young knight in a public joust, was arguably justifiable. However, the Blackfish continued to fly the black banner after Ser Gregor was dead. One of our spies overheard him say he would use it until he was ordered not to.”

“Why?” Ser Kennos asked.

“I do not know,” Lord Kevan replied. “Though he flew it frequently during the War of Ninepenny Kings. He snuck a few hundred men through the forest and into Harrenhal. They slaughtered the officers in their room and killed Lord Tywin in bed before sending barrages of arrows into our camp in the courtyard. They burned what they could, hung my brother’s body naked from the side of his room, and left.” Lord Kevan’s mask, which he had tried to use well, as well as Tywin had, was completely cracked by the time he got to the end of the sentence. “The rest of the army has marched on Darry, but have been met by ambushes and traps.”

“We have to let them have Darry, my Lord,” Ser Kennos said. Lord Kevan stared at him like he was the devil come to life. “If we follow them, we’ll lose our other army. Retreat and reorganize, or go and sack Raventree Hall. By the time the Blackfish catches up, his king will have revoked the black banner.”

“Hm, yes. I will send word. Thank you Ser Kennos, for proving what I already planned and thought.”

“My lord?” Ser Kennos asked, deeply confused.

“To lead an army of nobles, you need to be one, Ser Kennos. I therefore name you Lord of Sarsfield and Oxcross. Do you have a name you wish to take?” Ser Kennos, or Lord Kennos now, rather, sat, thinking. He was being given a lordship, not for winning, but for surviving and running away properly. It felt wrong.

“Pitfall, my lord.”

“Pitfall?” Ser Kevan asked, his eyebrow raised.

“Yes, my lord. Many will mock me for having been made a lord for retreating well rather than for winning. I am taking that name and placing a cockroach on my coat. Make their taunts into armor before the first stone is cast. With your permission, my lord?” Lord Kevan raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

“As you wish, Lord Pitfall,” he said.

Chapter Text

Moat Cailin, 299 AC.

Everything was going according to plan. Before leaving the Iron Islands, Asha had arranged Victarion a meeting with Lord Rodrik Harlaw, her uncle. While they would never be the best of friends, they had come to a mutual understanding rather than a shared hatred. For his part, Victarion had managed to corral a few of the prominent captains in the Iron Fleet and arranged for Asha to meet with them. Apparently, that had also gone well. Balon had changed his will, placing Victarion as his heir. Victarion had changed his own will as well, naming Asha as his heir.

Balon’s plans for the North had gone even better than his plans for the throne. Asha had easily taken Deepwood Motte, and was fortifying it against the Mountain Clans. The Rills, Barrowton, the Stoney Shore, and Flint’s Finger had all been taken. The Mormonts had proven quite a lot of trouble, however, as the eighty-boat invasion force had been beaten back from Bear Island, though they had killed Lyra Mormont. The Mormonts, however, had claimed the lives of Lord Botley, Lord Farwynd, Lord Wynch, and Lord Orkwood, making it by far the costliest battle.

The battle of Torrhen’s Square hadn’t been pretty either, but it wasn’t supposed to be. Theon Greyjoy had been assigned to Erik Ironmaker’s crew, and the Ironmaker always loved to be in the center of battle, even in a wheelchair. Somehow, despite being outnumbered two to one, Erik Ironmaker had taken Torrhen’s Square, killed Leobald Tallhart and his two sons, and captured the heir, the daughter, and the wife. Theon had died, as planned, on Leobald Tallhart’s sword.

The Flint Cliffs had also been a surprise, though for a different reason. Nearly four hundred Ironborn died taking that land, and Victarion still hadn’t heard why. Still it did not matter too much. They had already mobilized fifteen thousand men, and controlled nearly all the North’s coastline. The North, sapped of strength by the Young Wolf’s war, could raise perhaps another fifteen thousand soldiers from the areas they had not yet taken. But while northmen were strong and fierce, Ironborn were made of metal. They would not lose, not this time.

Moat Cailin was already close to its former glory three weeks after they had taken it, and they were building further fortifications, and watchtowers along the Fever River. Victarion had heeded his brother’s warning. He had not gone into the swamps of the Neck, staying firm at Moat Cailin, the geographic border.

The reconstruction had gone quickly, even more so than Victarion had imagined. He had three thousand men, and all of them were good and strong workers and warriors. They had lost only a few dozen when they took the ruined castle, and now all but the northwest tower had been repaired. Four watchtowers had been built along the Fever, and another two extending north and east from Moat Cailin. Just two more towers along the Fever, an outer wall, and the Young Wolf’s army would never come north again. Balon wanted him to build three more watchtowers to the east as well, and begin building a fleet for the Bite. His brother was quite ambitious, Victarion thought with a smile. He wanted the whole of the North, not merely the western coast.

For now, Victarion would wait, train, and build. An army would come north at some point, and they would be met with iron and steel.

The Banefort, 299 AC

Robb Stark looked down at the ocean as its waves crashed against the cliffs, below his newest castle. Apparently, they’d killed the last of the Baneforts at the Battle of Sarsfield, which would explain why they’d taken it so easily. They’d gotten the Crag without any fighting thanks to their hostages; Ser Raynald Westerling and his younger brother, Rollam. Robb had left most of his men behind, as he would be heading back that way soon. For now he just watched the waves.

He’d sent most of his men back after learning that the Lannister army they’d beaten had regroup at Lannisport under a newly-appointed Lord Pitfall of Oxcross. His army was fully prepared for an attack at Oxcross, they’d built for one even before they marched on Sarsfield. Two new forts, lots of trenches, and bits of wall for archers to hide behind. Hell, they’d even dug out the hillside added to their steepness. They’d be fine at Oxcross.

It was after Oxcross that he had no idea what to do. Tywin Lannister was dead. The Kingslayer was his captive. He had taken the northern Westerlands, and, thanks to the Lannister retreat to defend the capital, had re-established the borders of the Riverlands. Whatever happened next, it wasn’t going to get any better. The Tyrells had joined the Lannisters, Renly was dead and Stannis no longer relevant. Robb sighed, then went into the solar and composed three letters. One to his mother, one to Lord Kevan Lannister, and one to King Joffrey Lannister and his Small Council. He’d have addressed it more specifically, but the Small Council seemed to change every few seconds.

Having written the letters and dried them, Robb walked to the ravenry. There was a new raven there, from Riverrun. He opened the letter.

My King,

Your mother has released the Kingslayer and Ser Cleos Frey. She is now being followed by guards to prevent this from happening again.

Your faithful servant,

Ser R.

Dammit , Robb thought. He’d have to write the letters again. And another to Lord Karstark. That wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

King’s Landing, 299

Fuck , Cersei thought. Fuck fuck fuck . Nothing was going according to plan. Jaime was still a prisoner, the Tyrells had taken over King’s Landing, the court, and her son, her father was dead, and the Young Wolf had a large slice of the Westerlands, even if he’d lost some of the North.

“Ah, your grace,” Lord Tarly said. “It is good to see you.” Cersei forced her vicious glare away. How dare he. How dare any of them, dare to start a meeting of her son’s Small Council without her, the Queen fucking Regent! They were all cruel, evil people. At least she’d kicked Tyrion out. That was the one good thing about Father being dead. The only one, in truth. No one respected her, although they should. She controlled the Lannister forces here, the Lannister gold, and the realm depended upon it all. She controlled everything, and they still wouldn’t listen to her!

“It is good to see you as well, my lord,” Cersei replied, taking her seat at the head of the table. “Pray tell, what were you discussing?”

“Ah,” Lord Marbrand said. At least she’d managed to get one Lannister ally into the damn council. A pity he didn’t support her. “The Lord Hand was informing us of a peace offer.”

“Oh?” she said. “From who?”

“From Robb Stark,” the fat flower, Mace Tyrell, said. “I am of a mind to reject it, it favors him and the Westerlands to the detriment of the realm.”

“How so?”

“Perhaps you would care to read the letter, your grace?” Aurane Waters said, sliding her a raven scroll. She glared at him. How dare this up-jumped Velaryon bastard, who had sided with Stannis of all people, insult her , the Queen, the Regent, the person who put him on this damned council? She grabbed the scroll from him and unfurled it.

King Joffrey, King of the Six Realms, of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and his Small Council,

I, King Robb Stark, King of Winter, of the North and the Riverlands, offer the following proposal for peace.

My troops shall withdraw completely from the Westerlands. The two swords crafted from Ice shall be returned to us, along with Princess Sansa and the bones of Eddard Stark and the Northmen who went south alongside him. You shall acknowledge the independence of the North and the Riverlands as a joint kingdom. We shall return our captured prisoners to you, and you to us, though we will keep Willem and Martyn Lannister as a guarantee of peace. Both the Bite and the Narrow sea from the Bay of Crabs to ten miles north and five miles east of Maidenpool will be free and open to all parties.

Your truly,

King Robb Stark, King in the North, King of Winter, the North, and the Riverlands.

“You think this favors the Westerlands?” Cersei asked, holding back laughter.

“It does,” the fat flower said. Cersei laughed then, a powerful, bitter laugh.

“It favors no one,” she replied bitingly. “Save the North. I feel we may discard this offer without thought, are we agreed?”

“Yes, your grace,” the small council said.

“What reports do we have of Stannis?” Aurane Waters asked.

“He has few ships, and they are all gathered around Dragonstone. He retains the support of few, only some small houses in the Stormlands, House Bar Emmon, and House Massey. His allies in Nightsong have surrendered and Blackhaven is under siege.”

“Thank you, Lord Tarly,” the fat flower said with more than a little distaste in his mouth. “Have we any news of the krakens, or of the Westerlands?”

“Only some, my Lord Hand,” Varys said. Even his voice angered Cersei, and his perfume and bald head and lack of balls both figurative and literal just made everything worse. Still, he was useful. “The northern kraken has died, while his sister and uncle seem to be working together. The Moat has been rebuilt, not even wolves will pass it easily. As for the lion lands, the young Lord Karyl seems to have grown in confidence and men, for he has attacked a badger in its den and a unicorn’s lair.”

“Speak plainly, eunuch,” Cersei spat. Paxter Redwyne, the Master of Coin (since the Velaryon bastard was Master of Ships) rolled his eyes and sighed. How dare he? He rolled his eyes at Cersei, at her, at his Queen and Regent. She should take his head for a slight like that, he definitely deserved it, but it would have to wait, until Joff and the rose bitch were wed and she with a cub inside her.

“Theon Greyjoy is dead, Victarion’s closed the North from the Neck and is getting along with Asha, and Lord Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest has taken Hornvale and Deep Den,” Lord Redwyne said in a clearly bored tone. Cersei’s eyes flashed, and for a moment she reconsidered killing him now. She thought about killing them all, just having the Kingsguard enter and slaughter all her enemies. The thought brought a smile to her lips and, for the moment, it was enough.

“Thank you, Lord Redwyne,” she said.

The rest of the small council meeting was boring, but that was always the case. She had decided to leave the wedding planning (and costs) to the Tyrells, who were now deeply embedded in a seventy-seven course dinner. Smiling and planning the death of her enemies, Cersei went back to her room and downed a bottle of wine before falling asleep.

Chapter Text

Mountains of the Moon, 299 AC

Gods, it had taken them a long time to get here. Far longer since they were trying to remain hidden. Still, they had done it, and everything was going according to plan.

The Eyrie looked exactly as Chella had described it: very tall, hard to get at, well-defended, and small. Thanks to the Eyrie’s size (and the paths of the Mountain Clans) they didn’t need many to take it. The force of a thousand was probably overkill. Together they would take the small keep carved into the mountain, known as Sky. Seven hundred of their warrior would then move carefully down, led by Ulf, son of Umar, who led the Moon Brothers. Chella and Syrg would lead the other three hundred up the mountainside and into the Eyrie’s cellar. Sigorn waited to attack Stone, a sizeable keep and the first way-castle of the Eyrie, with five-and-ten hundred, including the Howlers, another Vale Mountain Clan. Their father, Styr, lay in wait with the remaining warriors and the Burned Men, the most fearsome of the Mountain Clans they had allied with, led by Timett, son of Timett. They would attack the Bloody Gate from uphill and then Gates of the Moon.

The attack against Sky was child’s play to Syrg. Then snuck towards the gate, climbed up the wall, and within fifteen minutes had killed the small garrison and captured the servants.

“Well,” Syrg said, looking at Chella. “That was boring.”

“Aye,” Chella replied with a laugh. “But the Eyrie will be exciting. Six hundred foot climb, ever done that?” Syrg looked at her with an eyebrow raised, and Chella groaned. “Right, the Wall. How you survived that I’ll never know, you’re far too clumsy not to drop a pick.”

“Hey! I am not that clumsy. Although I did drop a pick. Two, actually. I brought extras,” Syrg finished sheepishly. Chella laughed and pulled him towards her. They kissed deeply, Syrg’s tongue in Chella’s mouth as the two muscles wrestled. When they parted, Chella’s teeth skimmed his bottom lip.

“Don’t fall!” she called up as he began his climb. “You’d take me down with you.” Syrg rolled his eyes playfully, but they soon fell into the silence needed for the job. One by one they climbed up the handholds, their only tools their muscles and an iron grip. Chella was behind Syrg, and behind her was Tyor, one of the Thenns. Another Thenn followed him, and two more before a Mountain Clansman was present. All of them managed to be partway through the climb when Syrg reached the cellar. He quietly opened the trap door and looked around. No one. He climbed up while the rest waited.

The cellar was well-stocked. Clearly this Andal lord liked to be prepared. Syrg looked around a bit more before giving the signal that it was okay to follow. Slowly, the number of warriors in the cellar began to build up. The cellar was large, but not two hundred people large. One hundred had stayed at Sky in case the Andal soldiers tried to come down.

Once again moving carefully, Syrg and Chella headed up the stairs. The opened the door, startling the two guards that were positioned outside it. Chella reacted first, taking one of the knives Syrg had given her and stabbing it into one guard’s throat. Syrg wasn’t as fast, but still beat out the guard, his own dagger slicing the Andal’s throat.

“You go left, I go right?” Chella said. Syrg nodded, and gestured for the men.

“ Eikr, take this tower, ” he said quietly. “ Chella goes right, I go left. Be careful, and have your weapons drawn. ” The Thenns and Clansmen nodded, and split, following their leaders down a path. Syrg moved down the rightward corridor, sword in his left hand, knife in his right. For whatever reason, he couldn’t throw with his left hand.

Coming upon a group of four guards, Syrg threw his dagger and drew his other sword. He ran towards the group, one blade moving down, the other coming up. He sliced through another guard. His sword was blocked, but came back in time to parry. He dodged a strike and lunged, his sword breaking through the man’s armor and into his heart. Arik, the man behind him, thrust his spear into the last guard’s neck. Entering through the doorway the guards had blocked, they came across a set of stairs.

“ Arik, take twenty and go up. Secure the tower. Kill anyone armed, capture the others. ” Arik bowed his head, then gestured for his men to follow him, along with a few others. Syrg continued down the corridor, towards the next tower. There were seven towers in the Eyrie, and the lords usually lived in the Moon Tower, or in the High Hall, to which both Chella and Syrg were racing. Picking up the pace, as they had surely been discovered by now, Syrg and his men broke into a jog.

The next tower had stairs that led to both the rest of the tower and the continued corridor. Syrg raced up them, parrying a guard’s lunge whilst stabbing him with his left-hand sword. He pushed the body aside, coming up with a swing  as he cut through  the next guard, then tried to swing upwards. He missed as the guard stepped back. Syrg forced the man’s sword to the side, but wasn’t quick enough to dodge the shield-blow. Staggered, Syrg barely managed to avoid the man’s slice towards his neck. He feinted low, swung high, and lunged with his left-hand. His left-hand sword cut through the man’s neck. Above him, his men were dealing with the other guards, forcing their way up the stairs.

“ Uhtred! ” Syrg yelled. “ Take the other tower! We’ll handle this one! ”

“ By your will! ” Uhtred responded. Syrg rushed up the stairs, lunging into another guard before shoving one down over the side and down a flight. He and his men fought viciously against the defenders, whose high ground gave them the advantage. But the Thenns fought without the silly Southron ideals of chivalry and proper fighting. War was a hell, always had been, always would be. Their ideals belonged in stories for little children, not on the battlefield. Low blows, hacked away calfs, feints, body-blows, and headbutts won the day.

“ Egor! Take the rest of this tower. Everyone else, with me! ” Syrg shouted, charging into the High Hall. Chella had narrowly beaten him there, leading her men against the throne guards. Syrg saw a woman in fine clothes, with a sickly boy in her lap, stand. She began running towards a weirwood door. Syrg ran after them as the boy screamed, saying, “I don’t want to fly!”

Syrg caught up as the woman reached the weirwood door, grabbing her by the back of her dress. She yanked the door open as he pulled her. Syrg felt the open air, the strong winds. He saw the six-hundred foot drop. How? How could she do that to her own child? he thought. He kicked the door closed, throwing the woman back towards the weirwood throne. A guard ran over towards them, but Syrg still hand a sword in his right hand. He swung towards the guard, ducked the counter, and thrust upwards, cutting through the steel armor and into the man’s heart. The woman stood and tried to run again, but he threw her back down.

“Are you fucking mad?!” he yelled at her when she tried for the third time. “Why are you trying to kill your son?!” The woman sobbed, saying something about tears, lions, and a “Baelish,” whatever that was. He ignored her words, instead standing over her, fending off the remaining guards while making sure the noble captives didn’t escape.

“Who are you?” Syrg asked when the battle was finally done, his sword, face, and armor coated in blood. Chella was walking towards him, her smile wide and hair wild.

“I am the Lady of the Vale!” the woman screamed. “You won’t take my Robin!” Syrg bit back a groan.

“You are Robin?” he asked the young boy, who nodded.

“Can I make you fly?” the boy asked. Syrg laughed.

“No,” he replied. “You have no more power here. Cro-Il! Find some place for the hostages. Make sure the lad isn’t with his mother. ”

“ Are you sure? We always-- ”

“ She’s mad, I think he’d be better without her. ”

“ By your word. ”

“Well then,” Chella said, her pupils so wide they almost erased the blue of her eyes. “That was fun.”

“Aye,” Syrg said with a grin, his eyes meeting Chella’s. He flung his gloves to the ground and pulled her in by the neck of her leathers, pressing his mouth onto hers as they kissed. Their tongues dueled for a while as their warriors began stacking up the bodies. Tomorrow they’d be crafting more weapons. Tonight, however, was theirs.

As their lips parted, they were breathing hard.

“Want to break in a lord’s room?” Chella asked. Syrg responded wordlessly, simply echoing a hungry growl through his throat and following Chella as she pulled them through the hall and up the stairs. The lord’s rooms were vast, overlooking the whole of this land, which the Andals called the Vale and the Free Folk called the Mountains of the Moon. The view was breathtaking, but there was something more beautiful waiting for Syrg.

He turned from the view, throwing Chella onto the bed, unbuckling his armor and letting it drop, along with his sword belt. Covered in his leathers, he leapt onto the bed, his hands pinning Chella’s wrists as he kissed her deeply, biting teasingly and pulling her lip with him as they parted. His hands moved quickly, undoing the hooks and leather ties that held her leathers together, his mouth tracing down her jawline as he drew a moan from Chella. He kissed lower, moving to her throat, sucking on it, biting it as he drew sounds from the fierce warrior that even a whore would struggle to match. He sat up, hips over her, looking down at her.

“What are you doing?” Chella growled, impatient at her lover. Syrg smirked, fire playing behind his eyes.

“Looking at you,” he said, rolling his hips across hers. She bucked upwards in response and traced a hand down his chest, drawing a groan from him.

