The Prince and the King - HimmeltheHero - A Song of Ice and Fire (2024)

Chapter 1: PROLOGUE

Chapter Text

A tremor took hold of Summerhall.

Sprung from the bowels of the castle, the flames unleashed in a powerful wave, radiating upwards and out through every window pane in a burst of heat that illuminated the night sky. Splinters of glass were caught in the air but for a moment before they melted down as searing raindrops across the land surrounding the castle.

A welter of voices filled the night air as panic was replaced with ungodly terror. Servants cried out to the Seven for salvation while knights and household guards barked out orders in a desperate attempt to halt the growing chaos.

Men and women tripped and crawled over each other to escape the raging inferno, heedless in their fear of the ones they trampled underfoot. Their efforts hindered that of the knights rushing into the burning castle, desperate to get to the heart of the devastation.

Ser Gerald Hightower used every bit of his considerable strength to push through the throng of scrambling people, fighting against the current of panicked limbs. There were no thoughts in his head, only the furious pull of duty guiding his actions. It was a cloak he had wrapped about himself, helping him to ignore the scalding heat and the thick, choking, smoke that only grew heavier the deeper into the castle he went.

Eventually he came upon the great hall, the epicentre of the carnage, and felt his eyes almost explode out of his skull.

Where once there had been a dais was only a pyre of fallen beams, rubble and a dozen other horrible things he didn’t want to think about. Where once there had been beautiful tapestries from Dorne, was only darkened stains against the stone wall. Where once there had been statues of the Seven, was only a singular melted, deformed blob. The horrible mess of flame and wreckage dominated most of what was one a splendid hall.

Where the hell is the king?

Several bodies lay burning in the middle of the dancing flames, though they were too blacked and deformed by the flames for Ser Gerald to guess at their identities. The horror of it gripped his heart, almost enough to end him in that very moment.

“Gerold,” the voice was raspy with pain, but it was a familiar one. He woke from his daze and rushed to the stumbling figure emerging from the smoke.

“Lord Commander!”

Ser Duncan the Tall was one of the strongest men Gerold had ever known and even now he continued that image. Wizened with age, blackened and burnt, the big man approached him carrying a crying woman in his arms. Princess Rhaella was heavy with child, her pretty face stained with soot and soaked with tears, she breathed unsteadily.

“The babe,” Ser Duncan croaked, “save her, and the babe. Egg wanted…” there was a hiss of pain, “wanted to celebrate…new life…rebirth…”

It seemed that the big man might topple and Gerold took the woman from his mentor’s arms, thanking the gods for his own size as he cradled the princess. There was a wetness about her person and every so often her body would convulse with pain.

The babe’s coming…

He looked up at his mentor. “Are there any others?”

Before the Lord Commander could answer, three figures stumbled out of the smoke. Prince Aerys and Steffon Baratheon were supporting Prince Jaehaerys, the heir to the throne was bleeding from a crack to his forehead and breathing uneasily. The boys sobbed in relief when they saw Gerold, dragging their wounded father and uncle over to him.

There was the sound of cracked wood as a beam collapsed into the fire, sending up another burst of flames and sparks everywhere. Can I get them out of here? He glanced at the way he came, too many people, we’ll either roast from the spreading flames or be trampled…

There was a shout of surprise and Gerold had never been so grateful to see Harlan Grandison. His sworn brother rushed over to aid the boys and the wounded heir to the throne, his white cloak stained grey with soot.

“The side entrance,” the young knight shouted, taking Jaehaerys from the boys, “it’ll take us through to garden to the lake. We’ll be safe there!”

They hugged the stone walls, desperate to avoid the flames that crept ever closer, consuming overturned tables, chairs, fallen cloth and everything else in its searing grasp. Smoke brought tears to their eyes and obscured their vision, but they continued on until they came upon the door. Flaming debris had hindered the path, though the Baratheon boy wasted no time in clearing them as best he could, burning his hands and ruining his boots in the effort. They were rushing through the smoke-filled side hall, desperate for the brief glimmer of starlight that awaited them at its end. The heat was caressing their backs as they moved, the flames spreading across the castle like a predator stalking them. A ferocious crack cut through the night air and a flaming beam fell down before them, hindering their path.

“No!” Prince Aerys shouted, near hysterical. “What are we to do now?”

Rhaella answered her brother’s curse with a gasp of agony. Her body writhed in Gerold’s arms as her labour continued, heedless of the carnage around her.

They were still wrestling with their fear when the Lord Commander marched ahead of them, the white of his armour blackened by flame and his cloak mostly a singed ruin at his back. He bent down and with a strangled grunt of effort began to lift the scolding hot pillar, first to his waist, then to his chest, and then above his head. His aged, burnt face flushed with effort as he held the way open for them.

“Go!” He shouted through grit teeth. “Save them!”

Gerold would have been lost in awe were it not for Princess Rhaella’s cries at his chest. He ran ahead with the girl, Aerys, Steffon, Harlan and Jaehaerys hot on his heels. The roof cracked above them and Gerold could only cast a single look at Ser Duncan the Tall as the room came down upon him.

There was no time to grieve. There was only the desperate, mad rush to escape the inferno and take sanctuary by the cool and wet grass by the lake. Gently as he could, he lay Princess Rhaella down as her labour continued, the girl clutching desperately at his hand as the babe began to crown. Ser Harlan soon attended them and the two knights served as an odd pair of midwives as the little prince was brought crying into the world, surrounded by death and madness.

The fires continued to burn throughout the night and into the next morning before a merciful rain doused them, the dark streaks of smoke cutting into the grey of the sky. To Gerold it seemed as if hell had spilled out onto the world in an instant. What was once a beautiful place of tranquility had been transformed into a broken down, blackened ruin.