“You,” Syrg said, pulling down her leather shirt as he kissed down her collarbone, down to the solar plexus. “Are a fierce, beautiful warrior.” He sat up, yanking the rest of her shirt off and tossing it aside. He looked into her eyes, his irises vanished. “My warrior,” he growled. “ My fierce, ” he said, kissing along her ribcage with each word. “ Beautiful, wild, fearsome, warrior. ” As he said the last word, he kissed her breast, then quickly down to her nipple. Chella moaned and arched into the touch as his hand played with her other breast, his teeth teasing her nipple as he sucked and pulled on it. Her right breast was gathered and palmed in his left hand. His left thumb pressed her nipple into her breast and Chella keened. His breath was warm against her skin as he chuckled, his right hand tracing down her side. Her hands wound into his hair as he kissed down her, moving below her ribcage. Growing impatient, she pushed him down.

“So desperate,” Syrg said said with a laugh, unbuttoning her leather breeches. She whined as he kissed back up her stomach, and squealed as his fingers teased her clit before pulling the last of her leathers down, her smallclothes along with them. He kept kissing up her as her hands left his hair, undoing the ties and hooks of his leathers. His hands moved as she pulled it off him, and she began working on his breeches. His left hand entered her, and she moaned, hips bucking involuntarily, hre hands falling slack at his breeches. His lips played with her breasts, then along her throat, one hand in her, the other playing with her breasts one minute, her clit the next as she struggled to pull off the last of his clothing.

His left hand moved faster as he kissed along her neck, his right pinching, pulling, and rubbing her clit. When he bit down on her neck and curled his fingers inside her she came undone with a shout and buck of her hips.

She lay there for a moment before flipping Syrg onto his back and shucking his pants off of him. She didn’t give him a moment to protest, her lips claiming his while her hand held his cock steady as she lowered herself onto him. She moaned and he groaned as she reached the base. She rolled her hips and he groaned again. Their lips met once more as she began to ride him, hands propping herself up against the bed as one of his played with her clit, the other holding onto her breast.

He heard her coming close and pushed her up, hand going to the back of her neck, keeping himself in her as he slammed her into the bedchamber wall. He pulled her right leg up with his left hand and lifted her off the ground. She moaned his name as he thrust into her, one of her hand on his back, the other on her clit. She came again, and Syrg sped up, chasing his own release as he moaned her name. She thrust back into him, her head resting in the crook of his neck, kissing along it before pleasure overcame her once more and he thrust only a few more times, his seed shooting deep inside her.

They leaned against the wall, Chella’s arms wrapped around Syrg’s neck, his forehead resting against the wall just above hers as they breathed heavily. He pulled out, but hoisted her further into the air. Her legs wrapped around his chest as he carried them to the bed, flopping onto it. Her legs unwrapped and she rolled to his side, letting out a pleased sigh as he did the same. She pulled the furs over them and Syrg rolled onto his side, his arm laying across her chest, holding her close. Her arm ran under his body, holding onto his bicep.

“My fierce warrior,” Syrg said sleepily, with a smile. Chella smiled back and kissed him before they both fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Western Crownlands, 299 AC

The Tyrell army was gathering in the distance. It was large, impossibly large compared to their own forces. Twenty thousand more were marching on the riverlands from the south, crossing the Gold Road and then the Blackwater Rush. Thirty thousand were gathered to attack the ten thousand Rivermen gathered around the Antlers. Another fifteen thousand, mostly Westermen and crownlanders, marched on Maidenpool’s five-thousand strong army. Twenty thousand more reachmen came up the Kingsroad and from Sow’s Horn, likely aiming for Harrenhal and Darry.

Losing the North itself had been devastating for morale. In a single strike, Greyjoy had cut them off below the neck and taken a third of the North. Most of the men of the North were angry and confused as to what they were still doing in the south, fighting the Rivermen’s war. It had taken serious effort to calm the Bolton camp, and the Rywell and Dustin camps were far worse. Much like their men, many of the nobles were unsure as to why they were still here. The war had been going well up to now, but with the Ironborn attacks came the first wave of doubt, and that was an opportunity.

Roose Bolton was never one to pass up opportunities. And so he had gathered them here, ten miles northwest of the Antlers, to discuss what was to come. There were no Rivermen in this host, for he had organized it himself and gotten the Young Wolf to sign off on it. The blind fool was too trusting, even after his father had died from the same mistake.

His former good-father was the first to appear. He still had good relations with the Ryswells, especially Barbery. They shared a dislike of the Starks, and Domeric had once been her page.

Andre Dustin was the next to enter, the good-uncle of his former good-sister. The Dustins, formerly Stark loyalists, had begun to turn when the young Lord Willem was killed during a private mission for Eddard Stark. The Glovers and the Tallharts followed, neither with ties to the Dreadfort, but both strong houses who had lost their seats due to Robb Stark’s foolishness. The Wolfswood Houses trailed in after the Glovers. Lord Harrion Karstark was also in attendance. He had lost two brothers to this Southron war, and the King’s mother had freed their killer. After his father tried to claim revenge, the King killed him. Good enough reason for betrayal.

“My lords,” Roose began in his trademark voice. Soft, cold, but enticing enough that one leaned in to hear it better. “The Tyrell forces are a day away. They number thirty thousand, a third of which are mounted. They have as many knights as we have men.”

“Then we’ve lost,” Lord Galbart Glover said. “We stand on an open field, our only defense a small castle twenty miles behind us, against a host thrice our size.” There were mutterings of agreement.

“What are you suggesting then?” Lord Harrion asked. “We were told to stay here. We know what happens to those who don’t follow the King’s orders, even when they’re wrong.” There were some mutterings, but they were drowned out by Lord Torrhen Tallhart.

“Bite your tongue!” he snapped, and turned to his guards. “Make sure no one’s listening.”

“No one is,” Roose said, and all heads turned to him. “My most loyal soldiers are guarding all sides of this tent, my lords. We may speak freely.” A thin smile came across his mouth as the other lords smirked, and Lord Tallhart began to speak again.

“We cannot do what the King has said, and we cannot disobey him either.” He sighed, then looked up with a fire in his eyes. “I refuse to be the last of my line,” he said. “My sons are dead. My grandson and good-daughter are held by the Ironborn, and no one knows where my granddaughter is. Robett, your family is held by them as well. So is yours, Rodrik. The Wolfswood is being hacked apart for squid-ships. Fuck this war. We need to go home and deal with those bastards.”

“How?” challenged Robett Glover. “The Ironborn hold Moat Cailin and the seas, not that we’ll make it that far before the Rivermen kill us for desertion.”

“My lords,” Domeric Bolton said. Ser Domeric Bolton, a knight of the Old Gods, Roose reminded himself. He had to bury a smile as he watched his son play the crowd. His son’s one weakness, his longing for a brother, had been destroyed when the bastard Ramsey had tricked him, captured him, and tried to flay him. Roose had saved his life, and Domeric had never forgotten the lesson. “We head east, not west.”

“How does going further into the south get us home?” Lord Tallhart demanded.

“Maidenpool,” Domeric said.

“Won’t he tell the King?” Harrion Karstark asked. Domeric shook his head.

“They live on the Crownlands border,” he said. “If we leave Stark’s crusade, they will let us. I understand justice, family, and honor. I understand why we started this war. But at what point do we stop? We will never seize King’s Landing, nor shall we resurrect Lord Stark. We have lost many thousands of men in this war already. Let us stop before there are none left.” The tent was silent for a moment, a long pause that simply stretched on, no one daring to break it.

“What would you have us do?” Lord Glover asked. This time, Lord Roose Bolton was the one to respond.

“We bend a knee and go home. We call those we can, the rest of the men that the Young Wolf was too impatient to wait for. Then we ride west, and show the squids a Northern welcome.” Bloodthirsty grins broke forth on the faces of the Northern Lords.

Two hours later, Ser Domeric Bolton was leading their army northeast, towards Maidenpool, while the lords or their representatives went to the Antlers. They bent the knee to Lord Mace Tyrell, Hand of the King, and caught up with the army outside Maidenpool.

The five thousand Mooton men defending Maidenpool had already ‘surrendered’ to the Tyrell host. A fleet was awaiting them.

“Lord Bolton,” William Mooton said. “Everything according to plan?”

“Yes, Lord Mooton,” Roose replied, sitting high on his horse. “The ships are ready?”

“That they are, that they are. Congratulations upon your son’s betrothal.”

“Thank you, Lord Mooton. If you will excuse me, we must leave soon. King’s orders.”

“Oh, of course, of course. Good day to you then Ser, of course.” As they rode off towards the docks, Domeric cocked an eyebrow at his father.

“My betrothal?” he said, somewhat bemused. Roose smirked at him. Before Domeric had learned caution, they had a testy relationship. Their dark views now aligned, they got along well.

“You have been promised the Queen Mother, it seems,” Roose Bolton said. “Do not give me that look son, we are to be the Lords Paramount now, and she comes with quite a dowry. What a shame that southerners do not do well in the cold.” Domeric looked at him, a smirk on his face and eyes gleaming.

“Such a shame,” he drawled.

Chapter Text

Sarsfield, 299 AC

Lord Karyl Vance led the greatest army in the Riverlands, and it was not a close contest. Add to that the Vances of Atranta, and his army grew again. After the fall of House Justman, they had ruled the the lands west of the Trident, from Wendish Town to the Twins. They had joined the Tullys in the rebellion against House Hoare when the dragons arrived, they had brought and lost more men and both lords in the fight, yet were given no titles. In the following centuries, land was given to many houses, mostly taken from them. Driving in the pain was that Armistad Vance, founder of both houses Vance, had given the Tullys their status, their land, and Riverrun.

Lord Karyl and his cousin, Ser Ronald Vance, heir to Atranta, had seen the war as a way to take back those losses. They had fully committed, gathering every bit of their strength and, between the two of them, gathering fifteen thousand men.

They had acquitted themselves more than well. It was Vance men who helped take Darry and Harrenhal. It was Vance men who had broken the siege of Riverrun, who had taken Oxcross, Sarsfield, and Ashemark. It was Lord Karyl who had, with only a third of the Vance men, taken Hornvale and Deep Den. Yet they had not been given anything for all their efforts, for the death of Lord Kennon Vance, Lord Karyl’s father. The Westerlands were offered to the crown for peace, Darry was to go to a third-cousin of the late lord, and Harrenhal was to be bargained away.

So, when the new Lord Kennos Pitfall of Oxcross and Sarsfield had approached Lord Karyl with an offer, he had not rejected it out of hand. When Lord Kevan Lannister came to see him, Ser Marq Piper, and Ser Ronald personally, along with Ser Garlan Tyrell as his father’s messenger, they had listened closely, and accepted.

The Atranta men, positioned along the Blackwater Rush, had gathered at two bridges that they alone garrisoned. The Vance men had spread out and away from King Robb’s host in the Westerlands, garrisoning the ten strongholds the North had seized in the Westerlands.

The first step would happen tomorrow morn. Lord Kennos’ army would be engaged with King Robb’s. Five thousand Vance men would appear as a relief force, but instead attack the Northmen, playing upon them the same trick used at Sarsfield.

They would be well-rewarded this time, that was certain. It was on a document, already signed by the King, and affixed with the seal of all.

The cries of battle never sounded sweet. It sounded of shrill screams, of low roars, of piss, blood, sweat, and shit. The continued sound of metal on metal with no time to grab water always resulted in headaches. But this time, this time Lord Karyl might just enjoy the battle. All the more if he could push towards the front lines. See his former King one last time.

They charged without warning, without a signal. His men, along with those of Pinkmaiden, streamed towards the northern host. Lord Karyl was at the front of the charge, his former squire, Ser Marq Piper, beside him. Their lances were not as heavy as the northmen’s, but they killed all the same. They blew through the reserves, dropping lances and drawing swords as the entered the chaos of the front lines. Karyl hacked down, his sword slicing through two men, then another. He pushed his horse forward, and lunged down when he saw the Smalljon coming towards him. His sword pierced through the Umber heir’s eye, and the man was dead. He heard a roar, and turned just in time to see the man’s father charging at him. Karyl moved his shield quickly, hoping it was quick enough.

It was, but dear gods did his arm hurt. The 6’10” man sat tall on a horse, his great sword swinging at Lord Karyl’s head. Karyl blocked it with his shield, then ducked. He parried it, barely avoiding death and jarring his arm. He ducked again as the Greatjon thrust over his head, and thrust his own sword up, into the Greatjon’s stomach. The giant of a man roared, but didn’t fall or die, simply punching Karyl in the head with a mailed fist, sending him tumbling off the horse.

Lord Karyl quickly got to his feet, surrounded by enemy men-at-arms. He ducked, dodged, blocked, and parried as he cut through them, pushing ever forwards. A horse reared before him, and he dodged to the side, leaping into the air and stabbing before he could see who it was.

Lord Karyl fell onto the dirt again when the Greatjon’s body toppled onto him. He excavated himself, and finished off the mighty lord with a slit throat.

He kept moving, kept swinging, kept fighting. He was nearing the end of the northern host, he was sure of it. His arm was tired, his shield too heavy and his brow too sweaty but Lord Karyl Vance, the rightful Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, was not about to give up then and there. Instead he charged, his shield slamming into someone’s back as his sword sliced through another’s. He ducked a blow, then cut halfway through their throat. The man he’d shoved turned around, murder in his eyes. Oh fuck , Lord Karyl thought. It was Robb Stark.

“To me, Grey Wind!” Lord Karyl heard. He knew he had no time, and instead of running, strategizing, or doing anything smart he dropped everything and lunged at the king, who had not expected it in the least. They had spent time on the front lines together before the King had betrayed him, and Lord Karyl was nothing if not careful. The king moved to slap his blade aside, but it was too late. The sword cut into Lord Karyl’s hand instead, slitting the king’s throat as he refused to let go, his own sword piercing the right of the king’s trachea instead of the left.

There was a howl, and Lord Karyl was bowled over. Jaws clamped on his forearm and he yelled in pain, grabbing his dagger and shoving it into Grey Wind’s eye. The wolf’s claws bit through his armor, cutting his thighs and his stomach as Lord Karyl stabbed again and again into the direwolf’s face, doing his best to block the attempts to bit his neck and ignore the pain throughout his arm as the teeth bit down hard, then clenched harder. His shield arm hung limp as the direwolf lunged again, and Lord Karyl barely got his sword arm up in time, feeling the muscles tear as the direwolf’s teeth bit down.

Swords began poking out of the direwolf’s body, several blades, and it took three stabs from them all before Grey Wind joined the former king.

“Fuck, Karyl,” Ser Marq said. “That was a battle.” Lord Karyl struggled to stand, pushing himself up.

“Aye,” he said through gritted teeth, looking down at his arm. It was bleeding, but not as badly as he’d feared. It would need to be washed with water and hard liquor, but would likely be fine. He winced as he started to walk. Blood ran down his thighs and calves, but were not too deep. His arms, on the other hand, were from hell. The Greatjon’s brutal attack had likely broken his wrist, and the wolf attack had torn his shield arm apart and dislocated his shoulder. Even worse, it was an animal attack. He sighed.

“Guess I’ll have to douse myself in alcohol,” he said to his former squire. Ser Marq winced in sympathy.

“Odds are you’ll get more torn up taking you armor off than from the wolf,” he responded. “I’ll help you out of it, just like old times.” Lord Karyl nodded as the two walked towards the command tent.

“As I recall,” Lord Karyl said. “In those days I saved your arse, rather than you saving mine.”

“Well then,” Ser Marq said. “Looks like we Pipers pay our debts too.” Lord Karyl laughed weakly and hobbled towards the tent, where Ser Marq and a squire began to take off his armor. Another squire grabbed some clean rags, a jug of strong liquor, and another of water.

“Are you throwing a party?” Lord Kennos asked, stepping into the tent. Lord Karyl smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Prevents--ow, damnit Marq!”

“Sorry!”

“Anyways,” Lord Karyl said, beginning to remove the boiled leather jacket. “It stops infections. Water, alcohol, water, wrapping.”

“Ah,” Lord Kennos said. “That would explain King Robert.”

“How?”

“It’s obvious,” Lord Kennos said with a straight face. “During the war, he washed his wounds with wine. The winemakers didn’t know, so they just kept sending him shipments after the war, and, well,” he said, holding out his hands to imitate Robert’s width. “Gotta do somethin’ with it.” The squire laughed, Ser Marq chuckled, and Lord Karyl had a wry laugh.

“In all seriousness,” Lord Kennos said. “I thank you for your aid. Their defenses were strong, we could not have won without you.”

“You’re welcome,” Lord Karyl said in a slow, confused voice, brows furrowing.

“Wondering where the arrogance is?” Lord Kennos asked.

“Perhaps,” Ser Marq said.

“I’m smallfolk,” Lord Kennos said. “Used to be a guard, then a household knight for Lord Fairman. Everyone else died when you trapped us at Sarsfield--don’t say anything, I know you were there. I led the retreat, and the rewarded me with lands someone else was camping on.” Lord Karyl laughed at that.

“It is good motivation,” he said.

“Aye, that it is. Now,” Lord Kennos said, clearing his throat. “This was has produced many widows in the Lannister family and those tied to it.”

“Aye,” Lord Karyl said hesitantly. “It has done the same in our lands.”

“Fuck, I’m not good at this,” said Lord Kennos, clearing his throat again. “Have a look at this.” Lord Karyl raised an eyebrow, but took the scroll from Lord Kennos. His eyebrow only continued to rise as he read it.

Ser Kennos Pitfall, Lord of Oxcross and Sarsfield,

As you are well aware, the recent deaths of Ser Damon Lannister, Ser Stafford Lannister, and King Robert have left many women of or connected to the Lannister family without one of their own. As Queen Cersei is to wed Ser Domeric Bolton, the heir to the Dreadfort, you need not worry about her. It would, however, do you well to tie yourself to my family. Make sure to propose a similar offer to the widowed Lord Karyl Vance and the younger Ser Marq Piper. The available female members of our family, including widowed mothers of children having the Lannister name are:

 Lady Darlessa Marbrand, Widow of Ser Tygett Lannister, Mother of Ser Tyrek Lannister (deceased), second cousin of myself and Lady Gemma Lannister.

Lady Ella Lannister, Widow of Ser Damon Lannister, mother of Ser Damion Lannister-castellan of Casterly Rock and husband of Lady Shiera Crakehall, grandmother of Lucion and Lanna Lannister.

Lady Myranda Lefford, widow of Ser Stafford Lannister, mother of Ser Daven Lannister and his sisters Cerenna and Myrielle, aunt of Lady Alysanne Lefford who is Lady of the Golden Tooth following her father and brother’s deaths.

All of these women come with generous dowries, as is befitting of Lannister women. Other women available throughout the Westerlands, should Lord Karyl choose not to be tied to us directly, are:

Lady Orla Crakehall, first cousin of Lord Crakehall

Lady Jeyne Fairman, widow of Ser Gareth Clifton, mother of a dozen children, sister of Lord Fairman

Lady Ella Lannett, sister of Ser Damon Lannett

Lady Joanna Lantell, daughter of Ser Ferris Lantell

Lady Alysanne Lefford, daughter of Lord Leo Lefford (deceased) Lady of the Golden Tooth

Shierle Swyft, Widow of Ser Melwyn Sarsfield, daughter of Ser Harys Swyft

Lady Jeyne Westerling, daughter of Lord Gawen Westerling

Yours truly,

Lord Kevan Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.

Rolling his eyes, Lord Karyl handed the scroll back to Lord Kennos.

“Aye, you’re not good at it,” Lord Karyl said. “But he’s worse.” Lord Kennos chuckled and left the tent as the maester entered. Lord Karyl swore as the alcohol cleansed his wounds, tensing his muscles in an attempt to not yank his limbs away from the man's cruel ministrations.

“What do you think that was about?” Ser Marq asked as the maester moved on to wrapping the wounds.

“Lord Lannister wants me to swear allegiance,” Lord Karyl said bitterly.

“To whom?”

“To him.”

“One Lord Paramount swearing allegiance to another? It’s never been done!” the maester said, eyes wide. Karyl smiled slightly at the old man.

“Aye,” he said. “They’ve also never owned lands in another region.” Ser Marq slowly exhaled, giving himself a moment to think.

“Is it worth it?” he asked.

“It depends,” Lord Karyl said. Though the maester and his friend looked at him expectantly, Lord Karyl said nothing. Instead, he was deep in thought. After a moment, the maester went back to treating him and his former squire exited the tent. If he was going to marry one of them, it would be the Lady Lefford. The Golden Tooth didn’t get its name from an orthodontist lord. Still, it would make the Riverlords furious to have their lord swear allegiance to a Westerman. Perhaps he could find some way to annex the territory. If he could both end the war while getting the Riverlands a prize for the blood spilt, he would be a hero to all but the Tully loyalists.

Chapter Text

Banks of the Blackwater Rush, 299 AC

“Retreat! Head for High Heart!” the Blackfish yelled. He wheeled his horse around, kicking it into action and pushing through the ranks. He had planned for an orderly retreat, but that went to hell when the Tyrell buggles sounded a charge. All he and his men could do was hope they made it fast enough that the knights would be tired. He poured all of his anger into the retreat, forcing his horse to run, to keep running as it broke into a gallop and pushed North from the Blackwater Rush.

He was angry, if that was even a large enough word to describe it. Furious, perhaps, and confused. Betrayed, the word came to him at once. He felt betrayed. He’d given the Vances, Ser Roland included, command of the eastern bridges. Ten thousand reachmen would be coming along the Gold Road from King’s Landing, another ten thousand from the Reach itself. He’d been given fifteen thousand men, and it was a bottleneck. They could have won, they would have won, until Ser Ronald Vance, the man his nephew called his closest friend, stepped aside and joined the enemy.

“Fuck the Vances.”

He regrouped the army at Tumbler Falls, but it was far fewer than fifteen thousand men now, closer to seven, maybe eight. They slept along the headwaters of the Blackwater Rush, and set off early the next morning.

If the Vances of Atranta had betrayed them, so would the Vances of Wayfarer’s Rest, who made up much of their army in the Westerlands. His niece’s son, his King, was at best heading back for Riverrun, or--most likely--dead.

They had to take the long way to Riverrun, around Acorn Hall since the Smallwoods were Vance bannermen. It took just over two weeks for his broken army to reach Riverrun, which he was glad to see still flew Tully flags. His men set up camp as he rode into Riverrun, where his niece greeted him.

“Uncle!”

“Cat!” he replied, almost jumping from his saddle. He moved quickly and hugged her. When he pulled back he saw her bloodshot eyes and shaking hands. “What’s wrong?” She shook her head as tears began to fall and he embraced her again before returning to camp.

“Fortify the River Road to the north and south,” he said. “Move the camp to where the Tumblestone touches the castle grounds, we’ll be safest there. Have men on duty watching from all sides, including across the river. Three-shifts this night. I want five-man scouting parties on foot, one every two hours during the day, one every three at night. Go no further than two miles. Understood?”

“Yes, ser!” the men shouted. The Blackfish relaxed, and Brynden Tully headed back towards Riverrun.

“Father’s dead.” He turned towards the small, soft voice he hadn’t heard from Cat in years, if not decades. She sat, hardly eating, though it was a private dinner and her favorite dish (seared trout with horseradish, red wine sauce, and garlic mashed potatoes). He didn’t say anything, he just pulled her towards him, hugging her like he had before he’d run off from Hoster’s threats of marriage. Her head rested on his shoulder.

“Robb’s dead,” she said after a pause. “They killed him at Oxcross. The same way he beat them, trapped between two forces.”

“The Vances?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“And the Pipers,” she said, her voice trembling. She pulled back and looked him in the eyes, her own holding tears that for some physics-defying reason had yet to fall. “They’re gone,” she said in a whisper. “Bran is missing, Robb’s dead, Sansa’s with the Lannisters, Rickon is surrounded by Ironborn and Boltons. Arya’s here, Lannisters are coming from every direction. How did this happen? It seems like yesterday we were winning the war with half the Westerlands in our grasp, and suddenly everything’s gone.” She began to cry, and he pulled her back into him as sobs began to wrack her body. His own tears fell, fewer and quieter, but there all the same.

Two days later, they heard that Edmure had died. He’d fought the Lannisters at Darry and lost, badly. The Vance-Lannister army was coming up the River Road and already past Wayfarer’s rest. The Vance-Tyrell army had taken High Heart. The Crownlands-Lannister army was heading north, along the King’s Road. Those had been the ones Edmure fought. They were likely at the Crossroads Inn. The last Tyrell army had taken the empty Harrenhal, setting off more than a few of the traps he’d made for the Lannisters. They were laying siege to Raventree Hall.

The news from the North was just as bad. The crannogmen said Moat Cailin was practically impenetrable from the south, and that there was no way around it. The Boltons had split their forces, most going south while some approached the Wolfswood. For now, at least, it seemed they were ignoring the Stark Loyalists and focusing on the Ironborn. It was good politics on their part, going after the enemy everyone hated. If the Manderlys or the Cerwyns attacked them, the smallfolk would support the Boltons. It was smart and annoying politics, but it meant Rickon was safe. For now, at least.

He’d been trying to form a plan with Cat, but that was hard. They rarely agreed on what it should be, only on what it couldn’t be. Riverrun could last for years against a siege, but years were not forever. The Boltons outnumbered the Starks in the North, and they had no way to get there without either going through Lannister or Ironborn controlled land, so the North was off the table for now.

Cat thought they should flee to Essos. They could board a ship from House Terrick and sail around Westeros. It was risky though, as they’d have to sail around the Iron Islands and the coastline of the Westerlands, the Reach, and Dorne. It would also require the Manderlys to remain loyal, and to smuggle Rickon out of Winterfell and onto a ship they’d meet in Braavos. It was, however, possible.

The safest bet would be to hide in the neck. No one could find Greywater Watch besides the crannogmen, and they had never betrayed its position. Howland Reed had been one of Ned’s closest friends, he’d be more than willing to hide them. It would be rough, and certainly a less luxurious lifestyle than they were used to, but they would survive. The crannogmen of the neck may be strange to most, but they were loyal and reliable. The only downside was that they would still have to trust the Manderlys with Rickon. There was no other way to get him out of the North, and to wherever he was going.

Unfortunately, making a decision was extremely hard, as was pinpointing how long they had to make said decision. Which is why both of them were take by surprise when a group flying a white flag and both Vance banners (as well as the Piper’s pale lady) was a shock to them both.

“How did they get here so fast?” Catelyn asked him.

“I have no idea,” he replied, before sighing. “But we should see what they want.”

Chapter Text

Strongsong, 299 AC

So. This was to be his home. Not bad, not bad at all. It was a strong castle, built on a flattened mountaintop, the lower levels carved down into the mountain itself. It was a tall mountain, though thankfully not as tall as the Eyrie, which was fairly absurd. The Eyrie was impossible to get to, which was great if you were being hunted, or if you were a hermit. It allowed women, like that insane lady, to leap out of doors. It was worse than useless for a real leader, one who lived amongst their people. Hence, his father would be moving the capital. Though to where was not certain. Runestone used to be the capital before the Andals arrived, but it was on the coast and far from the center of the Mountains of the Moon. But nowhere else was truly large enough, save perhaps Strongsong, which was too high up and too far west to be the capital. Heart’s Home, the home of the Andal Corbrays, had the best location, but was small, at least for these southron castles.

Syrg shook his head. Choosing a capital could wait. Now they had to take Strongsong. Chella had led him and four hundred warriors up the goat paths and hidden trails, but the castle truly was well-defended. He was glad they were taking it before word would leak out about their invasion. If this castle was fully manned, that would have been a very different issue.

Instead, there is only a light guard, two per doorway, four at the main door. Eight on patrol.

“ Eikr, ” he said. “ Pass me my bow. ” Eikr silently handed him the bow, and Syrg wrapped his hand around the familiar material, smiling. It had been a long time since he used this bow. It was made for killing, not hunting. Knocking an arrow, he drew the bowstring back, carefully aiming for the guard. He breathed in, then out as he let the arrow fly. He knocked another immediately, turning the bow slightly as he aimed for the second guard. He breathed in, then out, letting the arrow loose as the first guard was struck in the eye. By the time the second guard knew to look, he had an arrow in his throat. Smiling, Syrg moved forward, gesturing for his men to follow. Fifty of them did. They would clear out the first floor, then open the gates for the rest to follow.

“What is that bow?” Chella asked as she moved beside him. Syrg had spent enough time in the mountains that he could walk through them, across them, skip and jump in them, but never like Chella. She moved fluidly, without paying attention to the myriad dangers the unstable stone and dust-covered rocks hid. She moved down a mountainside like he did across snow.

“Dragonbone,” Syrg replied, keeping his voice quiet. “I won it from a Dothraki khal. Drank him under the table.” Chella tried not to laugh, and Syrg smiled at the memory. The oh-so-tough warrior hadn’t fallen under the table, but had gone to sleep on it. His bloodriders had given Syrg the bow before hauling him off, laughing the whole time. He wondered if that counted as a defeat for the khal. Probably not, he could keep his hair.

Spotting a patrolling pair, Syrg held up his hand and the party stopped. He drew his bow again, waiting for the right moment. The first one dropped as he stepped under an archway, the second as he stepped out from under it. They moved again, and as another guard moved into view, Syrg shot him without pausing, then shot his companion. He had ridden with a Dothraki khalasar for eight and ten moons, and with the Jogos Nhai for a year. It had been the best way to get from Yi Ti to the Free Cities after he’d learned all he could from Asshai and Trader Town.

Syrg stole the keys from one of the guards he’d killed quickly unlocking the door and hauling it open. It was made of thick oak, bound with iron. A solid door if ever there was one, not unlike the ones they would use when they still lived in Thenn.

One by one, they opened the four doors and killed the guards. The warriors came in, and they snuck up the stairs. They went room by room, creeping along. They killed the soldiers in the barracks, a knife across the throat or a sword through the heart before they could understand what had happened. They killed the lord of the house, an old man with no wife. They killed the man they thought was his heir, though he was asleep with a dozen wine bottles around his bed. They secured the armory, and gathered the servants into a room.

“ All clear, ” one of his captains said. “My lord,” he added cheekily. Syrg groaned and grimaced.

“ Mekr, ” he said. “ Never call me that again. ”

“ Call you what, my lord?” Syrg growled and shoved Mekr into a wall. Mekr simply laughed.

“ I should never have taught you that tongue! ”

“ Ah, you’ll be grateful when you find the servants haven’t all shit themselves this time! ” Mekr shouted back. Syrg sighed and walked up the stairs, Chella at his side. The servants had been gathered in the Great Hall. It was guarded by fifty of his men.

“ Good gods, ” Syrg said upon seeing the flock of servants. “ He had so many? ”

“ And they told me it’s relatively few, ” Eikr said. Syrg shook his head in amazement. There were at least two hundred gathered in the hall, from cooks to horsemasters, from seamstresses to blacksmiths. Looked at Chella, who shrugged. He took a deep breath, and turned to face the servants.

“Sorry to wake you all,” Syrg said in the torch-lit room. “I thought it better to tell you of the changes than simply letting you awake to them. I am Syrg, son of Styr, who is Magnar of the Thenns. The old man you once served and his drunken son are dead.” Syrg was surprised to see so few reactions. Then again, few Southrons actually acknowledged that those working for them were just as human.

“There will likely be many changes in the coming days,” Syrg said. “My people are not used the decadence of these lords, nor do we desire it. Despite whatever rumors or words you may have heard, we do not keep slaves, nor do we eat or sacrifice humans. In two days, you will be free to leave whenever you wish. However if you stay I will not treat you as your lord likely did. You are human, that much is clear, for I see neither scales nor hooves on any of you.” Some of his own men chuckled, but few among the servants did. Fair enough, he thought. Most of them were probably scared.

“Should you choose to serve me, you will be treated well, fed well, and provided for. Should any wrong befall you, those responsible shall be punished, regardless of who they think they are.”

“What if it’s your son?” one of the servants asked, shouting from the back.

“I don’t have any children,” Syrg replied. “But if I did and they committed a crime, they would be punished as befit the crime. The same is true for my warriors, my brother, my future nieces and nephews. I cannot promise that you will find love under my rule, that you will live well, that your children shall survive and that your grandchildren shall grow happy as you watch. I cannot promise that you will be safe, that you will be rich, or that you will be happy. What I can promise is that I live with and like you. If you are of my people, I will share food in times of famine, share blood in times of war, share wealth in times of poverty, and see that justice be done for my people are my brethren.”

“But we are not of your people!” a servant shouted out. The others agreed, and Syrg just looked around, confused.

“ Fucking southrons, ” he growled, before responding.

“My people are all who live with me,” Syrg said. “I know not what petty ideas these southron lords have forced upon you, but those who live by my rules, you are my people. In Thenn we lived by my father’s rules, and we were all one people, though we shared not parents nor grandsires. Your lords see you as bugs to do their bidding, but we Thenns protect the people, not just our blood family. I have chosen you, all of you who live on these lands. Those who choose me by following my rule, they are of my people, if not my clan. Understood?” There was a murmuring of “yes” throughout the crowd, and he supposed that would have to do for now. “Good, you may return to your chambers to sleep. Eikr, escort them back please. ” Eikr nodded, and led the servants back to their chambers, the fifty men splitting into groups to lead them.

“ Good gods, ” Syrg said, massaging his forehead.

“ You did well, ” Chella said. “ Keep to your words, they will follow you. My clan does the same. ” Syrg turned and smiled at her, his eyes bright.

“I am lucky to have you at my side,” he said. “A fierce warrior, a brilliant advisor, a good leader, and a beautiful woman. How can one person contain it all?” Chella laughed as Syrg pulled her closer and threw her arms around his neck.

“Well,” she said, kissing his cheek. “How do you manage being a polyglot, the man who solved the mystery of Valyrian steel, a great warrior, a good leader, and the prophetic voice of your people?”

“I, um, well,” Syrg stammered, blushing heavily. Chella laughed, and he scowled. She leaned up and kissed him, her teeth pulling at his lip as it ended.

“I’m not bribed that easily,” he said with a growl. Chella smiled and leaned in, her hands tracing down his chest.

“Good,” she said, looking into his eyes. He saw her blue irises shrink, overtaken by her growing pupils as she gave him a smoldering look. “I was looking forward to breaking in another lord’s room.” Syrg growled and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder as he climbed up the stairs, back to the third floor, where the last lord lived.

The room was large, too large, truth be told, and would likely not be his chambers for too long. The body of the old lord was gone, but the bloodstain was still on the sheets, so Syrg threw them aside before throssing Chella on the bed and leaping on top of her. His lips claimed hers as they kissed, his tongue moving into her mouth as he unbuttoned her leathers. They broke apart only to breathe, and he shucked her breeches off her.

She leapt into his mouth as he sat there staring, almost dragging him back down, her hands clawing along his shirt, flinging it off him before moving to his breeches. He yanked away her leather shirt and tore off her breast band, his eyes staring hungrily at her breasts. She was about to tease him when he dove down, his mouth latching onto one nipple, his fingers twisting and pinching another. She squealed and arched into into his touch. He switched, his mouth latching onto her right nipple, hand playing with her left. He bit her nipple gently, then moved away from it, sucking on and biting her breast, leaving a trail of marks that would last for days. His left hand snaked down her belly, then over to her thighs. He teased her, his hand reaching higher and higher, so close to where she wanted it, where she needed it, before moving away as her hips bucked in protest.

“Just fuck me already!” she growled the second time he did that. He looked into her eyes, neither of theirs showing any color, drowned out as their lust darkened their eyes.

“ Beg, ” he said, his hand tracing her upper thighs. She whined, and her hips bucked again. His hand moved over her folds, just a half inch in the air, before moving to her other thigh, tracing patterns along it as she whined again.

“ Please, ” she said. “ Just-please, just fuck me! Get in me, please Syrg. ” Syrg smiled, his hands leaving her body and pushing away his breeches. He climbed onto her as he kicked them away. “Syrg!” she yelled again. “Fu--”

Chella’s complaint was cut off by her moan as Syrg entered her. Her legs were forced wider apart, and Syrg yanked her body closer, fully impaling her upon him. He pulled her up and kissed her as he thrust in and out, swallowing her moans. She squeaked when a hand of his flew to her clit, rubbing circles into it, pinching and pulling lightly. His mouth kissed down her jaw and then her neck as she moaned loudly. He bit hard and sucked at the skin, leaving tell-tale marks that would not be fading soon. She responded in kind when he pulled his head back to admired his work. She sat up fully and pressed herself into him. Syrg got the hint and stood, as Chella wrapped her legs around him. Her back was pressed against a wall and her thrust in and out of her again and again. She leaned forward, onto his shoulder. She bit hard, pulling a groan from her lover, then moved towards his neck, where her mouth left a trail of bruises and bites to match the marks on her own.

Syrg pulled her head back after she bit him a fourth time, pulling her by the hair, pressing her into the wall. Her eyes were half-closed as she neared her climax, and he stared into them. His head turned and lunged at the hollow of her throat, sucking on it deeply, inhaling the skin into his mouth. His hand pinched her clit and she came undone, riding out the waves with his slowing thrusts, her skin slowly being released from his mouth. When she sank back against the wall, he let the rest of it go with a pop. She breathed for a few minutes, then looked into his eyes, seeing the lust written on them plain as day.

“Well?” she said. He laughed and kissed her before moving again. His hand stayed on her clit and his mouth roamed across her throat as he slammed into her over and over again, driving her back and hips against the wall. She moaned and he grunted and groaned, her own noises doubtlessly making their way down the hall and into the ears of her clansmen and his. Good, they would be jealous. They should be, at least she thought so. She was about to cum again while fucking an actually decent man. He, meanwhile, smiled at her noises, glad he could give such pleasure and draw such sounds from as great a woman as she.

Later, after they lay panting upon the bed, Chella curled up in his arms, looking at his face from the side. She kissed his cheek, then laughed as a thought occurred.

“Are we married now?” she asked with a laugh. Syrg laughed as well, drawing her back on top of him, kissing her again.

“Is that how you wed?” he asked. She shrugged.

“Usually,” she said. “Though both have to agree before and after.” He looked at her, eyebrow raised.

“It’s up to you then,” he said, sitting up. Her brow furrowed as she looked into his eyes.

“What do you mean?” she asked. Syrg smiled, looking her back in the eyes, not even a note of doubt or hesitation on his voice.

“I’m in if you are,” he said. She pushed him back onto the bed, her mouth finding his, fingers searching for his hardening cock. She pulled at it, stroking him as they kissed. When her mouth left his they were breathing hard as she hovered above him before sinking onto his cock.

“So,” Syrg said. “Does this--” Chella rolled her hips drawing a loud moan from him as he thrust into her by instinct. He cleared his voice, and started to speak when she rolled her hips again, then began to ride him. He rolled his eyes and pulled her closer as he sat up. They looked at each other, eyes only inches apart.

“Was that a yes?” he asked. Chella laughed and kissed him.

“Yes,” she replied breathlessly.