After the screaming had stopped and help had arrived from nearby lands, Prince Jaehaerys asked Gerold to help him into the remains of the castle. “I must see,” he croaked, voice thick with grief. “I need to look for my father.” Gerold hadn’t the strength to argue and had the prince lean on him as they moved through the blackened rubble.

The stench of smoke and cooked meat was enough to turn his stomach, but he swallowed back the foulness and continued on. Prince Jaehaerys would occasionally look at the blackened bodies that littered the castle, searching for some trace of humanity left untouched by the flames. His big purple eyes were red rimmed with unshed tears, but the young man was otherwise stoic as they staggered along.

They found Prince Duncan dead, and his mother Queen Betha beside him, identifiable only by a golden necklace that she had received on her last nameday. Prince Jaehaerys gripped Gerold tightly for balance, face deathly white as he saw the remains of his family.

They found the King, sprawled in the epicentre of the devastation. When he came to Summerhall he had been dressed in finery, though none of it remained. The flames had blackened and melted his garments to his body. There was little to mark him as human, though the melted crown atop his head made it clear who he had been.

Prince Jaehaerys fell to knees before his father’s charred corpse. His body shook, and then a wretched sob escaped from his lips and the tears began to flow.

Gerold looked at the sickly young man, his new king, and the death and horror that surrounded them. This is what House Targaryen has been reduced to , he despaired. The future, the kingdom…All is lost…

“What…?”

Jaehaerys voice shifted from sadness to confusion, as something stirred in the smouldering embers around King Aegon’s body. There was a flash of movement, a hint of green scales. Snake,Gerold thought for one mad moment, but then the slender thing emerged from the embers and spread its emerald wings.

Amongst of the broken halls of Summerhall, the song of dragons echoed out.

Chapter 2: RICHARD

Chapter Text

Richard Lonmouth read the letter once, blinked, and then read it again. This cannot be right.

From across the painted table, Prince Rhaegar watched him silently, a faint smile playing on his lips. His violet eyes seemed to almost glow in the candlelight, as if they saw beyond the flesh and into Richard’s mind.

“Baffling, isn’t it?” He asked in his soft, melodious voice. “After all these years, my father would summon me back to court.”

Baffling? Trickery more like.

It was said that when Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark as a second bride in defiance of the Faith and House Baratheon that King Aerys had howled and raged at his son’s foolishness, threatening to feed the prince to his dragon until Queen Rhaella interceded and begged for leniency. While the king came to reluctantly accept the marriage, he decreed that the prince and his household should be exiled to Dragonstone and remain there.

A bitter irony, Richard reflected. Rhaegar got to keep his Stark bride, only for her to die in childbed birthing Prince Aemon. And for eleven long years we have been stuck on this rock, isolated from the rest of the realm…

It was not an easy thing to follow the crown prince into exile, for it meant forsaking many of the joys in life he had once partaken. There were no more tourneys to be had when one could not leave the smoking isle of Dragonstone and scarce few feasts when there was little cause to celebrate. Music, dancing, hunting, they were a distant memory. It was a slower life than he was used to, though one he adjusted to with time.

And now after so many years came a raven and a royal summons…

“This bodes ill,” Richard said, putting the letter down. “The King is not a forgiving man. He wouldn’t shorten your confinement here out of kindness.”

Rhaegar cast his gaze at the table they were sitting at, the painted table that Aegon the Conqueror had fashioned in the shape of Westeros. His violet eyes settled upon King’s Landing. “It’s a trap,” he agreed, “though we can’t be sure of it’s nature.”

“I imagine it’s the sort that will see our heads on spikes,” Richard pointed out.

“Perhaps, but perhaps not.” Rhaegar settled back into his chair and grew pensive. “Even my father would hesitate to directly harm me for fear of kinslaying, and he hasn’t the mind for any overtly complicated politicking that might cripple my standing more than it already is. Something else is going on here.”

“I think you’re giving the king at once too much credit and too little.” It was said that Aerys Targaryen was a man prone to flights of fancy, charitable one moment and severe the next. A eccentric at best and a man well on his way to insanity at worst.

A rare smile crept across Rhaegar’s face. “My spies at court sent me a report three weeks ago. They write of my father’s arrogance, his string of mistresses and his continuing animosity towards Tywin Lannister, but nothing else untoward. I should think he’s still rational enough to not burn me alive the moment I step foot in the Red Keep.”

“Even so,” Richard said, “the day will come when we can no longer rely on the man’s rotting mind to keep the peace. This letter feels like a bitter omen.”

Rhaegar studied him. “You need not come with me. Arthur and Myles will be at my side along with our best warriors, and Urraxes will deter the bravest of men. ”

“No,” Richard made a dismissive motion, “my place is at your side. I might not like where my service takes me, but so long as I have counsel to offer, you’ll have it.”

The Prince of Dragonstone regarded him in silence for a long moment. “You’ve always been a great friend to me, Richard, even when I haven’t deserved it,” he cast his violet gaze about the dark chamber, “Coming here to Dragonstone all these years in spite of my father’s wroth…I won’t forget about your loyalty when I take the throne.”

He looked about the expanse of the painted table, darkened with age, and drank in the sight of his future kingdom. His eyes came to rest on the North and the corners of his mouth twisted downwards. Something played behind his eyes, but it was obscured in an instant. When he looked back at Richard and spoke the melancholy had not quite retreated from his voice. “I’d be alone for a spell. To think, and perhaps pray.”

The knight rose from his seat, bowed once and made to leave the chamber. He was at the door when the prince called a final time. “Richard, keep this quiet for now won’t you? It’s Aegon’s nameday, I’d have the boy enjoy it without worry.”

Richard nodded. “Not a word, my Prince.”

It was midday, but the sky above Dragonstone was gloomy and grey, with an insistent wind that tugged and pulled at the banners in the courtyard. Rain would be upon them, so Richard decided on the first of his daily rituals and began to do a circuit of the battlements.

It had not always been like this, once Richard had been free spirited as any young man. But a near decade living with the threat of war hanging over his head had brought forth demons that plagued his mind. His first day on Dragonstone he had walked the battlements, touched two gargoyles, counted the steps, and then returned to his chambers to pray to the tiny wooden figures of the Seven he kept above his bed. When the second day came and there was no bloodshed, he repeated the ritual for luck, walking the exact same path, counting the same steps, touching the exact same gargoyles, praying identical prayers to his figures. Soon it became a pattern, then a habit, before eventually becoming something that enslaved him. He knew in his rational mind that his little rituals were silly things not keeping doom at bay, but he still felt that he could not take the chance.

It is the uncertainty that destroys me , he reflected, walking his steps. The what ifs. Perhaps I’m as mad as King Aerys, in my own way.

In the privacy of his chambers he whispered his prayers of peace before allowing himself to collapse on the small Myrish sofa that sat in the corner of his room. His mind gnawed at the various worries like a hound with a bone, but he managed to push them aside long enough for his body to relax. His mind grew still, his thoughts slowed and darkness…

It was sunset when he roused himself from his dozing, with a glint of orange light piercing through the storm clouds and into his balcony. There would be a feast, come nightfall. Though Rhaegar was confined to Dragonstone the lords of the Narrow Sea were permitted to visit him on occasion so that he might continue with his governance of the isles. Ostensibly they had arrived to celebrate Prince Aegon’s twelfth nameday, but the reality was that Rhaegar called them to him to shore up loyalties and prepare for potential conflict with the Iron Throne.

I pray it doesn’t come to that .Richard reached for the small figure of the Crone and rubbed his thumb over it. Let Aerys and his underlings see wisdom, for a little while longer at least.

Richard shook away his gnawing thoughts, sat up, rolled his aching shoulder, cracked his stiff knuckles and eased himself to his feet. His eyes fell on the puzzle box he had received a week past.

Richard was not a father, but his brother was. He had written to the man on the previous turn of the moon asking about an appropriate gift for the prince and had received the puzzle box as a reply. It might have seemed a lame thing, but Richard could see how Rhaegar might look kindly on him for gifting the boy something that might sharpen his mind.

It was a small thing, but masterfully crafted. It’s six faces were inlaid with gilded depictions of dragons, entwined and snarling flames that could be pressed and shifted to unlock the treasure within. No description came with the gift, but Richard suspected it was from Yi Ti.

Content with his gift, Richard washed from a small basin, donned a fresh tunic with the yellow, red and black colours of his house, grabbed the box and left for the Great Hall.

He braced himself against the chill as he crossed the long gallery, the sea wind working hard against the windows as night soon approached. Hundreds of nights spent on the castle and there was still a bitterness to the sea wind that irked him to no end. The pain of living on a bloody island….

Lost in his own head as he was, Richard didn’t see Princess Rhaenys until she was at his side.

Rhaenys was tall for her age, and already a beauty worthy of her namesake. Favouring her Martell mother, the princess had olive skin and thick black hair that fell in ringlets down to her shoulders. There was something of Rhaegar in her cheekbones and nose, while her eyes were a purple so dark they seemed black, the blood of Old Valyria shining through the Rhoynish. Dressed in the Targaryen colours, her gown was more red than black, a thing of silk that danced with every step she took. She smiled at Richard and slowed her pace to match him.

“Ser,” the princess greeted. “How goes your day?”

“It’s been….interesting, princess,” he admitted with a laugh that wasn’t as real as he would have liked.

“Oh?”

He made a dismissive notion. “Matters from the mainland, that’s all. It’s always something with the folk at King’s Landing.”

“Should I be worried?” The young lady was too clever by half. “Father has been sequestered away with his knights and the Narrow Sea lords all day. Mother won’t speak on it either, so something must be amiss.”

Of course we should be worried, your mad grandfather might well have lost his damned mind and decided to feed us all to his dragon…

Instead of speaking his concerns he answered with, “your father isn’t worried.” Before she could probe further he looked around. “Where are your ladies? It won’t do for a princess to walk about unattended.”

“I gave them the slip. The Crownland girls that were sent to to be my companions are really nothing more than clucking hens without a clever thought in their heads.” The girl raised her chin in challenge, “Father ought to make me his cupbearer so I could attend him during meetings. Then I could be around all the interesting people.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Richard grumbled. “Interesting isn’t always good.”

The princess looked as though she wanted to challenge him on that, but knew better than to argue. She looked like her father when she brooded, dark eyes focused on some distant, nebulous thing.

“Have you gotten your brother a gift for his nameday?” He asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

Rhaenys smirked at him. “Have you?”

“As a matter of fact I do,” Richard laughed, gesturing to the box in his hand.

“Aegon won’t even notice,” she said. “He’s going to be buried in gifts and told how wonderful and perfect he is by everyone in attendance that he won’t remember who got him what. He’ll be insufferable for days.”

They chatted mildly until they came upon the Great Hall and Rhaenys went ahead of him, hoping to command her father’s attention with her entrance. Richard waited for several moments before moving inside, enjoying the warmth and sound of merrymaking as he entered. The tables were crowded with knights, sailors, merchants, artisans and bards. Dornishmen were plentiful in Rhaegar’s court, but so were Crownlanders, Rivermen, Northmen and even a few nobles from the Free Cities. Even confined to an island for a decade Rhaegar had the habit of attracting people to him and those connections ran far.

What a bloody mess it will make of the realm if Rhaegar calls men to arms.