Chapter Text

Riverrun, 299 AC

Lord Karyl Vance sighed with relief when he saw that the Tullys had agreed to the terms of the parlay. And his suggestion. Three people, on horseback, fifty paces from anyone else. That would make these negotiations actually possible, as there were no Lannister spies amongst them.

“Lady Stark,” Lord Karyl began. “Ser Brynden, Lady Arya.”

“I’m--”

“No lady, I apologize, ser,” Lord Karyl said, cutting off Arya. “And thank you, Lady Stark, for allowing your daughter to join us. I have to thank you, Ser Arya, and you, Ser Brynden. You did us all a great service that night.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” the Blackfish growled. Ser Ronald’s eyes flashed, and Lord Karyl gave him a look. Ser Ronald cleared his throat, and allowed his cousin to respond. Instead, Lord Karyl looked at him again, and Ser Ronald spoke.

“We rewarded our former king near as well as he rewarded us,” he said.

“How dare you!” Catelyn Tully-Stark began, her eyes angry. “My son--”

“Your son,” Lord Karyl said, his voice cold as ice. “Sent my father to die. He sent our men to die. We always had the van, always had the dangerous missions. We did not complain, not until he began to hand out rewards.”

“You were upset you didn’t get enough land,” she sneered. “How utterly predictable. Near as bad as those damn Freys.”

“Watch your tongue!” Ser Marq Piper shouted, his eyes flashing, his anger rising in defense of the man he squired for. “Your family were only in charge of this kingdom because your ancestor happened upon the Conqueror first! Your precious Riverrun was built on lands their ancestors granted you! It’s no--”

“Marq,” Lord Karyl said softly. “That’s enough.” Ser Marq nodded, his horse stepping backwards. “My lady, while Ser Marq was rather brusque, he does speak true. My house has lost near a fifth of the land since the Tullys were made lords paramount, my cousin’s house has lost closer to a quarter. So we were rather upset when your son decided to offer the lands we had taken in the Westerlands back to the Lannisters and Darry to a nine-year-old boy.”

“The boy had it by right of blood,” Ser Brynden said. “He was the closest male relative.” Arya snorted at that and glared at her uncle, something that put a small smile on Lord Karyl’s face.

“Really?” Ser Ronald said. “The boy is a fourth-cousin of the former lord. You’re saying no one else had a possible claim? My brothers have an equal claim, and we had to check the graveyard for her name.” Arya laughed at that, ignoring her mother’s glare. Lord Karyl chuckled as well.

“I think I like the Lionslayer the best,” Lord Karyl said to Ser Ronald and Ser Marq. “More than you sorry saps anyway.” Arya chuckled at that, once more ignoring her mother and uncle.

“I saved your life five days ago!” Ser Marq protested in jest.

“Aye, but she just laughed at my jape,” Lord Karyl replied.

“And not even your mother did that,” Ser Ronald added with a smile. “Good sers, my lady,” he said, turning back to the Tully party. “Let us refocus. We did not simply come here to tell japes and blame each other, it is not a family reunion.

“My cousin speaks true,” Lord Karyl said. “We have a peace proposal for you.”

“Oh?” Lady Catelyn began. “And which Lannister wrote it?” Lord Karyl looked at her and replied with ice in his voice.

“None.” He took a scroll from his bag and unbound it, placing the leather tie on his saddle. He re-read it to make sure all was right before holding out the scroll. Ser Brynden took it, and Lady Catelyn peered over his shoulder to read it.

Ser Brynden Tully, Lady Catelyn Stark of Houses Stark and Tully, regents of Lord Rickon Stark of Riverrun,

As Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, I, Lord Karyl Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest, do hereby name the following terms for peace amongst us.

First, House Tully shall acknowledge House Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest as the true Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and King Joffrey Baratheon as the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Second, House Tully shall rescind the declaration of independence and swear allegiance to Lord Karyl Vance and lay down their arms.

Third, House Tully shall call for their former bannermen to do the same.

Fourth, the lands of House Tully shall be from the base of the Tumblestone Mountains to the Red Fork, beginning seven leagues north of Stone Mill and end a half-mile after the Red Fork Inn, approximately seven leagues north of Riverrun.

Fifth, Arya Stark shall be fostered at Wayfarer’s Rest until her six and tenth name day.

Sixth, Lord Rickon Stark shall be acknowledged as the rightful Lord of Riverrun.

Seventh, though Lady Catelyn Stark and Ser Brynden Tully may never hold lands in their own right for all years to come, they shall be pardoned of all crimes.

Lady Catelyn began to glare at them almost immediately as she began reading their offer.

“We should burn this,” she said, her eyes flashing. “And you along with it.”

“I did not know you had converted to Stannis’ religion, Lady Catelyn,” Lord Karyl replied dryly. “I can, however, assure you that this is the most generous offer you will receive.”

“What do you want with Arya?” Ser Brynden asked.

“Wait, what?” Arya Stark said, moving her horse towards Ser Brynden to look over his shoulder. She read the proposal than looked up at Lord Karyl, fire in her eyes. “You’ll never take me, and even if you do you’ll never keep me there,” she spat.

“That’s why,” Lord Karyl said with a wry smile. “Ser Arya, there are few places you could reliably do well without someone yelling at you to be someone you’re not. Namely, Dorne and Bear Island. I, however, follow the Dornish when it comes to raising girls. My heir is Liane, my eldest daughter, who is smarter than any many and twice as pretty as any, save the Targaryens. My second Rhialta, has fought beside me in this war, and saved your brother’s life at the First Battle of Oxcross. My youngest prefers to be both a lady and a warrior.”

“You wish to ruin her,” Lady Catelyn said. “You want to destroy the possibility of any Stark or Tully marriage alliance, let her simply run free and turn into a wild beast. No, I will not have it.” Lord Karyl saw Arya glaring at her mother, though she seemed to bite her tongue.

“She killed Tywin Lannister,” Lord Karyl said. “Those wanting a meek wife will already reject her. And as for marriage alliances, I would imagine a betrothal with young Lord Dayne would go over well.”

“You too?” Arya spat. “I don’t even know you and you’re throwing me at some stranger!”

“Ser Arya,” Ser Ronald said. “I apologize for my cousin, he is better at contortion than talking. Though I know not why he uses his skill only to place his foot in his mouth,” he added, glaring at Lord Karyl, who rolled his eyes while Ser Marq laughed and Arya bit back a chuckle. “Lord Edric is of an age with you, and a skilled warrior by all accounts. He was trained alongside the Sand Snakes, and has no problem with women who fight. He is but one suggestion, of course.”

“Isn’t he missing?” Ser Brynden asked rhetorically.

“No,” Ser Ronald replied. “After you killed the Mountain and Lord Tywin and we the Brave Companions Lord Dondarrion sent him home, much to Lady Allyria’s relief, though she is unhappy with her betrothed.” The Blackfish rolled his eyes.

“At least I said no outright,” he said. “None of this hiding in the woods with a mad priest business.” Lord Karyl chuckled at that.

“Aye,” he said. “I remember. My father dragged me and my brother for the feast. We arrived just in time to hear your brother shouting.” Ser Brynden sighed at the memory, shaking his head. There was a brief lull before Lord Karyl spoke again.

“Sers, my lady, I encourage you to take this deal. It is the best offer you will receive, and quite possibly the only humane one. We shall let you discuss it amongst yourselves.” Lord Karyl nodded to Ser Marq and Ser Ronald before wheeling his horse around and leaving at a trot, his two friends beside him.

“Do you think they’ll take it?” Ser Marq asked once they were out of earshot. Lord Karyl sighed.

“I hope so,” he said. “The last war saw two babes dead, I have no wish to see more children buried.” Ser Ronald nodded, his expression grim. He and Lord Karyl had been a part Lord Eddard Stark’s host when he raced to King’s Landing. Karyl had just been knighted in the Trident, and Ronald a few weeks earlier after the Battle of the Bells. One did not forget the sight of Tywin Lannister presenting the babes, swaddled in red cloth.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, 299 AC.

The room went silent when Lord Addam Marbrand walked into the room. The small council was looking, staring at him as he took his seat.

“It is done,” he said, and cheers were heard throughout the room.

“Finally,” Ser Daven Lannister said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now we can actually run the Kingdom.”

“Indeed,” Lord Mace Tyrell said. The small council was almost perfect now. If only they could switch Lord Mace with Lord Kevan or Lady Olenna. Then they could get back on track. “Ser Daven, what news have you of the war?”

“My Lord Hand, my lords,” Ser Daven began. He knew how to butter them up, and it had been in Lord Kevan’s instructions to the two Westermen anyways. “Lord Karyl Vance has Riverrun surrounded. Ser Ronald Vance, after going to Riverrun for a parlay, has moved north. Their army is currently in Atranta lands along the Blue Fork. Ser Swann and Ser Kettleblack lead the Crownlands army, and are near the Frey lands. Lord Roose Bolton, last we heard, were a few days from Moat Cailin. His son is said to be near Tumbledown Tower with the Glovers.”

“Lord Hand,” Varys said as Ser Daven finished. “Some of my birds have been singing strange tales from the Vale.”

“Why did the Queen think letting Littlefinger do what he wanted was a good idea?” Lord Tarly asked rhetorically.

“One cannot predict the minds of the mad,” Aurane Waters said. “Though her decision was a poor one. Neither King’s Landing nor Driftmark has seen a ship from Old Anchor or Runestone in a fortnight.” The other lords grimaced.

“I interrupted, pray continue Lord Varys,” Aurane said. Varys bowed his head slightly, and continued with his tale.

“What my birds are saying has little to do with Littlefinger, I am afraid,” he said before tittering. “They sing instead of men in bronze emerging from the Mountains and taking the castles who promise to treat them well. Some say the robin is locked in his Eyrie, others think he has died. A few said his mother killed him, the two leaping through the moon.”

“That is indeed grim news,” Lord Tarly said. “Is this some ploy from Runestone?” Lord Varys shrugged.

“I cannot say, my lord,” he said. “Fewer and fewer birds have been singing in the Vale.”

“Send ravens to Runestone, Heart’s Home, and the Graftons,” Lord Redwyne said. “One of them should know what’s happening.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” the Grand Maester said before scurrying from the room. Those remaining sighed, but pressed on.

“Lord Redwyne,” Addam began. “Have you made any progress on the debts?”

“Some, my lord,” Lord Redwyne said. “Though Baelish’s ledgers are hard to read, and his staff uncooperative. I am fairly certain he took money from the crown, one way or another, though I cannot prove it. I have, however, finished my calculations of the crown’s debts. Lord Tyrion and Lord Willas were most helpful in this, thank you for lending them to me, lord hand.” Mace Tyrell nodded his head, hopefully to indicate gratitude rather than that he was tired.

“How much?” Lord Tarly asked.

“Seven million, four hundred four thousand gold dragons,” Lord Redwyne reported. “Three million, seven hundred-fifty thousand is owed to House Lannister of Casterly Rock; two million, six hundred thousand is owed to the Iron Bank; one million fifty thousand is owed to House Tyrell of Highgarden; and four thousand is owed to House Velaryon. With the war winding down, the royal wedding approaching, and the economic damage to the Riverlands and the Westerlands, we predict a deficit of five to seven hundred thousand dragons this year.”

“Good gods,” Lord Addam said. “Any ideas?”

“Baelish is gone,” Lord Redwyne said. “That alone has lowered our deficit by two to four hundred thousand this year, and will likely lower it a further three hundred thousand in the next.”

“After the royal wedding, we limit feasts,” Lord Tarly said. “Save for special events, it’s too costly and in poor taste with men at war and others starving.”

“How many purses are we paying, Lord Redwyne?” Ser Daven asked. Lord Redwyne looked through his papers for a moment.

“Two hundred eighty-seven, costing a total of eight hundred fifty thousand dragons per year.”

“How many are to people no longer living at court, or no longer working for the crown?”

“I can look into that.”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Mace said. “Please do. This meeting is adjourned.”

As the members of the small council drifted out the room, Ser Daven stayed behind, waiting for a moment.

“Addam,” he said with a grin when the room was empty. “What happened? Tell me, please.” Addam laughed, glad he could drop his lordly mask for a moment.

“Oh, your cousin put up quite the protest,” he said with a smile. “Wasn’t until Ser Trant reminded her of the consequences that she went through with it.”

“As good as it is to get rid of her,” Ser Daven said. “Was this the best way? How much did Lord Kevan have to give them?”

“The paramountcy, Hornwood, the title of Warden, fifteen ships and captains, fifty dockworkers, three hundred miners, two hundred pounds of gold, and a tonne of silver.”

“Good gods,” Ser Daven said. “At least its House Lannister, we can still afford it.”

“It’s nothing compared to her first dowry,” Addam replied. “Robert got the throne, five hundred thousand gold dragons, and a loan of a million with no interest.”

“All that and a bad precedent too,” Ser Daven said bitterly.

Deepwood Motte, 299 AC

Ser Domeric Bolton dodged the Ironborn’s axe swing and lunged forward. His sword cut through the reaver’s throat, getting stuck. Domeric blocked another man’s blow with his shield and kicked the corpse of his sword before impaling the second Ironborn with it.

They were retreating now, under their furious assault, slowly pushed out of Deepwood Motte. Domeric smiled,and ran through the side door for the second part of their plan. Fifty men followed as they raced through the nearby woods, heading towards the shore. They cut through the few Ironborn guarding the ships and set them on fire. They ran back to the treeline and waited.

Sure enough, the Ironborn soon came streaming out to save their precious ships. Domeric smiled, a murderous glint in his eye. As the first man reached a ship, he gave a yell and ran towards them, his men following close behind. They slammed into the body of Ironborn, swords making short work of the distracted sailors. As they began to get bogged down in the melee, outnumbered and with no momentum, the Glovers charged into the back of the Ironborn, slaughtering their rear ranks and shattering any unit cohesion. His attackers distracted, Domeric lunged, his blade sliding between the man’s ribs and piercing his heart. He pulled back and pivoted, sword swinging up, cutting another man’s sword arm off. His shield threw one of the Ironborn back, long enough to stab his neck. A blow struck him from behind, but Domeric turned, his sword hacking through the reaver’s neck, then turned back and kept advancing, kept swinging.

The battle was over soon. The Ironborn were all dead or captured. Deepwood Motte and the Wolfswood were once more in northmen’s hands. Northmen loyal to House Bolton.

Robbett Glover’s wife helped treat Domeric’s back, cleaning the wound and stitching it up neatly. It wasn’t deep, thank the gods, but would limit some of his sword movements for a while. After he was treated, he put his shirt back on and walked into the war room.

“There’s only a handful at Sea Dragon, I could lead that.”

“Quiet son, you’re two and ten. We’ve lost too much the last year, I won’t be adding you to that list. Ah, Ser Domeric,” Robbett Glover said as he walked into the room. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Well enough,” Domeric replied. “Master Bole can lead that attack, he’s been wanting one.”

“Aye, that’s true enough,” Lord Galbert said. “Wyrick, you’ve got it. Be careful and don’t die out there.”

“Aye, my lord,” Master Bole said.

“Leave the other Wolfswood men here,” Domeric said. “They can defend the area, and send Master Woods to treat with the Mountain Clans, make sure they know what’s happening. The rest of us march of Torrhen’s Square. Agreed?” he asked them. He always did, but deep down they all knew he was in charge. He was only nine and ten, but he was a knight, his father’s right hand, and a damn good soldier and commander.

“Aye,” the room said.

“We leave tomorrow, in the morn.” As the men began to leave the room, Domeric walked over to Lord Galbert, who was talking to his brother.

“Lord Glover,” the young knight said. “Have there been any ravens?”

“Aye,” Lord Galbert said. “Your father is still stuck with Moat Cailin. The watchtowers are burned, the outer walls are broken, but the keep is still holding on. He said he’ll have it in two days, maybe three.”

“So, by tomorrow,” Ser Domeric said. “Good. Anything else?”

“Ah, um, yes,” Lord Galbert said, scratching his beard. Domeric wondered what could have unnerved the man. “Your wife, she, well, she killed herself. The maester says she carried your child.”

Domeric froze, stunned. They had always planned to kill her. They couldn’t let Cersei be his bride, she was a bitch, mad, and would fuck anyone who moved. But they hadn’t planned to kill her yet, not for a few moons. And his child ? That had never been part of the plan. They had only fucked the night of the wedding, he’d left the next day. There weren’t any men left in the Dreadfort, save their maester and a handful of guards Domeric trusted more than anyone else lacking the Bolton name. The child however. That--that wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Thank you for telling me,” Domeric said, his voice slipping into a dull monotone. It always did when his mind was overloaded and processing through his denial. It happened only a handful of times. When his brother tortured him and was killed in front of him, when he first learned of his father’s manipulations, when he was five and his mother died, and now. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and left the room.

Domeric left Deepwood Motte a few minutes later, riding the Ryswell courser his aunt had given him two name-days ago. He hoped she was well, that she had escaped Burrowton before the Ironborn had taken it. She was a hardy and strong woman. She’d endured the death of her first love, the death of her husband, and the death of her favorite cousin within a short three years. If she could move on from that pain and run House Dustin as the late lord’s widow, she could survive the Ironborn.

When Domeric returned to Deepwood Motte as the sun buried itself beneath the horizon, he was a good deal calmer. Cersei was always going to die. The fact that she actually did kill herself made things easier, truth be told. As for the child, there was no way of knowing if the recently planted seed had been his or her brother’s. It was better this way. He could resume the Plan, the one they’d had for years, from before he squired in the Vale.

The Vale, in truth, had been a way to get him knighted and create a reputation of honor. Domeric did have some honor, but he was not like Eddard or Robb Stark, too foolish to abandon morality for survival. It was also a way to separate himself from his father’s activities, should the Lord Bolton have been caught.

Robb Stark’s foolish quest for independence and vengeance had only sped up the Plan. For a while they had been nervous, as the green boy proved to be an able battlefield commander. Fortunately for them, his sentimentality and self-destructive honor brought him down. Had he not executed Lord Karstark, had he kept his betrothal as a bargaining chip, or had he treated his mother as he did his bannermen, their plan may well have failed. Instead, it worked better than they could even have imagined.The Lord Hand (or, in truth, the Lord Hand’s mother) and Lord Kevan Lannister had let them leave, not even having to attack their fellow northmen. They had been desperate to get rid of the Queen Mother, and her dowry negotiation had been swift and one-sided. Whatever they had asked for they got, albeit in lesser numbers than proposed.

Then she had killed herself. Domeric and his father had not been forced to use their prepared ruse, the Queen Mother had done their work for them. Domeric was free to wed once more, to a better woman who would make a better wife, and solidify the North under the Bolton banner.

There were three good option when it came to Domeric’s second wedding. From a simple numbers approach, wedding Wynafryd Manderly would be best. The Manderlys were the richest house in the North, and White Harbor the region’s only true city. They could raise the third-largest army, and until recently held the only naval force on the east coast.

That said, the North held close to the Starks, as they always had. They were loyal, albeit to a point, and though Robb Stark had made many errors, his brothers could likely raise a sizable rebellion when they came of age. The best way to head that off would be to marry into Stark blood. There was Sansa Stark, but she was young and weak. Domeric could bed her if he had to, but he would prefer another way.

That way was Alys Karstark. The Karstarks had as much Stark blood as the Starks themselves, if not more. The Karstarks had no Southron heritage, and Alys looked far more of a northern lady than Sansa ever could. Marrying her would tie the Karstarks closer to their cause, reward an ally, and satisfy many (if not all) of the Stark loyalists. She was younger than Domeric, but only by three years and a few moons. And unlike Sansa, she was strong, her head filled with ideas and practicality rather than the empty and lyrical promises of songs.