Richard made his way to the raised platform and the high table where the prince sat with his family and assembled lords. Scions from Celtigar and Velaryon had shown up, as the Valyrian houses often did whenever a Targaryen called. Princess Elia played the dutiful hostess and spoke to both men from her place beside Rhaegar, who was saying something to his eldest son who sat at his right.

“Rich!” Myles Mooton waved him over to an empty seat at his side. “Sit yourself down and get some wine into you.”

He couldn’t help but smile at his old friend. They had both been squires to Prince Rhaegar, both had been knighted by the man, and Richard could say without question that the man was his best friend. Though he was older than Richard, there was something boyish to him that was endearing and energising. He was loud and confident with a bawdy joke always at the ready, but never unkind. The long exile on Dragonstone was made bearable by Myles good humour livening up the inner circle Rhaegar kept.

Richard was still smiling as he took his seat, his cup already filled with Dornish red and a plate of buttered lobster laid out before him. With all the worrying he had done, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was.

“So what are your thoughts on this letter from King’s Landing?” Myles asked in his typical blunt manner. “Rhaegar seems committed to going.”

Richard swallowed a mouthful of wine, “It’s madness, the whole thing. Plainly a trap. We’ll probably be fodder for Aerys dragon the moment we step foot in the Red Keep.”

“At least we’ll die memorably. ” Myles grinned. “I’ll make sure to give the green beast the sh*ts on my way through it’s guts.”

“I’m glad the notion amuses you.”

Myles shrugged. “I don’t think we’re going to die, Rich. At least not yet, and not from whatever scheme this letter is.”

“And where does this optimism come from?” Richard felt his worries prick at the surface of his mind like a dozen tiny spikes. “Aerys was volatile when Rhaegar was sent from court and I don’t suppose the years have made him a softer, gentler man.”

Myles broke off a piece of brown bread and chewed it thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing. “Well, ask yourself this…Why would he move against Rhaegar now? If he wanted him dead then he would have done it a decade ago when that business with Lyanna Stark occurred.”

Mention of the dead woman sent Richard’s gaze over to Prince Aemon sitting at the other end of the table. Despite the possessing the look of his mother's house, Richard noted that the prince had some of Rhaegar in him. It's the eyes, he realised. The boy has his father's sad eyes…

Richard could never decide on how he felt about the youngest of Rhaegar’s children. The Prince was awkward with the boy and Princess Elia coldly indifferent, though neither had ever instructed that the boy be treated differently than Aegon or Rhaenys. In many ways he saw the boy as a reminder of that horrible scandal that found them banished to the dismal rock. But he also knew that it was unfair to think such thoughts, that it was Rhaegar’s folly alone and the boy was innocent.

He was still pondering the poor choices of the past when the food had been cleared away and it was time for gifts. The lords Bar Emmon and Velaryon both presented the prince with swords of dazzling make and beauty, whereas Celtigar brought forth several books dating back from the time when Dorne joined the realm. "These were given to my family by Daeron the Good, your noble ancestor. It is my privilege to return them to you my prince."

Aegon looked less enthused about the books than he did the swords, but still graced the old lord with a smile. “You have my thanks Lord Celtigar. Books are…a source of strength and wisdom for a king.”

Rhaegar’s words coming from his mouth, Richard noted. He and Elia have the boy trained to become the perfect prince…

The parade of gifts continued for some time, each more ridiculous than the last. A lesser son from House Massey brought forth a harp, despite Aegon having no musical interest. A man bearing the sigil of House Jordayne provided an ebony helm, encrusted in rubies and big fanciful wings at its side that were plainly too large for the boy. A merchant from Myr brought a looking glass that folded out half a dozen times to be used for star gazing.

Time for mine, he supposed, lifting himself to his feet and moving before the dais.

“Prince Aegon,” he greeted, “though I can’t offer you anything half as splendid as the others, I do have something that might be amusing.” He produced the gilded trinket and held it out for inspection. “A puzzle box from Yi Ti. As I understand it, the Emperors over there use them as a way to exercise their minds.”

Aegon’s big eyes locked onto the gilded gift. There was a playful smile on the boy’s face as he looked at the engravings. Ser Lewyn Martell took the box and handed it to the prince, who turned it around in his hands and squinted as he tried to twist and turn the device.

“Thank you, Ser,” the boy said uncertainly.

Richard bowed and retreated to his seat, where Myles was shaking his head in bemusem*nt. “A toy box? Really Rich?”

“At least I got him something,” Richard muttered, feeling his cheeks burn in embarrassment. “My brother sent me that gift and he has three boys.”

“I’d wager none of them are older than five,” Myles nudged him playfully in the ribs. “Come on, drink up. You’re worry wart when sober.”

Richard didn’t dignify that with a response, but did take more wine. In the years of service to Rhaegar he had come to enjoy the taste for Dornish red. Two cups later and he was feeling a nice warmth to his person.

“If you ask me,” Myles was saying, “what Rhaegar needs to do is show off that splendid silver dragon of his. Urraxes is a fine creature and it would do well to remind the realm that Aerys is not the only Targaryen with a dragon!”

Richard considered it. The king’s faction had command of three dragons, while Rhaegar and his children had four. But it wasn’t a simple game of numbers, as most of the beasts of Dragonstone were still young and unsuited for war. He knew his history well enough to understand the folly that would come from sending children off on dragonback.

“What of Wildfyre?” he countered. “King Aerys’ mount is the oldest and most vicious of dragons who saw combat during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Urraxes isn’t half as big, and not nearly as savage.”

Myles dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You’ve a point of course. But swords count for something and men will rally behind dragons, no matter their size. Even now Rhaegar is better loved than his father.”

Richard made to argue the point, but fell silent when Ser Lewyn Martell approached him, puzzle box in hand. “Apologies, but Prince Aegon wishes for you show him how to work the box.”

The boy looked at him from his place beside the king. His purple eyes were large and watching him expectantly as he took the box. Rhaegar smiled in apology at his friend but gestured for him to indulge the boy. Well , he thought, at least the boy is interested in my lame gift…

Richard’s fingers began to push and shift the surface of the trinket, moving the engravings about as a series of tiny mechanisms began to click. He had no idea how the YiTish designed such things, or what lay inside, but he could imagine it would be a brilliant place for storing precious gems or mementos.

There was another click, and suddenly he felt his thumb push in through to the hollow of the box. Instinctively he pressed about, trying to feel for some other mechanism to press when he felt a sharp prick shoot through the ball of his thumb. He jerked his hand away and saw a bead of blood trail down his hand.

“Careful Rich!” Myles laughed, “your toy was made by shoddy YiTish craftsmen.”

Richard’s heart began to dance in his chest. He looked about as others at the table began laugh and giggle at his fumbling, trying to smother the embarrassment he felt. Picking up the box he frowned at the opening his thumb had made, turning the trinket this way and that to understand how it had cut him.

His stomach lurched when something began to emerge from the tiny opening, it’s green, human-like face peering up at the world. The creature shone in the torch light like a polished jewel and for a moment the world was still. It moved forward, looked about with dark eyes, hissed threateningly and raised its stinger in warning. Reality hit at once.

Manticore ….

There was a gasp of disgust and shouting as people at the table backed away. Someone screamed. The little creature hissed again and readied itself to pounce, only to find itself impaled into the table by the edge of Ser Lewyn’s dirk.

“By the f*cking Seven,” Myles breathed, on his feet several steps away. “Rich, where the hell did that thing come from?”

“It was a gift,” he murmured, suddenly feeling his tongue swell in his mouth, “from …my…”

Words would not come, his throat was parched and his thoughts swam together in a blur. He glanced down at his thumb and saw that it had blackened and swollen, while a dark trail of bruising webbed down his hand and arm.

Myles hand found his shoulder. “Rich? Rich?” His voice rose loud, “Damn it, someone call the Maester!”

Richard’s heart hammered away in his chest, so fast that he could scarcely breathe. A thousand thoughts raced through his spasminng mind. Did my brother do this? Why would he do this? No, the letter, did it even find its way home?Who sent that box?

My ritual,he thought desperately. I need to walk my path, count the steps.He made to stand, only to find his legs turned to jelly. His hands twitched and he imagined the tiny figures of the Seven. He needed to get back, to hold them all and say his prayers of peace….

People were speaking, he thought he might have seen Rhaegar staring down at him with sad eyes. It all faded away save for those violet eyes, then there was nothing…

Chapter 3: ASHARA I

Chapter Text

Arya fussed at her chest.

Ashara had spent the better part of three hours riding up the king’s road, enjoying the smell of pines and leaves and the feel of the wind on her face. Arya enjoyed it too, sitting with her in the saddle, cheering and pointing out this sight or that. She was a wild and inquisitive little thing, every bit as vivacious as Ashara had been as a child. But eventually as the hours went on and the weather grew chill the girl tired and was ready for a nap as they returned home.

In the years before his death Lord Rickard Stark had gone to great lengths to restore Moat Cailin into something that might be worthy of his second son. The original ruin served as a skeleton for the newer castle that had been erected, the three towers reinforced and repaired as the central line of defence against the south. Great amounts of timber and stone had been gathered from all across the North to forge a keep that was both strong and hospitable for those that lived there.

When Ashara came North she had brought a collection of her fellows from Dorne, mostly lesser sons from her father’s lands, but also those of the Greenblood who would know how to work in and around the wet bogs of the Neck. It made for a strange melding of cultures, but Ashara had created a tiny patch of Dorne amongst the harsh and humble Northmen.

“Ours is blood if First Men too, Ashara,” her father had told her, the night before her wedding. “We were Kings of the Torrentine once and House Stark is a worthy match for you my girl.”

She had mixed feelings at first. Ned was quiet and kind in a way other men were not and her heart swelled with love for him but the North with its harsh and cold lands held little appeal for her. But time had nurtured her and she had grown proud of the little corner of the world that she and Ned had created together.

Arya grumbled a little as they dismounted and wore a frown even as her Septa led her away. My fierce little girl,she thought, smiling. It had been devastating when she lost her first child, but the gods had blessed her with two others that were the best parts of her and Ned.

“My lady,” Maester Martyn shuffled over to her. “A pleasant ride?”

Ashara grinned at the old man while she removed her riding gloves, “The open road before me, the wind in my hair…it’s the best way to start the day.”

The Maester bobbed his head in acknowledgment but there was uncertainty tugging at his wrinkled face. The old man had served them loyally since Moat Cailin was reestablished and had met many challenges with a word of complaint, it troubled Ashara to see him so shaken.

“What is it?”

He produced a letter and held it out to her with trembling hands. “From Dragonstone, my lady.”

Ashara wasted no time in breaking the seal. Her eyes danced down the page as she drank in the words written in her old friend’s hand. Oh, no. Gods no . She felt her body grow tense and knew at once she needed to speak with her husband.

The Godswood at Moat Cailin was a small, rather pathetic thing compared to the one Ashara and Ned had been married in at Winterfell. It was a garden with a few oak trees hanging about in a protective ring, stones placed here and there, a small pond and a single Weirwood staring out at the world with its crudely carved face weeping bloody sap.

Ashara found her husband beneath the Weirwood, seated atop a stone bench. Sitting at his side was their son Robb, looking up at his father with all the wonder that a four year old could give as he was regaled with stories of heroes long past.

While Arya was an even mix of the Ashara and Ned, Robb was his father writ small. Pale as snow, with messy dark hair and serious grey eyes.