Yes, Domeric would write to his father that night. He would wed Alys Karstark once the Ironborn were gone. Their hold on the North might never be as strong as the Stark’s once was, but it would be too strong to break. Their first son would inherit the Dreadfort and the paramountcy; their second would inherit Winterfell. The Plan was on track and Starks were falling like leaves at a season’s change. Domeric smiled thinly as he walked back into the Glover manse.

Chapter Text

Riverrun, 299 AC

Ser Brynden and the Blackfish were fighting, as they always did. None could see the battle, though it was a vicious one. And the Blackfish was winning.

“We cannot let them do this!” his niece was saying. “They’re taking more than half our land!”

“Better than all of it,” Ser Ryger replied. “Their army outnumbers ours two to one. We have little enough lords and knights left, and they will begin deserting soon. The army has already lost some four hundred footmen to desertion.”

“Good,” the Blackfish said, having finally won the battle. “Let the traitors leave. We shall loyal men for this job. Cat,” he said, turning towards his niece. “You will take Arya and go to Essos. Our men still hold the Whispering Wood. Flee through there and follow the footpath to House Terrick. Two days after you leave, Lord Terrick will send me a raven, though it will hold no message. Ser Desmond,” he said, turning towards the master-at-arms. “I need you to accompany them. Can you do that?”

“Yes, ser,” the man said, standing up. His light armor could go by unnoticed, and his sword was inconspicuous.

“Good,” the Blackfish said. “You, Cat, and Arya will leave tonight. You can use torches, there will be bonfires in the camp tonight.”

“What would you have me do, ser?” Ser Ryger asked. The Blackfish turned to him and smiled.

“We hold this castle until we receive the raven. Then we raise the black banner and show them hell.”

“Aye, ser,” Ser Ryger said, though he seemed uncomfortable. He was not a man to fight battles that could not be won.

Ser Brynden stayed with the men that night, and talked to a few of the lords. He needed as many of them to stay for as long as possible. The Vance army sat camped along the Red Fork, banners waving with the night’s breeze. Many had joined their cause already. The Pipers of Pinkmaiden were there, along with the Smallwoods of Acorn Hall, the Goodbrooks of High Heart Hill, the Lychesters of Lychester, and the Brackens of Stone Hedge.

There were a few lords he knew wouldn’t abandon him. The Grells and the Vyprens stood to lose their lands to the Vances of Wayfarer’s Rest whilst the Keaths, the Harroways, and the Freys all stood to lose their prizes to the Vances of Artranta. Lord Lucias Vypren had sworn to Ser Brynden that he would, “kneel to a bloody Ironborn before traitors like them!”

Still, the knights of these houses had begun to leave. Ser Brynden spent every day with the troops, and every day there were fewer of them. Of the three hundred highborn they had by the end of the retreat, 223 remained. Of their seven thousand men, fourteen hundred had deserted. Once battle came, their numbers would be far worse.

A sennight after Cat and Arya had fled, the raven had not yet come. More worrying was that the Vance army was gathering itself into a more rigid structure. Their men were armored now, their knights on horses, lances at the ready. Lord Karyl Vance and Ser Marq Piper rode forth with a white flag.

“What do you want, Vance?” the Blackfish asked.

“We have received a raven,” Lord Karyl said, his voice loud and deep. It carried beyond them, to the men in the camp. “The King has given you until sunrise to surrender. Do so now, and you will receive mercy. The same has been offered to those lords, knights, and men who decide their lives are worth more than lost causes and broken promises.” Not giving the Blackfish any time to respond, Lord Karyl wheeled his horse around and rode back for camp.

“Motherfucker,” the Blackfish swore, turning to Ser Ryger. “How many do you think will leave?”

“Most,” Ser Ryger replied grimly.

He had to admit, the Vances had style. Few would think of hanging lanterns off the end of lances for a midnight cavalry charge. Ser Brynden watched in horror, desperately strapping on his armor as the Vance cavalry charged into the camp. Their lances aimed not for the sentries, but rather the tents. As the hit the canvas, they dropped the lance and the lantern with it.

By the time the Blackfish rode into the camp, it was chaos. Fire burned on every tent and and half the grass beneath them. The cavalry moved freely through the camp as half-dressed men tried to fight fully armored knights. The clang of metal on metal was often followed by a wet thunk as a sword slid through flesh until it hit bone.

The Blackfish urged his horse on, trying to find the leaders. He parried one knight’s attack, slashing through his armor as he rode by. He wheeled his horse around, blocking another attack and lunging, his sword running through the visor of his newest opponent. Though the flames he saw Theomar Smallwood as he leaned down from his horse, sword cutting into Lord Roote’s head. The Blackfish charged, his own sword drawn and read. Lord Theomar heard him, but turned too late, his eyes catching the Blackfish as his head fell from his neck. The Blackfish continued the charge, slicing through one of the Smallwood knights. He heard hooves behind him, coming closer and closer. The Blackfish whirled his horse around, his sword coming up to parry that of an older man, one of his own age. The hair of both men has lost its color, though the Blackfish’s still has its shine.

“Lord Jonos!” the Blackfish shouted to be heard over the din of battle. He flicked his sword down, but found it turned away. “I expected you to be at Raventree Hall by now.” The Lord of Stone Hedge laughed, his sword swiping towards the Blackfish, parried and reposted to be blocked again. Both the men were skilled, both old, both with experience that few could match.

“I thought you’d heard by now!” Lord Janos Bracken replied, thrusting his sword forward, only to have it batted away. The Blackfish responded with a slice to his right flank, Lord Jonos’ sword being parried just in time. “Your good friend Blackwood has joined us!”

“What?!” the Blackfish exclaimed, his sword lunging, turning, then hacking at Lord Jonos’ horse, only to be blocked at the last minute.

“Lord Karyl freed his sons,” Lord Jonos said, his sword reached towards the Blackfish. The Blackfish was not happy. His greatest supporter, the Blackwoods, the former Northmen who should have stuck by their Stark-associated overlords through thick and thin, abandoned him. He yelled, coming down hard on Lord Jonos’ sword, knocking it out of his hand. Lord Jonos forced his horse back as the Blackfish swung, grazing his shoulder. The Blackfish advanced, again and again, his sword coming ever closer. He heard hooves to his right, speeding up, but he ignored them, pressing his horse on, forcing it into a walk, then a canter. His sword swung low, then high, cutting deep into Lord Jonos and felling him from his horse. He turned, wheeling his horse around to see Lord Karyl Vance, already too close. The Blackfish knew it was too late to block. Instead he presses his horse forward, sword lunging out to meet the leader of this traitorous rebellion. He feels his sword make contact and press through Lord Karyl’s armor and into his skin. He felt the cold steel press through his own plate and meet the warm flesh beneath. His mind felt fuzzy as the liquid dripped down and he was pushed back. He wanted to laugh as he fell, sword sticking out of his chest. He never felt his head meeting the soft ground, nor the yell of his few allies as they realized what happened.

Chapter Text

Vale of Arryn, 299 AC

They were close. So close. Victory was a simple valley away. Styr looked out from the Bloody Gate at what was called the Vale of Arryn.

“ I thought the Andals called all this land the Vale of Arryn, ” he said, turning to Timett, son of Timett.

“ They do, ” Timett replied. “ Do not ask me why. These lands are the Mountains of the Moon. The strips into the oceans are the Fingers, the land by the southron bay the Hook. I know not why the Andals use one name for four places. ”

“ They lack imagination, ” Sigorn said, stepping next to them. “ Their gods bemoan gifts of magic, they pray to dead wood yet think us strange for preferring it living. ” Timett laughed, clapping Sigorn on the shoulder.

“ This is true, very true young Sigorn. ”

“ Sigorn, ” Styr began. “ Have the preparations been made? ”

“ Aye, Magnar. Our people stand ready. ”

“ And of Syrg? ”

“ The passes are blocked, the villages and villagers ours as well. The final castle has fallen to him and his wife. ”

“ His wife? ” Timett asked.

“ Aye, ” Styr said. “ He has married Chella, daughter of Chett. ”

“ And I was not invited? ” Timett asked.

“ Do not take it too hard, ” Sigorn said jestingly. “ Neither were we, it was a traditional ceremony of your clans. ” Timett laugh at that, looking out over the Vale at the men gathered in suits of bronze.

“ So, he took a castle, carried her into bed, and fuck, ” Timett said. “ This is not the first time he has done that. ”

“ No, ” Sigorn replied with a laugh. “ But the other times, she walked. ” The three men laughed on the mountainside, before Styr cleared his throat and the others quieted.

“ Sound the horn, ” he said. “ Today, we take it all. ”

The horn blew from below them, deep and powerful. Its blast carried loudly across the valley, other horns joining it. These horns were hewn from old mountain goats, long and curly as they trumpeted the call. Below them, the gathered forces of their Andal foes stood, looking at all sides as more and more bronze-covered warriors emerged. Eight Houses lived in this valley, and they had gathered for a final battle. If it was a final battle they wanted, a final battle they would get.

The warriors, Thenns and clansmen both, marched down the mountainsides, shields raised, swords and spears at the ready. The heavy drum of their feet upon the rock seemed to shake the Andal horde. Their horses stood tall, large, and nervous. The Andals loved their pretty things, their colorful banners and streaming ribbons. They were lax, lax and weak, having depended upon others their whole lives. No wonder it had taken little more than a few moons to seize their land.

“ Halt! ” Styr yelled as they neared the sloping valley. The horns blew and the warriors stopped. “ Formation! Archers, ready! ” The horns blew, two short blasts that made their way down the valley. They began to move again, the warriors marching in lockstep, shields held together in the first line, swords and spears at the ready. The rear lines, filled with archers, held their arrows knocked, waiting for the moment they could fire.

When they hit the valley floor, a horn sounded from the enemy lines, a long blast, followed by two short ones. Their precious knights began to move, their horses walking, jogging, then charging at them as Styr shouted orders from his place in the front line.

“ Second line, form up! ” he yelled. “ Ready spears! ” The second line moved closer to the first as the knights grew neared, their shields readied and their spears aimed over the heads of their fellows.

“ Archers! ” Styr yelled. “ Draw! ” The cavalry were a hundred paces away as the archers drew, their bows bending as they aimed arrows with spell-forged tips towards their enemies. Syrg had been forced to leave his wife his command for several weeks as he journeyed between keeps, castles, and villages, draining bodies of their blood and crafting their spell-forged weaponry. He had returned only a fortnight earlier to organize their defenses along the north-western border.

The enemy was close, getting closer. They were sixty paces away when Styr finally yelled, “ Release! ”

The arrows flew through the sky as horns blew again. Their arrows flew into the pack of charging knights, felling many. Arrows broke through steel plate or slipped through gaps, knocking some from their horses, killing others. Some felled the horses beneath the knights, sending them tumbling to the ground only to be stampeded by their fellows. The arrows of the other groups flew as well, making their way towards the cluster of foot soldiers slowly advancing towards Styr and his warriors. The archers fired at will now arrows piercing armor and felling horses as the knights slammed into their shield wall.

The spears leapt out at the knights as they came, the swords and axes of the first line slashing down the horses. They fell then flew forwards, momentum carrying the massive beasts and shattering the lines. Styr yelled and stabbed with his spear, shield blocking blows as he waded into the melee with his warriors. The men of the Vale stood no chance against their weapons and expertise, desperately trying to hack at them from the comfort of a saddle. They rarely hit, and when they did their swords made no impact more often than not.

Styr yelled and ran at one of the knights, his shield blocking a pitiful strike, his spear reaching through the man’s neck. He turned, bronze-tipped weirwood twirling in his hands. He stabbed again, then at the man as he shot towards the earth from his broken beast. Styr leaped out, shield slamming into a knight on the ground. He blocked a sword blow with the shaft of his spear, then flicked it upwards, slamming the butt into the man’s head. He turned and stabbed it into the first knight’s eyes, turning to kill the second as well. There were few knights remaining as the footmen came into sight, but the Thenns were out of their lines and some busy hacking at the damned.

Signor yelled and charged, and the Thenns followed. Sigorn’s sword claimed first blood of that charge, his shield claimed second. He broke through the ranks, fellow warriors behind him following his path. The larger Thenns, with sharper weapons and better armor, bowled over the weak Andal warriors. They sliced and stabbed their way through this pitiful bunch as the enemy ranks began to break. The other groups curled in from the sides, and the enemy was broken. They ran off, Thenns and clansmen chasing them, spears and swords claiming the lives of the few who remained. The army followed Sigorn as he slowed to a march, but continued on. They claimed Donniger Keep, then Castle Egan and Hardyng Hall. They left men to garrison these forts, who would rule them would be settled later.

As the sun came down over the horizon and light faded from the sky, Sigorn turned to Timett, who marched alongside him.

“ Timett, do you know where the Magnar is? ”

“ No, ” he replied. “ I thought you were following him, or at least his orders. ” Sigorn’s eyes widened and ordered a halt to the march. They camped between Hardyng Hall and Mooreland as Sigorn went from tent to tent asking after his father. After three hours, as most of the group was sleeping, he found him. Styr was in the medical tent breathing in gasps as the healers attended to him.

“ What happened? ” Sigorn asked, his voice harsh. Tears formed in his eyes as he stared at his fallen father. “ What happened? ” he demanded again.

“ Knight, ” Styr wheezed, his breaths slow. “ Strong knight. Good horse, good-- ” his tale interrupted, Styr coughed, hacking up phlegm, mixed with blood, and spitting it onto the ground. “ Took his keep last week, ” Styr said, wheezing between his words. His eyes were over as he talked. “ Killed him too though, ” Styr said with a laugh. The laugh quickly turned into a cough, then a coughing fit as he hacked up blood and re-opened a wound across his stomach.

“ Father, ” Sigorn said. “ Rest. You can-- ”

“ I will not survive this. You must. . . finish this. The. .north is no l. . . longer home. Thenn is gone. Make our home here. Listen to your brother. He knows more of these southron lands and people then us. ”

“ I will father, I will, ” Sigorn promised, tears running down his cheeks.

“ Make us strong, son. Train some to ride. And--*coughs repeatedly*-- send that king a letter, in our runes. That. . . that should piss them off, ” Styr concluded with a bitter laugh.

“ I will, father. I promise. ”

“ I have been lucky in my sons, ” Styr said, his hand rising to Sigorn’s cheek. “ I will see you again. Mayhaps we shall be ravens next. ”

“ So long as we are not crows, ” Sigorn said, “ I will be happy to see you. ” Styr laughed again, a wry chuckle that faded along with the light in his eyes. Sigorn cried, tears falling over Magnar Styr the Great, Magnar of the Thenns and the Clansmen, King of the Mountains of the Moon, the Fingers, the Valley of Thenn, and the Hook, Husband of the Seer, Father of the Wizard, Conqueror of the Andals, Avenger of the First Men. He mourned the loss of that man, of Magnar Styr the Leader, and mourned the loss of Styr the Father, a man who needed no titles. Both men would be missed and mourned, and Sigorn knew not which he needed more just then, simply that he wanted them both.

Chapter Text

Golden Tooth, 299 AC

Lord Karyl Vance rode up the River Road with a mood as mixed as his fortune had been of late. The Battle of Riverrun had largely settled the Riverlands. Several of the Tully loyalists had died, including Lord Lucias Vypren and Lord Edmond Grell, who had been those most afraid of his reign. Lord Lucias’ son, formerly Ser Damon Vypron, had ridden to Wayfarer’s Rest, and waited there to surrender. Lord Edmond had been unmarried, and the Grell succession was uncertain.

Only House Frey, House Charlton, and House Nayland had yet to bend the knee. Ser Ronald was handling the Charltons and the Freys. Hopefully, they could get away with eliminating most, if not all, of the Freys. They were a pox upon the Riverlands. Lord Jason Mallister, an old friend of Lord Karyl’s, had been one of his earliest supporters. He had led three thousand of his men into Hag’s Mire to deal with House Nayland.

The Blackfish’s death had been the death of House Tully, though Rickon Stark could still inherit Riverrun. However, the Lady Catelyn and her daughter had not been in the castle when it was taken. Nor were they in the woods, the camp, amongst the dead, or anywhere else they could find. After being assured that they meant no harm to the young Arya Stark, Lord Alton Terrick had admitted to giving them a ship, and that they were planning to sail to Essos.

Lord Karyl had been tempted to punch the wooden walls of House Terrick’s hall when he heard that. They would have to sail either around or through the Iron Islands, which were both at war with the North and declaring independence. If somehow they managed to survive that, they would have to sail past the Westerlands. Even after Tywin Lannister’s death, the Westerlands were afraid of and loyal to House Lannister. If anyone happened upon that ship, the two fugitives would be dragged out and likely put to the sword. The Lannisters, unlike the Vances, had no compunction about murdering a child.

Lord Karyl shook his head and took a deep breath in and out. He rode on, his honor guard following him. Ser Marq Piper was on his right, slightly behind him. On his left was Hoster Blackwood, his new squire. In truth, Hoster had little interest in the frontlines of combat, and even less in becoming a knight. Instead, Lord Karyl had adopted the young man as his secretary.

“Hoster,” Lord Karyl said as they continued up the mountains.

“Yes, my lord?” Hoster said, urging his horse to ride next to Lord Karyl.

“Why do you suppose we are here?”

“To extend an offer of marriage, my lord.”

“To whom?”

“Lady Alysanne Lefford.”

“Why would I want to marry her?” Hoster paused, thinking, his gangly seven-foot frame bent over.

“Money, my lord.”

“Money?”

“Yes, my lord. House Lefford is the second-wealthiest house in the Westerlands, and a good deal wealthier than any house in the Riverlands.” Lord Karyl smiled at the young man. He had a good brain, and a damn good skill for memorization.

“And why would she want to marry me?”

“You are quite the catch, my lord.” Ser Marq snorted at that, and Lord Karyl rolled his eyes before turning to look at Hoster, who was smirking. “You provide security, my lord. You have the largest army in the Riverlands, you were recently appointed Lord Paramount, and your lands stand next to each other. The Lannisters, and hence the Westerlands, are in a vulnerable position. Even before you became Lord Paramount, you and your cousin controlled a third of the Riverlands army, and you have only grown stronger.”

“Have I?” Lord Karyl asked. “The Houses Vance had the highest casualty rates of those supporting the Starks.”

“True,” Hoster conceded. “But your men were always on the front lines. Those that remain are better soldiers than most. And you have proven a capable strategist.”

“Very well,” Lord Karyl said. “I gain gold, she gains soldiers. What do we lose?”

“My lord?” Hoster asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What do we lose?” Lord Karyl repeated. “We have covered the gains, now let us talk of the loses.”

“Oh,” Hoster said. He paused, his horse falling back momentarily. The Golden Tooth was within their line of sight now as they rode on, Hoster pushing his horse to catch up.

“Come now,” Lord Karyl said. “You have until they greet us.” Hoster’s brow furrowed, and he bit his lips, trying to think of it. As they came within sight of the guards, he responded.

“You lose independence!” Hoster exclaimed.

“We gave up independence when we sided with the Lannisters,” Lord Karyl said.

“Yes,” Hoster replied. “But now you would have to swear allegiance to Lord Lannister if you marry, instead of just the crown.”

“Very good,” Lord Karyl said, smiling at Hoster. “And what does she lose?”

“You already have children,” Hoster said. “And an heir. Her children with you will inherit the Golden Tooth, but not your other holdings.” Lord Karyl smiled.

“Well done Hoster,” he said. “Now, let us meet the Lady Lefford.”

“My lord?” Hoster asked. “How will you get out of swearing an oath to Lord Lannister?” Lord Karyl turned, smiled, and winked at Hoster before riding on. He truly did enjoy that boy. Far too smart for the fate of a third son. Then again, a position as his secretary would always be open to him.