For a moment Ashara just stood there, drinking in the sight of the two. Her boys. If only we could stay like this, safe in the home we built, away from the grasping dangers of the world…

Ned lifted his gaze and smiled. “Ashara.”

“Mama!” Robb awkwardly hopped off the seat and hurried over to her, arms held out and a bright smile on his face. She scooped him up and pressed a kiss to his rosy cheek.

“Have you been good for your father?” She asked, tapping the boy’s nose and coaxing out a string of giggles.

“He’s been a good student,” Ned eased himself up and greeted her with a kiss. He put a hand on the boy’s head. “We’ve been learning about Bran the Builder haven’t we?”

Robb looked at her solemnly and said, “he built the Wall, Mama.”

“Oh? He must have been a great man,” Ashara replied, unable to contain her smile.

She set her son down and pointed to blue birds chirping away above them and asked the boy to try and count them all. Eager to please Robb did so, his attention elsewhere while Ashara gave Ned a look.

“Did something happen?” He asked cautiously, “were you and Arya troubled during your ride?”

Ashara reached for his hand, finding focus in the warm strength of his grip. “There’s been…troubling news. We received a raven from Dragonstone,” she did not try and blunt her words, “there was an attempt on Prince Aegon’s life.”’

Alarm filled his grey eyes at once. “What happened?“

“The children are fine,” she assured him, knowing his thoughts were on his sister’s boy. “But someone hid a manticore among Prince Aegon’s gifts. One of Rhaegar’s knights was killed at the nameday feast and they’re all very frightened.”

Ned’s eyes flashed to their own boy, counting the birds. His face hardened. “Trying to murder a child….utter madness.”

“There’s more, love,” she squeezed his hand. “The King has finally summoned Rhaegar back to court.”

Ned rubbed at his jaw and considered that for a moment. “After so long? The timing is strange. They say that the king favours young Viserys over Rhaegar. Do you think he was behind the attack?”

“It wouldn’t make sense,” her eyes travelled about the Godswood as her mind worked. “If he wanted Rhaegar and his children dead then he wouldn’t have wasted time on such trickery. And why wait so long? Aerys Targaryen is many things but patient is not one of them. There’s something else at play here.”

“Whatever dark work is going on, I cannot see it.” Ned was a capable man and great leader, but he was not born for the world of politics. He trusted Ashara enough to defer to her in such matters. “What of Arthur?”

“My brother’s joining Rhaegar at court, along with half a hundred other sworn men.” She couldn’t quite keep the disapproval out of her voice. “I would have preferred if he had sent Oswell Whent or Lewyn Martell in his place.”

“Arthur is the greatest swordsman alive,” he reassured her, “whatever trouble comes his way he’ll handle it.”

Ashara hummed in reluctant agreement. “I suppose…”

“If Aerys isn’t behind this plot then perhaps he might even lend his son aid in unravelling this scheme? It was his own grandson and the eventual heir who was threatened.” Ned frowned, “have the rest of the family been called to court?”

“Elia and the children are remaining on Dragonstone for the time being,” Ashara said. “If only that damned confinement was ended. Dragonstone is far away and gloomy, and now it has been stained with death. The terror those children feel will not go away any time soon.”

“Do you wish to see her?” Ned asked, “It is not so far from White Harbor, you could take a ship as we have done in the past and help council the Princess.”

Thrice in the last decade Ashara had made the journey to visit Princess Elia andArthur. The last was when Robb was a swaddling babe and Arthur had wept tears of joy as he held his nephew. How good it would be to bring Arya and Robb back, so that they might play with Elia’s children and their cousin too. They could fill the halls of Dragonstone with laughter and love…

She dismissed the notion, despite how attractive it was. With so much uncertainty in the realm she would not take her children from the safety of Moat Cailin. But perhaps I could go , a voice whispered in the back of her mind. A few weeks with Elia, until she feels safe again…

“Would you truly be fine with that?” She asked tentatively.

“I’d miss you, of course,” he brushed his thumb over her knuckles, “and so would the children, but I know you, Ash. You’ll drive yourself mad worrying over Princess Elia alone on that smoking rock. Who am I to stop you from helping a friend in need?”

Ashara looked away, abashedly. “I know my devotion to her can be chafing at times…”

“You’re loyal to those you care about,” Ned told her, smiling in a way that transformed his whole face. “It’s one of the many reasons why I love you.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. Not for the first time did Ashara wonder how she had ever been so lucky to find such a husband.

“It won’t be long,” she promised. “Just until things are settled and then I’ll return to you.”

Ned put his hands on her shoulders. “Support your friend, look in on my nephew if you can, but take care, Ash. Even Dragonstone closer than I’d like to that court of vipers.”

“Sweet Ned,” she smiled, “I’m Dornish. I know how to handle a snake or two.”

Her eyes went to the Weirwood and the crimson face gazing back at her. The Gods of her distant ancestors, the Gods of her children. Though she had never prayed before, she felt compelled now. Watch over them , she begged silently. Protect my family…

The sound of leaves in the wind was the only response.

Chapter 4: MYA I

Chapter Text

It was not often that Mya Stone regretted being brought into the warmth and luxery of her father’s household. As she stood outside his solar, listening to the man rage and smash things, it occurred to her that this was one of those rare times when she wished to be elsewhere.

“If Connington thinks he can play me for a fool then I’ll smash his f*cking skull!”

When her lord father raged it seemed as if the whole world trembled. His voice boomed across the walls and seemed to echo throughout Storm’s End. Mya had been lucky enough to have never been the focus on such rage, but she knew that it was best to wait out the storm and let the man simmer down before approaching.

The chamber door swung open and her stepmother Lady Janna rushed out, bypassing Mya without sparing her a glance. Though there were times when the woman would make an attempt at politeness, they were fleeting moments. “A daughter of House Tyrell should not have to suffer her husband’s bastard!” She had overheard the woman saying it often enough when she was first brought to Storm’s End.

I had no say in the matter , she wanted to tell Lady Janna. My father was the one who brought me here! Why do you hate me? Such arguments would do no good of course, they never did. Janna cannot hate Father, but she can hate me for being born.…

The shuffling figure of Maester Cressen, emerged in the doorway and graced Mya with a kindly smile that transformed his ancient face. “My lady,” he greeted in a voice croaky with age.

The old man had served at Storm’s End for as long as Mya had lived there and had been caretaker to her father and uncles when their own parents had died during a shipwreck. Though her father was often thoughtless with the man, and Uncle Stannis brusque, Mya knew that they loved him. The line between father and servant was blurred, but to Mya the old man was the closest thing she had known to a grandsire and she cherished his presence.

“Maester,” she smiled. “I was wondering if…”she peeked at the chamber that Lady Janna had excited from, saw a smashed decanter of wine and then realised her folly, “no matter, I see that now isn’t a good time.”

Cressen’s weary smile did not falter. “No, no. If you want to speak with your lord father then now might be the perfect time, my lady.” He waved her in, “come.”

Mya followed the Maester into her father’s solar and found the man brooding in front of his hearth, wine cup in hand. Though it was a big seat made from polished oak, it seemed small for Lord Robert’s massive frame. A frown could be seen from beneath his black beard and his blue eyes were bloodshot with rage as he stared into the crackling fire.

“My Lord…”

The Storm Lord waved a massive hand in dismissal. “Damn you, old man. I’ll not hear any more today!”

Ignoring his liege lord, Cressen gestured for Mya to step forth and she did so awkwardly. “Father…”

Lord Robert turned at the sound of her voice and some of the fury left his face. “Mya,” he looked her over, “I see that woman’s got you wearing skirts again.”

Mya glanced down at herself, at the sky blue dress that the septa had forced her to wear, and sighed. “I told her I look stupid.”

Though she was only fifteen Mya stood taller than most women and half the men and had a body that was hardened with muscle from her early years of labour before her father brought her into his household. Riding leathers and breeches were a second skin, but silks and dresses never felt right on her, no matter how much Lady Janna and the Septas tried to force the matter.

“You don’t look stupid,” her father told her, pondering her attire with an uncomfortable frown. “You’re…uh…very pretty.”

Lord Robert always fumbled when it came to affection. It was different with her three trueborn brothers. They were still young and boys besides, he could wrestle with them and tell bawdy japes. But Mya was a woman flowered and her father had no idea how to treat her now.

Just treat me as you always did, she longed to tell him. Laugh with me again like when I was little.…

She turned her attention back to the present. “I heard you shouting.”

He glared down at his wine cup, threw back a mouthful and swallowed loudly. “Connington’s been giving me grief again,” he muttered, “the ginger sh*t executed poachers stalking the Rainwood when I specifically commanded that they were to sent to the Wall. Damn that man, I promised Ned I’d do my part for his kin! Connington’s made a liar of me!”

Mya glanced back at Cressen, who winced at his lord’s words. “Perhaps it was an oversight?”

“Bah!” Robert brought his hand down on the wooden arm rest of his chair. “I sent Stannis to collect those men, but the idiot griffin had them hanged just as my brother approached the castle.” He worked his bearded jaw, this way and that. “It was deliberate, whatever he claims. The man never fails to thumb his nose at me. That bloody fool ought to remember that it’s me who rules the Stormlands, not Rhaegar f*cking Targaryen!”

The Targaryens were a sore spot for her father. Years ago he had been betrothed to Lyanna Stark, sister to his best friend, only for the girl to abscond with the Crown Prince and become a second wife to the man. Mya had been too little to notice any of it, but her father had almost called his banners in rebellion against the throne. It was only the council of Jon Arryn that had convinced her father not to become another Black Harren, but the hatred in his heart never left.

Ours is the Fury, Mya reminded herself.

“But enough of that blasted griffin, what are you doing in my solar?” His blue eyes, identical to her own, searched her face. “There something you need? Come on, out with it girl.”

“Uncle Renly sent a raven,” she said, standing a little straighter. “There’s to be a tourney at Lannisport in celebration of Cersei Lannister’s nameday and they’ve invited half the realm.”

That caught Robert’s interest. He leaned forward in his chair, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth. Maester Cressen once told her that her father was a man built for battle and that peace was something he didn’t know what to do with. Lordship was a tedious business for one such as him, but martial pursuits like hunting, hawking and tourneys were a delight.

“I want to go,” she told him, “every knight south of the Neck will be competing, the boys will get to mingle with other little lordlings and, well,” she threw her hands in the air, “it’ll be fun.”

A booming laugh burst from her father then, loud as any of his shouting but far sweeter a sound. The sound of Lord Robert’s laughter had been with Mya since she was a babe. It was that booming laugh that accompanied strong hands throwing her into the air, never failing to catch her. It was that laughter that meant safety, and joy and love.

If the Gods have voices, she thought, they must surely sound as wonderful as my father when he laughs.

“Aye,” he grinned, “I think you’re right. Fun. It’s just what we need, getting away for a spell. We can let Stannis stay behind and grind his teeth with these idiot bannermen of mine while we enjoy ourselves. Cressen?”

“Here, my lord,” the old man stirred, stepping forth.

“You’ll see to it that my brother doesn’t f*ck things up while we’re away, won’t you?”

The old man winced. “Your brother is a capable man, but yes, I will be sure to offer my council to him.”