As they entered the courtyard, Lord Karyl reigned in his horse, then leapt from the saddle, landing neatly on the ground. He hid a wince as the scab across his chest folded. He hoped it didn’t break.

He walked forward, towards the Lady of the Golden Tooth. She was quite pretty, dressed in a long dress, patterned with gold thread. The dress itself was blue, and clung slightly to her curves. Thank the gods, Lord Karyl thought as he approached. He’d been worried she might be young, a child even. She had to be at least one and twenty.

He bowed, kissing her hand gently.

“Lady Lefford,” he said, rising with a small smile.

“Lord Vance,” she responded with a similarly false smile and a curtsey. “Welcome to the Golden Tooth. Or welcome back, I should say.” Her eyes held a glint, one he liked on instinct. Already putting him on the defensive. Yes, this was the woman to go up against the Lannisters with.

“Thank you, my lady,” Lord Karyl said, forcing himself from the actual conversation for social niceties. “My companions, Ser Marq Piper of Pinkmaiden,”

“My lady,” Ser Marq said, bowing and kissing Lady Alysanne’s hand.

“Ser Roland Vance,”

“My lady.”

“And the young Lord Hoster Blackwood,” Ser Karyl finished. Hoster bowed and kissed Lady Alysanne’s hand as well, stepping back without the practiced ease of others.

“And my own company,” Lady Alysanne said. “Lady Myranda Lefford, and her daughters, the Ladies Cerenna and Myrielle.”

“My ladies,” Lord Karyl said, approaching her. “Ser Steffon was a good man, and Ser Daven a fine soldier and commander.”

“Thank you, Lord Vance,” Lady Myranda said.

“Did you fight our father?” Lady Myrielle asked. Lord Karyl bit his tongue, thinking of how to respond to the girl of only ten name days.

“Yes, my lady,” he said finally. “I did, several times. And both beside and against your brother.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Myrielle!” Lady Myranda exclaimed. Lord Karyl shook his head.

“No worries, my lady,” he said, crouching down to look Lady Myrielle in the eyes. “My lady, I did not kill your father. Nor do I know who did. I did, however, fight your brother,” he said with a thin smile.

“Did he win?” Myrielle asked. Lord Karly chuckled, as did some of the men behind him.

“He did better than I did,” Lord Karyl said, pulling off his glove and undoing the metal arm brace before rolling up his shirt sleeve. “See that scar?” he asked, pointing at a thick line, mostly turned white, a few inches below his wrist.

“My brother gave you that?” she asked.

“He did,” Lord Karyl said. “He’s quite skilled, and far smarter than most men.”

“That’s not hard,” Lady Cerenna said. Lord Karyl stood back up, cracking his back and laughing.

“Quite right, Lady Cerenna,” he said with a smile. “Mine own heir is my daughter. Saying she’s twice as smart as any man would be quite the insult to her.”

“I’d second that,” Hoster said. “She speaks languages I didn’t know existed,” he said, getting a loud laugh.

“Please, come in,” Lady Alysanne said as a bowl of bread and salt was passed around. Lord Karyl dipped the bread in the salt and ate it before following her into the castle, quickly catching up to her.

“My lady, you have a beautiful home,” Lord Karyl said. “I must say, I like the changes you’ve made.”

“Thank you, Lord Karyl,” Lady Alysanne said kindly. “I find the lack of splattered blood enhances beauty quite well.” Lord Karyl chuckled at that, smiling at the fierce woman walking beside him.

“Aye, that it does,” he replied. “It also looks more refined though,” he continued. “Less gold plating, less ostentation. You’ve replaced it with things of actual beauty, tapestries, that statue out front, the artwork on the walls. And the carvings, that’s new, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she said, smiling genuinely at him for the first time. “The patterns come from the carvings of the First Men.”

“Really?” Lord Karyl asked, tracing his hand over the runes. “I’ve never seen something like this.” Lady Alysanne laughed lightly.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “They’re uncommon enough in the North.”

The evening went by nicely. Lady Myranda was the coldest towards Lord Karyl, which wasn’t surprising. After all, her husband had died during the war. During a battle that he helped plan. Lady Alysanne seemed not to hold the war against him, which he was extremely grateful for, considering her brother and father both had died in it. However, it wasn’t until after dinner and the ladies Cerenna and Myrielle had gone to bed.

“My lord,” Lady Alysanne said.

“Please, my lady,” Lord Karyl said. “If we are doing this, call me Karyl.”

“So long as you call me Alysanne,” she replied. “We should be on equal terms, or close enough.”

“Sounds fair,” Lord Karyl said. “So, are you willing to piss off the Lannisters?”

“Yes. Do you have a plan?”

“Aye,” Lord Karyl said. “We take the Golden Tooth into the Riverlands.”

“Yes, but how?”

“We both have to go for the royal wedding, no?” Lady Alysanne nodded her head, and Lord Karyl continued. “Apparently the king likes to shoot his crossbow while the small council is in session. And doesn’t read everything he’s handed.”

“Ah,” Lady Alysanne said, a smile on her face. “Excellent idea. And after that?”

“We wed. If, that is, you’re willing.” Alysanne smiled and raised her wine glass.

Chapter Text

Sunset Sea, 299

“Well, Balon’s plan went to shit.” Victarion sighed and looked at his niece.

“Aye, but what do you suggest?” he asked bitterly.

“Uncle, we have the entire Islands between us. Fuck Balon. We learned conquering was a bad idea from the Hoares and the Kennings of Kayce. We go back to raiding. The Redwynes left to fight Stannis, the whole West is open season.”

“So, little Asha,” Victarion said with a smile. “What do you suggest?”

“One of us goes to deal with the Arbor. The other to Oldtown.”

“I’ll handle the Arbor,” Victarion said. “You sack Oldtown.” Asha smiled and walked across the plank, back to her boat.

The seas were calm as they journeyed south. The new objectives, coupled with the exhilaration of rebellion, gave the crews something new to think of. Before, they had been obsessed with their losses. Asha had been thrown out of Deepwood Motte, Victarion from Moat Cailin. The others were forced to leave before the Bolton armies arrived. Now they were back to smiling, drinking, singing, and laughing.

Four days after they met near the shore of Pyke, the two fleets parted ways a few leagues out from the Redwyne Straight, with Victarion sailing further south to attack the Arbor’s southern coast.

They sailed into the port at night. Or ports, rather. There were three main ports on the Arbor, one on the northern coast, one on the southern, and the last one on the eastern coast.

Victarion nodded towards his first mate, who promptly lit an arrow. He knocked the arrow, drew the bow, and aimed it high into the sky. He let it loose, and the arrow flew into the sky before curving and falling into the soft dirt of the Arbor.

As the arrow fell, oars hit the water and the Ironborn made their way to shore. Torches were lit as they came closer to shore. A bell rang loud as they made their way to shore. Guards, many of them half-dressed with only a helmet for armor, came streaming from the tall watchtower.

Victarion leapt from Iron Victory , a torch in one hand, an axe in the other. He roared and charged a guard. He threw his torch to the side, towards a doced Redwyne ship. It landed on a coil of rope which quickly caught. Victarion’s axe slid through the guard’s neck as the fire climbed up the mast, the sails catching, then the ropes as the fire spread across the ship before leaping to the ones next to it. Victarion laughed.

“Just like Lannisport!” he yelled as he ran into the fray. His left arm lunged out, catching a guard’s sword arm mid-swing. Victarion twisted the arm and kicked the man, sending him sprawling towards the ground. Victarion shoved him as he fell, and the man plummeted into the ocean, his full armor dooming him.

The fires burned bright across the docks as the Redwyne ships caught fire. A few were left alone, as some of the Ironborn took them from the docks to claim as their own. Victarion instead ran through the guards, his axe disemboweling one before he dodged a thrust and cut through the man’s skull. Blood, brains, and guts coated his axe and leather armor as Victarion pressed on, moving towards the Redwyne mansion. It sat at the peak of a small hill, towards the eastern side of the Arbor. He ran up the hillside, the crew of Iron Victory following him.

The guards of the Redwyne manse had taken the time to prepare. They were fully armored, and their swords and shields prepared. They were not, however, prepared for the Ironborn. The crew of Iron Victory was made up of hardened men. All had fought in and survived the Greyjoy Uprising, and all had taken part in smaller raids since then. These were the same men who had fought with Victarion in Lannisport, in the Sunset Sea against Stannis Baratheon, in Ironman’s Bay against the Rivermen, in the Stepstones against the native pirates and the Tyroshi, Myrrish, and Lyseni, and against Euron Greyjoy when he tried to seize Balon’s throne after the last insurrection. The Redwyne guards, while armed, were unprepared for these hardened veterans.

The Ironborn slammed into the Arbor guards with the force of an elephant. They sent them sprawling with body-blows then struck with their steel, axes falling onto their heads, swords piercing their chainmail and ribs to get to the heart. The Redwyne guards fought bravely, honorably, and refused to run. For this, they died. They refused to break, and therefore would make terrible thralls.

As the last of the guards lay dying, Victarion led his men into the Redwyne mansion. The portcullis lowered and the doors locked, they took picks and hammers to the very walls, breaking through the outer layer of stone, then hacking through the wood, forcing their entrance in.

“Burton, Quellon! Take the cellars, grab as much of their pisswater wine as you can. Longwater, Ragnor! Search the left of this floor, Rymolf and Stemmar take the right. Everyone else, follow me!” The crew quickly followed their respective lieutenants, the majority rushing upstairs with Victarion.

The second floor, much like the first, had outrageous displays of wealth, alongside locked doors and neat wooden paneling. The third floor, smaller than the others, was accessible only by a ladder and a trap door.

“Nute and Tom, search this floor,” Victarion said. “Wulf, check the ladder.”

“Aye, cap’n,” Wulf said, moving towards the ladder.

“Why’re you sending him?” one of Victarion’s men asked.

“He’ll survive if they’re waiting and hit his head with a mallet,” Victarion replied. He and his men watched as Wulf One-Ear slowly climbed the ladder, then opened the trap door. There was a pause, and then Wulf lunged upwards, only to fall as a loud crack was heard, his knuckles loosening their grip.

“They’re in there, aight,” Wulf growled. Victarion nodded, and began to climb the ladder. He moved his hands down the grip of his axe, and flipped the trap door open carefully. Without seeing what was there, Victarion leapt up, rolling away once he made it to the third floor. He sat up into a crouch, eyes searching the room. There was no one there.

His questions were answered when he felt a hammer slam into his back and send him sprawling. His axe fell from his hand and back through the trap door. Rolling over, Victarion saw a middle-aged woman rushing towards him. Victarion forced himself onto his feet. He reached out as she swung, gripping her hammer. He laughed as she tried to pull it back, yanking the hammer from her grip. He twirled it single-handedly and smirked.

“Surrender,” he said, his eyes bright. “Maybe we’ll sell you back, rather than--” Victarion’s speech was cut off as the woman kicked him in the balls. He grimaced, but grabbed the woman by the collar. He dropped the hammer and slammed his head into hers. She staggered backwards, and Victarion hit her, sending her sprawling. He checked on her, lightly slapping her cheeks. She was out.

Grabbing the hammer, Victarion led the others through the halls, checking every room. Approaching the second to last on the left, Victarion twirled his hammer, then smashed the lock and kicked open the door. He saw no one, but moved in carefully, checking around the corner of the wall.

A sword lunged out and he yanked his neck backwards, the sword only grazing his cheek. Victarion laughed, moving forward anyways. He dodged the next attack, and another, before grabbing the girl’s sword arm at the wrist. His twisted her arm and she cried out as the sword dropped.

Victarion felt a pinch in his side when he dragged the girl towards him. He looked down, brows furrowed at what could have caused the pain. He saw blood rushing from his side. When did that happen, he thought. A second later, he felt a similar pain on the back of his neck. The pain was far more intense, and Victarion shouted as he fell. He saw the girl, bloody knife in hand, smiling at him.

Oldtown, 299 AC

Asha laughed. She was having the time of her life. Across the straight she could see the Arbor in flames. She turned back, smiling, to the chaos her own crews had created. The Harlaws, Goodbrothers, and many others had accompanied Asha on this mission. The Harlaws had landed upriver, aiming to loot the Citadel. Her uncle was called ‘The Reader’ for a reason. The Goodbrothers had landed further down, aiming for the Starry Sept. Asha herself had taken the grand prize. She landed on Battle Isle, home to the Hightower.

Asha had been the first off the boat, the first running through the small streets of the market outside the Hightower. Her men had rushed after her as they looted and stole before setting fire to everything in sight.

Asha arrived outside the Hightower as their guards were coming out. She smiled, twirling her throwing axes. She saw the captain run out and hurled her axe at him. It sliced through his nose and the man fell, his blood slickening the cobblestones of this ancient city. She threw the axe in her left hand, which embedded itself in another guard’s heart. She grabbed more of her axes, hurling them at her enemies as the ran towards her.

Asha twirled her axes again as the guards neared. She picked up her pace, running towards the guards. Her left axe blocked the guards blow as she leapt into the air, her right axe carving through his head. She landed with her feet on the guard and pivoted, throwing her axe into another’s face. She ran over, blocking a blow and picking the axe back up before using it to slash across the guard’s face. She roared and ran towards the group coming out of the Hightower. One axe she threw, laughing as the blade sliced through the man’s eye. She turned away a sword thrust and pivoted, slamming her elbow into the man’s nose. She tossed the axe to her other hand and grabbed the sword arm of a guard lunged at her. She yanked him away and embedded her axe into the first guard’s face at the same time.

Hearing metal moving behind her, Asha pivoted, shoving the second guard in front of her. A sword pierced through the man’s neck, where Asha’s head would have been. She shoved the dead guard into this new opponent and drew another axe. She stalked around her new opponent, a brown-haired man with streaks of grey who stood a whole head taller than her.

“Ironborn,” the man spat. “I shall kill you for the glory of the Hightower!” Asha laughed, dancing away as the man charged and swung. He turned and raised his guard just in time to catch Asha’s throw axe. It landed on his left forearm, where it easily sliced through the metal armor, then the man’s skin and flesh. The tall man growled and grimaced as he refocused his greatsword. He charged again. This time Asha didn’t dodge, instead stepping into his strike and to the side. The blow missed, and she yanked the axe from his arm, slamming the axe in her right hand into the back of his head in the same moment. The man screeched, then fell silent as her axe sliced through his skull.

Asha turned around and ran towards the battle, towards the entrance of the Hightower. Seeing feet emerge from it she threw her axe. It made a thunk as it landed into a grey-haired man’s chest, his mouth open in surprise and eyes wide with shock as he fell, unbloodied sword in hand.

Asha shoved the guards aside, dodging blades to make her way into the Hightower. She grabbed the axe from the dead man and ran up the stairs. A man lunged at her, and Asha slid to the side, burying an axe in his forearm. She swung upwards, her other axe cutting through his nose and into his brain as the man fell over and his corpse tumbled down the stairs.

The two fleets reconvened where they had parted; a few leagues northeast of Blackcrown. Asha’s crew was celebrating, and loudly. They had sacked Oldtown for the first time in centuries. In the distance they could still see the smoke rising from the smoldering ruins of the city. The same smoke came from the south, where the Arbor was in ruins.

“Lord Alyn,” Asha said in surprise as the black-haired lord stepped onto her ship.

“Princess Asha,” the man replied, his voice as heavy as it was deep. “How was your raid?”

“Successful, we sacked Oldtown, broke the Starry Sept, stole nearly the whole of the Citadel, and set fire to the Hightower. How was yours?”

“Good, save for one exception. We set fire to the Arbor and the Redwyne docks, no one shall be challenging us at sea for some time. Your uncle, however, is dead.”

“What?!” Asha exclaimed, eye narrowing.

“He was attempting to capture the young Desmera Redwyne,” Lord Alyn Orkmont said. “She managed to slice his spine with a dagger.”

“Do we have her?”

“Aye, and her mother, Mina Tyrell.” Asha nodded, closing her eyes and taking a breath.

“Very well. We make for Old Wyk.”

“Old Wyk?” Asha nodded with a grimace.

“A ship came while we were sailing from Oldtown. The king is dead. A kingsmoot has been called.”

Chapter Text

Kings Landing, last moon of 299 AC

Lord Karyl Vance waited in line as his betrothed, Lady Alysanne Lefford, stood to the side of the court. The king sat the Iron Throne, accepting fealty from the newly-quelled areas and officially bestowing the promised lands and titles.

“Lord Walder Frey!” the sceneshal called out. “Known as Black Walder. Son of Ser Ryman Frey, son of Ser Stevron Frey, son of Lord Walder Frey, former Lord of the Crossing.”

“My lord,” the golden-haired bastard began. When the rumors began Lord Karyl had hired dozens of servants from Casterly Rock and the Red Keep. With the Old Lion dead, he might even be able to use the information as blackmail. “We are grateful for your help in ending your great-grandfather’s rebellion. We therefore bestow upon you the Lordship of the Crossing.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Black Walder said, an evil gleam in his eyes. “I pledge to you my loyalty, and that of my bannermen, from this day forth.”

“Rise, Lord Frey of the Crossing.” Black Walder smiled and walked away.

“Lord Karyl Vance,” the sceneshal called out. “Lord of Wayfarer’s Rest, son of Lord Kennon Vance.” Lord Karyl stepped forward and knelt in front of the Iron Throne, though it bit at him to do so. Had he his druthers, Lord Karyl would have supported Robb Stark, Renly Baratheon, Stannis, hell even the Targaryens overseas or the king’s younger siblings. But those were not options, not if he wanted his house to take back the lands it once had and build it even beyond its former glory.

“Lord Vance,” the king began. “Is it true that you slew the false King in the North?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Did you kill the men known as Greatjon and Smalljon Umber?”

“I did, your grace,” Lord Vance repeated. He knew of the king’s cruelty and bloodlust, but he was hoping this would end soon.

“Did you kill Ser Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“How did they die?” Lord Karyl risked a look up at the king, whose face shone with a glee that could only come from madness and bloodlust. Lord Karyl looked back down before he could react, schooling his face. He desperately tried to force his mind from the stories King Aerys used to have the kingsguard tell him, stories of disemboweled men, of burned corpses and slow, tortured deaths.

“Quickly, your grace,” Lord Karyl said in a neutral tone. “Quickly, and well.” The king’s face contorted with anger. He was being denied what he wanted, which would never bode well.

“In more detail, if you please,” the king said, and Lord Karyl bit his tongue as his stomach twisted, praying someone would intervene. Fortunately, someone did.

“Your grace,” Lord Marbrand said. “Though the tales of Lord Vance’s exploits are surely fascinating, there are ladies present, including your betrothed. Perhaps we should wait for a more opportune time?”

“Yes,” the king said. “We shall wait.” He cleared his throat and pulled open the scroll Lord Tyrell had handed him, reading it verbatim. “Lord Karyl Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest, we thank you for these deeds and others, and for restoring peace in the Riverlands. We hereby name you and your descendants, for all generations to come, Lords Paramount of the Riverlands and Guardians of the Trident. We furthermore award you the lands formerly held by the new extinct House of Tully and House of Grell.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Lord Karyl said. “I pledge my loyalty to you, for this day and all to come.”

“Rise, Lord Karyl Vance, Guardian of the Trident.” Lord Karyl stood and forced a smile before walking away, towards his betrothed. She looked at him, then at the king, and grimaced. Lord Karyl nodded. The king could not stay in power, they were in agreement. This, however, was neither the time nor place to talk.

“Your grace,” Lady Alysanne said as she approached the shooting grounds. She, much like Lord Karyl, had expected the king to be shooting his crossbow at the archery grounds. Instead, he was shooting on the grass behind the Red Keep. At caged animals. The king, aiming, fired his shot, which unsurprisingly killed the caged gazelle.

“My lady,” the king said, kissing her hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I hate to trouble your grace,” she began. “But I am afraid two documents need your signature, as do the copies.” The king grimaced, his face turning spiteful. Lady Alysanne decided to cut him off.

“Your grace,” she said. “Paperwork can be such a bore, I agree. But the sooner you sign it, the sooner you can go back to hunting.” The king smiled at that, a perverse pleasure gleaming in his eye. “I would be so grateful if you could sign it now,” she finished. Lady Alysanne bit her tongue as the king’s eyes roamed across her body, fixating on her tits.

“I would be happy to help you, my lady,” he replied. Lady Alysanne held out the ink and quill. The king signed one sheet, then the next two. Then the final three. Lady Alysanne smiled at the golden-haired little shit.

“Thank you, your grace,” she said with a deep curtsey and a slight bend. He stared at her breasts, and Lady Alysanne slowly rose. “Enjoy the rest of your hunt, you grace,” she said, before walking away, off towards the keep.

“So?” Lord Karyl asked as Lady Alysanne returned to the small library. It was one of the few places in the Red Keep without hidden passageways, or at least ones they could find. They were fairly safe here.

“Easiest trick I’ve ever pulled,” Lady Alysanne said with a smile, handing over two sheets of parchment. “Didn’t even have to dance for him.” Lord Karyl chuckled as he read over the two forms, double-checking everything.

This document hereby declares that a new border has been drawn between the Westerlands and the Riverlands. Said new border shall be a line north from the furthest extent of Lefford lands until reaching Ironman’s Bay, and directly south until of a latitude with the headwaters of the Red Fork. The border shall then follow in a straight line until meeting said headwaters, at which point it shall have met the old border and resume the former’s southron course. Included in this territory are the lands of House Drox and House Lefford. As such, both houses shall now give oaths of fealty to House Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest rather than House Lannister of Casterly Rock and shall do so until the end of days.

Proclaimed during the one and tenth moon of the year 299 by the Conqueror’s Calendar by Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.

King Joffrey Baratheon

This document hereby allows for the creation of House Lefford-Vance of the Golden Tooth following the wedding of Lord Karyl Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest and Lady Alysanne Lefford of the Golden Tooth and the birth of their first child. Said child shall inherit the Golden Tooth following the death of Lady Lefford, whilst the eldest living child of Lord Vance’s first marriage shall inherit Wayfarer’s Rest following the death of Lord Vance.

Proclaimed during the one and tenth moon of the year 299 by the Conqueror’s Calendar by Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.

King Joffrey Baratheon

“Brilliant!” Lord Karyl exclaimed. Instinctively, he grabbed Lady Alysanne’s wrist and pulled her closer. Nothing heated his blood like defeating Lannisters at their own game, and from the look his betrothed was giving him, the same held true for her. Lord Karyl pressed his lips to hers, his hands placing the documents on the table behind them as hers reached up to his spine and pulled him closer, deeper into the kiss.

“My lord,” Lady Alysanne said, her cheeks pink from excitement. “Shall we to the sept?”

“Aye, my lady,” Lord Karyl said, offering her his arm.

King’s Landing, Two Days Later

“ HOW did this HAPPEN?!” Lord Kevan Lannister exclaimed, his eyes flashing. “Whose brilliant idea was it to have the King sign these documents?” Lord Kevan looked around the small council table, breathing heavily. Everyone was looking at him, yet none were confessing.

“My dear lord,” Lord Varys began, a small smile on his lips. “One of my birds saw the Lady Lefford approaching our young king as he was hunting.” Lord Kevan bit his tongue and clenched his jaw, fighting down the urge to kill someone. It would not do to begin a fight he could not finish.

“And why is Black Walder the next Lord of the Crossing?” he asked. “The man’s too hot-tempered. I thought it was going to Ser Hosteen.”

“It was,” Lord Tarly replied sourly. “Until Ser Hosteen, his son, and his grandsons died of a fever. It seems to have run through the Twins, considering how many others were lost as well.” The man spoke with such scorn it was clear he did not believe a word he was saying.

“Where was Black Walder during this?” Lord Kevan asked.

“Helping Lord Mallister fight the Naylands of Hag’s Mire,” Ser Daven Lannister said bitterly. “Two and thirty witnesses can attest to that.”

“Who else died?” Lord Kevan asked.

“Danwell Frey,” Ser Daven began, unfurling a scroll. “‘Little’ Walder Frey. Raymund Frey, Tywin and Willem Frey, Ser Emmon Frey, Ser Lyonel Frey, ‘Red’ Walder Frey.” No one commented on ‘Red’ Walder Frey’s death by this mysterious illness at the Twins whilst he was in Casterly Rock. Lord Kevan would be sure to deal with his servants later. Someone had betrayed him.

“Walda Frey, daughter of Edwyn,” Ser Daven continued. “Aegon Frey. Walton Frey and his two sons. Perra Frey. Rhaegar Frey and his three children. Ser Harys Haigh, Ser Donnel Haigh, Walder Haigh, Alyn Haigh, Ser Leslyn Haigh, and Perriane Frey. Walder Goodbrook. The three children of Symond Frey. Sandor Frey--”

“Might it be easier to tell us who remains?” Aurane Waters asked. Ser Daven sighed and shook his head.

“Either way it is a lengthy list,” he replied.

“Focus on the notables then,” Lord Kevan said.

“All of Late Lord Walder’s sons are dead,” Ser Daven began. “Along with most of the grandsons, a handful of daughters, and a few granddaughters. The families of Ser Dafyn Vance, Ser Flement Brax, Ser Leslyn Haigh, Ser Garse Goodbrook, and Ser Lucias Vypren have all died, as has your sister, Lady Genna.”

For a moment, Lord Kevan stood still, stunned. His sister, his indomitable, conquer every world at once sister had been killed by a mere grandson of a worthless lout!

“Excuse me, my lords,” Lord Kevan said, his voice terse as he desperately tried to keep the emotion from it. He moved quickly out of the small council chambers, the door slamming behind him. There was a brief pause of silence after the Lord of Lannister left.

“The good news,” Lord Tarly began. “Is if we have a hint of proof, there are seven noble families who will eagerly take his head.”

“Including two Houses Paramount,” Lord Redwyne said. “We should consult with Lord Vance on this, he will--” Lord Redwyne was cut off by the doors bursting open and a red-faced page breathing heavily.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Tarly bellowed, standing up.

“Urgent--urgent message for the council,” the young man said, handing Lord Tarly the raven scroll. “Fro--from Blackcrown.” Lord Tarly’s brows furrowed as he read the message, then gasped.

“Lord Redwyne,” he said, with a hesitancy that had never been heard in his voice before. “You should read this. You as well, Lord Waters.” Both men nodded, and came to look at the scroll.

Lord Redwyne, Small Council of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.

I write you with urgency and haste regarding the security of our western seaboard. Two days prior to my writing of this letter, a fleet of Ironborn ships snuck into Oldtown under the cover of darkness, and another attacked the Arbor at the same time. It has taken this long to figure out the damage in Oldtown, and I know not the state of the Arbor yet. The Starry Sept was pillaged, the statues of the gods have been shattered. Every sacred object has either been stolen or destroyed. The fires in the city are still not fully put out. The collections of the Citadel are gone, and a good portion of the library has been burned. Most devastating is the Hightower, which was set aflame. The supportive structures collapsed, and with them the top third of the tower. Lord Leyton, Ser Baelor, Ser Garth, and Ser Humfrey have all been found dead, as has the Lady Rhea. Ser Gunter and Lady Malora are missing. Ser Cupps and Lord Ambrose were visiting. We believe we have found the corpse of Lord Ambrose and the burned body of Ser Cupps. Both their wives are missing.

The Arbor’s fate is uncertain. Smoke still rises from the fields, and the ports have been destroyed, as have the docks of Oldtown. We cannot see further, as all our ships have been stolen or destroyed. From what we can see, it is likely they have done the same to the Arbor.

Your Obedient Servant,

Lady Alysanne Bulwer.

“H-How?” Lord Redwyne asked, his face pale. He turned to Lord Tarly, then Varys. “How did they get there? I though they were busy in the North.” Ser Daven came over and read the scroll as the room sat in silence.

“Lord Bolton said they’d abandoned the North after losing Moat Cailin,” Ser Daven said, his voice in shock. “I--”

“Oh, good heavens!” Varys exclaimed, making a small jump. The raven scroll was held tightly in his manicured hands.

“How could they have avoided detection?” Lord Tarly asked.

“Sail far enough out into the Sunset Sea, no one can see you,” Lord Redwyne answered bitterly. “It’s how Stannis surprised them last time ‘round.”

“I’ll lead the troops there now,” Ser Daven said. “I’m not important enough to have to stay here, and it’ll take the army longer. Where should we meet?” he asked, turning to Lord Redwyne.

“They’ll be headed back to Pyke,” Lord Redwyne said. “They need to drop off captives.”

“I’d hit Highgarden next, if I were them. Or Casterly Rock,” Lord Tarly said. The whole room turned to look at him, and he unfurled a small map of Westeros.

“It will take them less than a sennight to return to Pyke,” he said. “The closest Lannister army is around Hag’s Mire, the closest Reach army is near Bronzegate. Our armies in King’s Landing are almost as close. Highgarden and Casterly Rock are defensible holdings, and likely where we’d go first. They’ll try to beat us there, attack when we’re not expecting it.”

“We won’t arrive in time,” Ser Daven said. “There’s no way to get an army to either within a fortnight. We’ll have to send them ravens, tell them the Ironborn are seeking new targets.”

“Agreed,” Lord Marbrand said. “I’ll send them now.”

“Actually, Lord Marbrand,” Lord Redwyne said. “Could you get us a list of Houses whose main branches have died out? We need to ensure that all does not fall into chaos. I can handle the letters.” Lord Marbrand nodded his acquiescence, and the lords of the small council began to stream out.

“Lord Waters,” Lord Redwyne called out. Aurane Waters, Master of Ships, bastard brother of Lord Monford, silver of hair and indigo eyes, turned towards the Lord of the Arbor.

“Yes, my lord?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Take the fleet,” Lord Redwyne said. “Take my fleet and everything the royal fleet can spare, and head to the Reach. I’d go myself, but. . .” Lord Redwyne paused, hoping Aurane would fill in the blanks. The man smiled, a hint of mischievous knowledge in his eyes.

“I do indeed,” Aurane said. “We shall depart at first tide on the morrow. Which of your sons will be coming to command your section of the fleet?”

“Neither,” Lord Redwyne said bitterly. “What those two lack in skill jousting and diplomacy, they hardly make up for with nautical knowledge. You are in command, Lord Waters.”

“My lord,” Aurane said, bowing. He left with a small smile on his lips. It was rare to have anyone care more for results than parentage in King’s Landing.

“Oh, Lord Waters?” Lord Redwyne called.

“Yes, my lord?” Aurane asked, turning back to face Lord Redwyne.

“Make them pay.”

Chapter Text

Gulltown, last moon of 299 AC

Sigorn stood on the edge of the scorched town square, and felt rather empty. More empty than he should, considering he’d finished his father’s work. The last holdouts in Gulltown had been taken. Unfortunately, the defenders had decided to then set the city on fire. Their deserting troops, along with the anger of the locals had turned a battle into a sack.

The sack had been but brief, and they had managed to restore order. After most of the nobility had been killed or torn apart by the mob. The buildings of the wealthy were destroyed, the port was smoldering, and much of the slums were still on fire.

“ Now what? ” Syrg asked. At his request, Syrg had come down from his mountain lair to meet with his brother, the new Magnar of Thenn. Which felt like a damn weird thing to say, claiming the title that had been his father’s.

“ Now we build, ” Sigorn responded, turning towards his brother. “ We build a new capital in the Valley of Thenn. We organize the villages and distribute the land, and we prepare for when the Andals realize what has happened. ”

“ It’s remarkable they haven’t yet. ” Syrg paused, and took in a deep breath. “ We must be better than them, ” he said. Sigorn snorted.

“ We could rule better drunk than they do sober. ”

“ I am not sure any of them rule sober, ” Syrg replied. “ Their last king was infamous for his alcohol, the new one chopped off a man’s head in front of his daughter in one of their holy buildings. ”

“ Good gods! ” Sigorn exclaimed. Then he sighed. “ You are right, of course. We must rule well, rule fairly, and rule justly. It is always easiest to do so when you know your people well. ”

“ Aye. ”

“ So we ensure that we do, ” Sigorn said proudly. “ Every family in our clans will get some land, rule over some village or township. Others shall rule over them, aye, and the Magnar over all, but it will ensure justice, so long as we may trust our clan. ”

“ The day a Thenn is no longer honorable is the day the world has ended. ” Sigorn smiled and clapped his brother on the back.

“ Now then, brother, ” the new Magnar began. “ We have an army, though I would like to grow it. Ah, ah, ah--that is not the problem I need you to solve. You have given us weapons and armor enough for a hundred thousand, if not more. What we lack, brother, is cavalry. The ones we faced were dumb, but once they ran into us, they broke our shield wall with ease. ”

“ Aye, that they did, ” Syrg admitted reluctantly. “ Where would you send me? ”

“ I have men gathering the beasts still here. I need you to go to Skagos. See if the tales of sharp-horned, mammoth-sized goats are real. I’d enjoy riding to battle on one of those. ”

“ Aye, ” Syrg said with a laugh. “ Who wouldn’t? ”

It was nearly a week later when Syrg set sail from Gulltown. They had managed to repair the harbor enough to set sail. He left in a four and seventy-oar drakkar longship, with several smaller longships sailing behind him. Between the oars, the sails, and good navigation (Syrg paid attention when he sailed through Essos), they made it in six days, arriving with the afternoon tide.

“I wish to speak with Lord Crowl,” Syrg said in his most commanding voice. The man, who had his head buried in a ledger, looked up, then straightened to look at him.

There was something strange about Andal blood and culture, Syrg thought as he looked at the man. True, Thenns were amongst some of the taller Free Folk (barring the giants) but even so they should not have towered over the Andals as they did. Perhaps it was because the common folk rarely ate meat. Some the knights had been near as tall as a proper-sized Free Person, only a few shy of nearly six foot. Syrg relaxed when the man in front of him pulled up to 6’3”, just shy of Syrg’s 6’5”. His brother was the giant of the family, at 6’9”, and his father was tall as well. The Thenns were tall, and it had been strange to fight against men so much shorter than they, adult men of less than five and a half feet, on the battlefield. There was nothing wrong with being short. The Children had been tiny, and damn near beat them. It was just wrong to force someone like that to fight like he was a giant, but that’s what the Andals did.

“And you are?” the man asked. Syrg nodded at the man to his right.

“ This is Syrg, brother of Magnar Sigorn, son of our last Magnar Styr, husband of Chella, daughter of Cheyk, Lord of Strongsong, Solver of Mysteries, and some other shit, ” the man announced with much pomp and pizzazz. Syrg had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as the harbor man looked between them.

“Right,” he said, closing his book. “I’ll go get him.”

“Lord Crowl,” Syrg said with a nod as the older man came down the steps to the dock. “Thank you for coming.”

“ It is a pleasure to have you here again, ” Lord Crowl replied. He smiled wryly when Syrg raised an eyebrow. “ I had not realized I had been so rusty. I have been teaching my family the Old Tongue. ”

“ Family is a blessing, ” Syrg said.

“ Come, ” Lord Crowl said. “ Let us walk a ways, though I do not believe you have come simply to hear of my family. ”

“ Regrettably, no. I have come to see if I can see your unicorns, however. Should they be real. ”

“ And why would you want one of them? ”

“ My brother believes cavalry may be useful, ” Syrg replied with a glint in his eye. “ When the southrons realize what has happened, there will be war. And again, when the Long Night comes in full. We should like to be prepared. ”

“ You are not alone in wanting to be prepared, ” Lord Crowl said, the talk of the Long Night driving questions of what really had happened with the disappearing group of Thenns.

“ I thought that might be the case, ” Syrg replied with a smile. “ I would trade goods with you. Ones that have proven useful against the Others. First, however, let us see these sharp-horned goats. ” Lord Crowl laughed, and pointed across the hillside. Syrg turned, and his jaw fell open at the sight. The animal was large, around fifteen hands high, and built like a barrel at the chest. Shaggy fur covered its body, even partially covering its hooves. The horn glimmered in the fading sunlight as it munched happily on some grass.

“ They are magnificent, no? ” Lord Crowl said. “ Our warriors have trained and ridden them for generations, but outsiders have always been too afraid of seeming foolish to ask. We only entrust these to our allies. Are you an ally, Syrg? ”

“ Aye, that we are, or near enough. Last of the First Men we are, Thenns, Mountain Clans, and Skagosi. ”

“ Good, ” Lord Crowl said, placing a hand on Syrg’s back before continuing their walk. “ What do you offer us for the War of the Dawn? ”

“ Do you know of Valyrian steel? ”

“ Aye, of course. Hard as a rock, sharp as a razor, never loses its edge. ”

“ I know how to make it. ” Lord Crowl turned to the man, completely stunned, mouth gaping wide. “ It requires fully melting the metal, Lord Crowl, ” Syrg said, moving forwards. “ Something the Valyrians could only do with dragons. ”

“ So? ”

“ So, I forged it with bronze. It holds against the blows of an Other’s ice-blade and can break them good as dragonglass. We have a few pieces already laid by. Shall we say, five unicorns per full suit? ”

“ What’s in a full suit? ”

“ Breastplate, vambrace, helmet, armguards, shield, one sword or axe, a helmet, and boots. ”

“ Aye, ” Lord Crowl said, sticking out his hand. “ Deal. We’ll have your ships so full of those spike-heads you won’t know what to do. ” Syrg laughed and Lord Crowl smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “ So tell me, ” he said as Syrg finished laughing. “ What have you been up to? ” Syrg raised an eyebrow and looked Lord Crowl up and down before responding.

“ I’ll tell you, ” he said. “ If you give me news of your mainland. ”

“ Deal. ” Syrg took in a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh.

“ We took the Vale, ” he said.

“ What?! ”

“ The Mountains of the Moon. Not a single Andal house still stands, they are ruled by Thenns and the Mountain Clans now. ”

“ Good gods, ” Lord Crowl said in disbelief. “ How did you do that without anyone noticing? ”

“ Carefully, ” Syrg responded. “ Your turn. ”

“ Aye, that it is. The Boltons have taken over the North and the war seems to be over, at least for now, though ironmen have been raiding the western coasts. ”

“ Boltons? Are these the flayers? ”

“ Aye. ”

“ What do you plan to do? ” Lord Crowl shrugged.

“ Prepare for the Long Night, ” Lord Crowl replied. “ The mainland cares little for us, and us for them. ”

“ I hope we might be an exception to that, ” Syrg said.

“ As do I, ” Lord Crowl said. “ As do I. ”

Winterfell, 300 AC

Winterfell was not as he remembered it. He remembered a great castle, tall outer walls, and a courtyard full of life and activity. A lively place, at least by the standards of the North.

That was not what greeted him. Oh, the buildings still stood, but many of them were now abandoned. No one dared to walk around outside, it seemed, and the courtyard was silent. Ser Domeric Bolton was returning, having finished the last of the Ironborn on Northern lands, yet all that greeted him was silence, and a small welcoming party.

“Lady Alys,” Ser Domeric said, having slid from his saddle. He bowed, kissing the back of her hand. “You have only grown more radiant from last I saw you.”

“Ser Domeric,” Alys Karstark replied. “Welcome to Winterfell. I hope our preparations prove satisfactory.”

“I am sure they will, my lady. If I may introduce Lord Galbert Glover, Lady Barbery Dustin, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, and Lord Torrhen Tallhart.”

“My lords, my lady” Alys said with a brief curtsey. “I am sure you are tired after such a long trip. Please, follow mine servants, they shall show you to your rooms.” As the lords of the North made their way, servants gathering their horses, their belongings, and leading them into their rooms, Ser Domeric stood next to the Lady Alys, and offered his arm.

“My lady,” he said with a smile. “Would you object to a walk through the godswood?”

“My lord,” she replied with a smirk. “I thought our godswood walk was tomorrow evening.” Ser Domeric chuckled at that as Alys took his arm and the two walked from Winterfell, making their way into the massive godswood.

“Winterfell was quieter than I remembered,” Ser Domeric began softly.

“Aye,” Alys responded grimly. “The servants and smallfolk are still scared. They know the Bolton name better than any one Bolton, and the recent deaths were not helpful.” Ser Domeric’s face grew bitter, briefly, before he forced it back to its blank state.

“Yes,” he said in a forced monotone. “That was not the intention. It seems some of Ramsay Snow’s men survived the purge.” Alys raised an eyebrow, and Domeric rolled his eyes.

“My lady,” he began. “My lord father is not renowned for being stupid. If he wanted young Rickon Stark out of the way, do you think he would hang his flayed skin in his own room?”

“No,” Alys replied demurely, bile rising as she remembered the sight. “That is much more your brother’s style.”

“He is no brother of mine,” Domeric spat, emotion creeping into his voice. “He makes the Others seem kind. Hell would be too nice a place for him.”

“M-my lord,” Alys said, slightly taken aback. Domeric closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Pardon me, my lady,” he said when he opened his eyes again. “It has been but two and a half years. Ramsay’s scars still stand.”

“So it’s true?”

“Aye,” Domeric said, shaking his head. “Never should have sought him out.”

“Why did you?” Domeric turned towards Alys, his pale blue eyes sad, melancholic.

“You grew up with three brothers, in a warm home,” he replied, his voice soft. “Until I was fostered with the Redforts, I grew up with a dead mother, my father, and no one else in a place called the Dreadfort .”

“Ah,” Alys said, swallowing hard, forcing back tears.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Domeric said, wincing. “I should not have mentioned them.” Alys shook her head and tried to force a smile, though it appeared as a grimace.

“I miss them,” she said simply. “I am glad Harrion is alive, but--”

“I know,” Domeric said. “I never even knew my mother and I miss her. I can only imagine how much harder it is for someone you grew up with.” Alys nodded, and the two continued to walk in silence.

“Are you comfortable with this?” Domeric asked after a while. Alys shrugged.

“Close enough.” She stopped walking and turned to face Domeric. “You’re not your father,” she said. “You act as cold, but you have emotions beyond loss and sadism.”

“My lord father has more emotions than those two,” Domeric replied with a false testiness. “There’s also pain, and, on rare occasions, pleasure. And always hunger, mostly for power.”

“Ah,” Alys said dryly. “That makes such a difference.” Domeric laughed, and Alys joined in as well.

“No,” Domeric said, after they’d calmed down and started walking again. “I’m not my father. I use many of his tactics, I look like him, and I’ve buried most of the same emotions. But you need not fear a cold marriage.”

“Good,” Alys said. “Cause unlike those southrons, I don’t plan on lying still like a board.”

“My last wife didn’t either,” Domeric said with a chuckle. “I’d appreciate it if, unlike her, you don’t try to stab me repeatedly.” Alys laughed.

“Well, that’s what you get for marrying Cersei,” she said. “Why did you?” Domeric shrugged.

“It was a mutual favor,” he said. “The Lannisters needed her out of the capital, she was increasingly impossible to manage. We got a large dowry, mostly in workers and ships. The Dreadfort has mines now, and a port.”

“Did you kill her?” Alys asked, her voice quiet. Domeric could hear the nervous energy in it.

“No,” he said. “No, she did kill herself.”

“Did you plan on killing her?” Alys asked. Domeric froze, then pinned her to a nearby tree.

“Stay here,” he said in a growl. Alys nodded, her eyes wide, while Domeric moved deeper into the godswood. He crouched, hands on his blades, looking around. He turned, and saw a scrambling figure. In a single, fluid motion, Domeric drew his knife and threw it. The blade landed in the man’s neck. He fell, the leaves crunching under him. Domeric moved towards him, pulling out his knife and drying it on the other man’s clothes. He ransacked the man’s pockets, taking out a lump of charcoal, folded parchment, and a few raven scrolls. He walked back over to Alys.

“Did you know he was there?” Domeric growled, staring down at his bride to be, who nervously shook his head. “Did someone tell you to ask me that?” She shook her head again, and Domeric sighed.

“Sorry,” he said, sheathing his knife. “Are you okay?” Alys shrugged, but was clearly shaken, her body still trembling against the tree.

“Wh-who was that?”

“Lannister spy. They probably wanted something to blackmail us with.” He looked down from the trees, looking back into Alys’ eyes. “Come here,” he said, holding out his arms. Alys fell into them, breathing heavily as his arms wrapped her in a warm embrace.

“Deep breaths,” Domeric said. “In and out.” She breathed with him, and soon had stopped trembling. After a moment, she stepped back and looked up.

“Was that your first time seeing someone die?” Domeric asked.

“No,” Alys responded, shaking her head. “I’ve seen wildlings and criminals die before. That was just the first time someone tried to spy on me. That I know of.” Domeric grimaced, but offered his arm, which Alys took.

“I can teach you how to notice them,” he said as they continued walking. “I take it you know how to fight?”

“More or less,” Alys replied. “I can defend myself, and I shoot well enough. I’m no soldier though, nor an Umber lass.” Domeric laughed, pulling her in closer.

“I’m glad for that,” he said, smiling. “Do you carry a knife?”

“Aye,” she said, her left hand dipping beneath her skirts and pulling out a long dagger. Domeric smiled.

“Do you carry others?”

“One in each boot, another on my other thigh, one beneath each sleeve, and then three sown into my cloak.”

“And I thought I was being excessive,” Domeric said with a laugh. “I only have six on me.” Alys laughed, and leaned into Domeric’s side as they continued walking.

“Domeric,” she said as they approached Winterfell once more. “I have a good feeling about this marriage.”

“So do I,” Domeric said, a small smile on his face as his eyes shone. “So do I, Alys.”

Chapter Text

Old Wyk, 300 AC

“Anyone who wishes to be King, step forward!” Asha forced herself not to roll her eyes at the words of her uncle, Aeron. Such a traditionalist prick. Hated women more than he hated life, and that was saying something.

Gilbert Farwynd of the Lonely Isle had just gone. Erik Ironmaker had been planning to contest the election, but Asha had talked him out of it. He’d been on her raid on Oldtown, and they did damn well.

Asha stepped forward, her pack of supporters behind her. Lord Gorold Goodbrother, Lord Rodrik Harlaw, and Nute the Barber were her champions. Nute the Barber, her uncle’s right-hand man, was a bone to the traditionalists. A strong warrior and brutal reaver, he had been raiding for three and a half decades and was still alive. The man was known to have several salt wives. His presence promised that Asha wouldn’t be drastically changing Ironborn culture. Lord Gorold was the source of the steel in every reaver’s blade. He was a practical man and a cultural traditionalist with many thralls. Lord Rodrik, her uncle, was the overlord of all of Harlaw, and an advocate for minor change and greater wealth.

“Lords,” Asha called. “Captains, Reavers! Behold, the wealth of the Reach!” Her champions lay down the three chests, filled with gold, jewels, and stolen weapons. “We sacked Oldtown!” she yelled. “Victarion burned the Arbor to the ground. The greatest ports of the Reach are no more, their wealth, their maids, and their children are kept here now! The Starry Sept was left empty, its walls torn down and windows shattered. The Citadel was raided, its precious vaults, full of Valyrian steel, of precious gems and priceless artifacts, now lie in our holds. The Hightower was burned, its line is ended, save one hostage we may make our thrall!” The crowd cheered, eyes darting between Asha and the treasure she had brought, the gold overflowing and spilling out onto the ground.

“We lost men, good men, that is true,” Asha said. “Mine own uncle, Victarion, was among them. But that is the way of life. We do not sow, and we never will! Let their precious fleets come, they shall find every port burned and every city broken. We can strike and strike again, every time without warning. Our wealth shall rival that of Old Valyria by the time we are done with them!” As the crowd cheered, a loud, piercing noise broke through the air. People grimaced as the sound continued, and then slowly ended, as Euron Greyjoy, the Crow’s Eye, appeared.

“Hello niece,” he said with a smirk. “Nice try. Now, step aside and let the real men decide.” Asha growled, her eyes burning into Euron. She saw a flicker of movement, a brief moment where a rare ray of sunshine glittered off steel. Asha considered silence, but the man was still kin. Even if he was a kinslayer.

“Euron!” she shouted. “Behind--” Euron slowly turned, just in time for the knife to slip into his guts. He growled and grabbed is Valyrian steel battle axe. Another man, standing beside him, plunged a dagger into his wrist, and the battle axe hit the ground. People were yelling, standing up and drawing their weapons. Asha grabbed hers, running towards the dozen people standing over Euron, stabbing him repeatedly. Her axe cut into the spine of one, then hacked into the neck of another. She looked down as she locked blades with one of the killers. Euron’s chest was covered in stabs. His throat was slit, both eyes gouged out. Above where his throat had been slit, someone had sawed his head off.

Asha kicked her uncle’s killer in the balls, slamming her axe down into his head. Around her, others were hacking into the assassins.

“We need to vote!” Aeron yelled as the last assassin was killed. Every eye turned towards him. “The thralls may be rising against us. We need a king, now!”

“Asha!” one man yelled. He was echoed, again and again, until Old Wyk was drowning in their calls.

“By the will of the captains!” Aeron called out. “All hail Asha, Queen of the Iron Isles, Queen of the Salt and Rock, Daughter of the Sea Wind, Lord Reaper of Pyke!”

“All hail!”

“Congratulations, niece,” Aeron whispered into her ear. “Somehow, you were the best choice of three.”

There was no thrall uprising. Euron had simply been a fool. After spending moons removing body parts for fun, his thralls began to plot. One day the Red Priest and pet prophet told Euron all his servants needed to carry daggers, for a rageful sword would strike against him at the kingsmoot, and only his leal subjects could be relied upon to defend him. 

With the investigation done Asha was crowned, drowned, and installed upon the Seastone Chair, at last allowing her to turn to the matters of state. One of which included reading the latest missives.

“The Redwyne Fleet is already sailing here,” Asha said.

“What? How?” asked her Uncle Rodrik.

“The Velaryon bastard set sail before the wedding,” she replied. “Not even their fool council will recall him now.”

“Where is he?” Nute asked.

“He was off the coast of Tarth two days ago,” Asha said. “He should be near Greenstone by now.” She looked up from the map, directly at Nute. “I need you to prepare their greeting.” Nute simply smiled.

“How?”

“Burn the ports along the Redwyne Straight. Neither Oldtown nor the Arbor will have recovered yet, but there are many others. Target the main ports first–Blackcrown, Sunflower Hall, and the Three Towers. If you feel like it and have time, you can stop by Oldtown again. You have the Iron Fleet.” Nute smiled and nodded. He was a man of few words.

“The rest of us will be in two groups,” Asha continued. “I will lead an attack on Highgarden whilst you, uncle, shall sack Lannisport again. I want you to hold a reserve, send them to break Casterly Rock once the guards start running into the city.”

“Aye, my queen,” her uncle said, a gleam in his eye.

“Excellent! We leave in two hours, with the tide.” The men bowed their heads slightly, and made to leave, save Wulf One-Eye.

“Wulf?” Asha asked, stepping towards him. “What is it?”

“I have a captive,” he said. “Wants ta talk to ya. Fancy lady.”

“Which one?”

“One what killed Victarion.”

“Ah,” Asha said, taking a breath. “Aye, take me to her.” Wulf nodded, and began to lead the way. It was a short trip, simply down to one of the cells in the Castle Pyke basement.

“‘Ere she is,” Wulf said. “Be careful, she’s sneaky.”

“Aye,” Asha said. “So I gather. Pretty little thing too,” she continued, eyeing Desmera Redwyne. She was young, younger than Asha, which was saying something. Asha was only three and twenty. Still, Desmera had damn fine curves, and an innocent face, despite the fact that she’d killed Victarion. Asha would enjoy breaking her.

“How much do you want for her?” Asha asked. Wulf raised an eyebrow, and Asha shrugged.

“What’ll ya use ‘er for?”

“Thinkin’ about making her a Salt Wife.” Wulf laughed, and clapped Asha on the back.

“Aye, you’re one of us. Some of the lads were nervous ‘bout havin’ a queen. I said nah, she’s fierce and likes pretty things, same as us. Damn crew laughed at me, least ‘til I punched ‘em in the eye with me axe. Now who’s laughing?!” Asha laughed and clapped Wulf on the back as well. In the cell, Desmera’s emotions were difficult to tell. Her face was blank and flat, though her eyes shone with something as they flickered between the two. Was it fear? Asha didn’t think so, but it didn’t really look like anger either. She’d figure it out later.

“So, what’d you take? I’ve got four girls from the Hightower. Would be five, but Qarl beat me to the last one.”

“Any of ‘em married?”

“All save one.”

“Any of their husbands still livin’?”

“No. One’s got a son who’s a lord though.”

“Minor or major?”

“Inbetween.”

“Ah. I’ll take the unwed one then.”

“Fair enough. First level, third row. Fourth cell on the right.”

Wulf took off to take his newest collection while Asha opened the cell of Desmera Redwyne. She grabbed Desmera’s arms as soon as the door was open and pulled her towards her. Asha looked her up and down.

“Got any weapons?” she asked.

“No,” Desmera said in a soft voice. Asha raised her eyebrow, then patted the girl down. Raising her eyebrow again, Asha’s hand trailed into Desmera’s skirts. The girl closed her eyes and bit her lip when Asha’s hand rubbed over her smallclothes, a reaction that was noted.

“What’s this then?” Asha asked, a knife in her hand. She then pulled another from Desmera’s sleeve.

“Knives,” Desmera answered.

“Yet, you said you didn’t have any weapons,” Asha said, her voice low. Desmera struggled not to squirm. “Why is that?”

“Th-they didn’t take them after the weapons search,” Desmera replied. “I thought they must not be considered weapons here.” Asha let out a single laugh, then took Desmera by the arm and yanked her along, up the stairs, up another set of stairs, and then down the hallway and into Asha’s chambers, where she slammed the door shut behind them.

“Why were you asking for me?” Asha asked, tossing one of the knives back to her right hand.

“You seemed a better option,” Desmera replied. “I-I was the one who told the Red Priest he should use a false vision.” Asha’s eyebrows rose as she walked around the girl, stalking her. “I--”

Desmera’s voice went silent when Asha’s hand clamped over it. She took the hand off, standing in front of Desmera once more, and looked the girl up and down, smiling hungrily. She stabbed the left-hand knife into a nearby dresser and pulled Desmera closer, yanking her by her waist. Asha’s hand once more slipped beneath her skirts, trailing over her smallclothes, flicking at the waistband. Desmera moaned, unable to hold back anymore.

“My dear,” Asha said with a smirk, her eyes gleaming. “Is there something you want?” Desmera nodded, her face a deep red as she bit her lip, desperately trying not to repeat the noise as Asha’s hand ran lightly over her smallclothes. “What is it you want?” Asha asked, her smirk widening.

“Y-you,” Desmera said with a heavy breath. “I-I’ve always found--found women li-like you intoxicating,” Desmera said. “M-my parents forbid me from visiting Dorne.” Asha laughed, pulling Desmera by her waistband. She stumbled into Asha, her arms suddenly wrapping around her neck.

“Keep going,” Asha said, her voice low and seductive.

“I s-saw you. On the boats, you were talking to some man and in charge. I--oh gods,” Desmera exclaimed as Asha’s hand ran under her smallclothes, fingers playing at her entrance. “P-please,” she begged, and Asha smiled wider, before drawing back her hand. She licked Desmera’s moisture off her fingers as Desmera whimpered. Asha then picked up a knife and walked back over. Desmera’s eyes went wide as she approached. Asha’s hand moved gently, curling through Desmera’s hair before yanking it back. Desmera yelped in surprised, and Asha traced a trail of kisses down her neck.

Desmera felt her clothes moving, then squeaked as a button fell from her dress. Asha smirked again, and her knife moved lower, slicing the buttons off Desmera’s collar, then turning her, cutting through the laces that tied the back together. The flat of the knife moved against her skin, and Desmera shivered as the final tie was slit. Her dress fell to the ground. The knife moved again, slicing away the threads and clasp holding together her smallclothes. As those too fell, Asha stepped back. She walked in a circle around Desmera, stalking her hungrily. Desmera felt the eyes searching, roaming across her naked flesh, and shivered. Asha spun the knife in her hand, then threw it into the wall where it stuck.

As Desmera turned to watch the knife sail past, Asha rushed her, pinning her arms to the side. Desmera opened her mouth to do something, be it shout, squeak, squeal, or yell she knew not. Asha’s mouth met hers, kissing passionately, her tongue slipping into Desmera’s mouth. Desmera had kissed before, but never with one as confident as this. Her own tongue pressed back and played with Asha’s, but her mouth was well and truly dominated.

Desmera felt a hand snake up her flesh, cupping her breast, pulling at her nipple. She moaned into Asha’s mouth, both arms still grabbed in Asha’s left hand. She moved when Asha began to step, moved backwards, blindly, kissing madly until she fell with a shove onto the bed.

Asha, having kicked off her shoes, untied and kicked off her breeches, and unbuttoned her shirt, leapt onto the bed. She crawled up towards Desmera, then kissed her, sitting down, straddling her lap. Her tongue once more invaded Desmera’s mouth, but soon she parted, kissing down her throat. She bit and sucked on Desmera’s pale flesh as moans began to fill the room. Asha kissed down her chest before reaching Desmera’s breasts. She bit the pale globe, then kissed it and sucked the nipple into her mouth, teeth teasing against the sensitive skin and Desmera’s hands carded into her hair. Asha’s hand moved up slowly, then jolted towards Desmera’s breast, twisting and pulling her nipple as Asha bit down on her other and Desmera yelped in pain and pleasure.

Asha’s hand slipped between Desmera’s thighs, teasing her as it came ever closer. Desmera whimpered and squirmed, but for every movement she made, Asha would pull just a little bit further back and chuckle, her breath warm against Desmera’s flesh.

“P-p-please,” Desmera said.

“Please what?” Asha asked teasingly, sitting up, her hand tracing around Desmera’s thighs. It moved up and Desmera tensed, waiting, until Asha’s hand moved away again as Desmera squirmed.

“F-fuck,” she said. “Asha, please--”

Desmera was cut off as Asha’s hand moved away quickly, her right hand yanking Desmera up as she growled.

“You,” Asha growled. “Do not call me my name, in public or in bed. Other times, perhaps.”

“Wha-what do I call you?” Desmera asked. Asha smiled, and threw her back onto the bed, moving upwards, closer.

“What servants call their masters, of course,” Asha replied.

“Y-yes mistress,” Desmera said, her eyes hungry as she looked down, towards Asha’s seeping smallclothes.

“I think you owe me something for that slip-up, don’t you?” Asha said, moving closer, her hips hovering just south of Desmera’s chin.

“Yes, mistress,” she said, sliding across the bed and pulling the smallclothes aside before the air was once again filled with moaning.