Lord Robert was on his feet at once, the thought of a tourney having banished his grievances. He went to his desk and searched about for something, casually tossing things aside, “just you wait girl, your old father will show those witless Westermen a thing a two at the melee,” he found what he was looking for and thrust a ribbon of blue silk in her face, “see this? I wore this favour during my first tourney at the Vale. Some of the best knights were competing, seasoned warriors with strength and skill. I was more boy than man when I entered, worried Jon Arryn half to death, but by the Gods did I win that tourney!”

He was worked into a frenzy, excitement plain on his bearded face. Though drink and food had added to his weight, he was still more muscle than fat and stood as a great bear of a man. There was little doubt in Mya’s mind that he would do well in the melee.

After several minutes of excited planning he sent Mya off to prepare, for he wanted the family ready to leave by the morrow. Briefly she wondered what Lady Janna would say, but was happy her father would be the one to inform the woman of their plans.

“If the Tyrell bitch complains she can stay behind,” he declared, oblivious to how Mya and Cressen winced at his crude words.

Mya felt excited too, and could not contain the big smile that stretched across her face as she walked through the courtyard. She was still luxuriating in her joy when three little boys ran right up to her. Steffon, Lyonel and Ormund were miniatures of her father, black of hair and blue of eye, big robust boys that would grow into giant men.

“Mya!” The eldest, Steffon, greeted her with a grin that was missing one of it’s teeth. “Look what happened! Another fell out!”

She leant forward and made a show of inspecting him. “Another baby tooth gone, Steffy, means you’re almost a man grown!”

That pleased the heir to Storm’s End greatly. “You think father will let me use live steel in the training yard?”

“I think…” Mya couldn’t help but giggle and ruffled his hair, “I think we’re still a ways off from that.”

“Will father take us hunting later?” Lyonel asked. “Last time we saw a fox!”

Mya smiled at the boys. “I don’t think so lads,” she looked about and then leaned in conspiratorially. “We’re all going on a trip on the morrow. A tourney all the way to Lannisport.”

“Lannisport!” Ormund gawked, looking at his older siblings in amazement.

“Aye, and you’ll get to see all the great knights ride. But you best be on good behaviour, father wants us to be ready to leave, so on your way.”

The boys ran off in a storm of excitement and Mya watched after them with a smile. There were those who saw Mya as a jumped up bastard who did not belong, but her brothers had only ever looked at her with affection. She hoped that they would grow into brave and gallant young men.

She crossed the courtyard and made for the stables, careful to avoid any unwanted eyes. Her blue dress stood out uncomfortably, but she did her level best to steer clear of any passers by. She went to the stall that belonged to her own mount, Swiftfoot, patted the horse along her neck and then found the sack she had squirrelled away beneath a bundle of straw. Looking about one final time, she opened it.

It not been easy, to filch pieces of armour that would fit her. The steel was old and the pieces plainly mismatched, but it would give her protection enough. The helm held no adornments, and only a thin strip for eyesight. Good enough,she thought. It’ll keep my head safe and my identity hidden.

There was to be a tourney at Lannisport, and Mya Stone made to win.

Chapter 5: MYLES I

Chapter Text

The salt of Blackwater Bay failed to cover the smell of sh*t.

Their ship had made good time from Dragonstone, though Myles felt only revulsion as they approached the waterfront of the city. King’s Landing had never been an especially beautiful place and an added decade of King Aerys rule had done nothing to change that.

This is the place they all fight over, Myles brooded from his place near the prow of the ship. Hundreds of years, millions of men, all for this stinking pile of sh*t.

“Myles,” Ser Arthur Dayne appeared at his side, seemingly unbothered by the foulness around them. “We’ll be making for the Red Keep right away,” he studied the other man, “I’ll need you to have a clear head if…if things turn sour.”

“I’m fine, Arthur,” he grumbled. His hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword. “I’ll not hesitate to cut down any man who comes our way with evil in his eyes.”

Arthur shook his head. “You’re angry about Richard, I understand. But don’t let that cloud your judgment, we need to show restraint,” he gestured to the Red Keep, silhouetted in the sunset. The silver form of Urraxes circled above as Rhaegar made to land. “Prince Rhaegar’s life is on the line.”

Myles watched the dragon descend from the sky and tried to wrestle down his rage. His whole life he had loved to laugh, to play, to treat life as a grand game that he ought to challenge with a smile. Even during their long exile in Dragonstone when he was surrounded by Prince Rhaegar’s melancholy, Arthur’s duty or Richard’s anxiety he managed to find laughter.

There will be no more laughter, he told himself. Not until I find the man who killed my friend and tried to kill my prince and his children.

They disembarked from the ship, all thirty men at arms. Arthur had picked only the best of those garrisoned at Dragonstone to be Rhaegar’s honour guard, and even now as the men moved with him through the streets there was no fear in them.

It was sunset and the streets had begun to clear, though there were still some merchants and beggars lingering about as the prince’s men rode through. Myles could hear them mutter amongst themselves, talking of the silver prince’s return. He wondered what they would say come the morrow. Did you hear about the Silver Prince? King Aerys cut his head off and fed it to his dragon!

They were in sight of the Red Keep and Myles felt his stomach dance. Gold Cloaks awaited them at the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep, each armed and with their eyes trained on the newcomers.

“We’ve come with Prince Rhaegar,” Arthur called, sitting easily in his saddle.

How can he be so calm? Myles felt his whole body tense up, unable to take his eyes from the steel the men were carrying. He did not reach for his own blade, but his fingers ached for it.

There was an agonising silence that seemed to stretch on forever as the gold cloaks observed Arthur. Whatever they were thinking was utterly alien to Myles, but eventually they dipped their heads and allowed passage. Myles felt relief, but it was a passing thing. They would still need to survive a meeting with King Aerys.

Ser Barristan Selmy met them before they could get much further into the keep. Though a decade older than when Myles had last seen him, the man stood as tall and legendary as ever. His plate armour and cloak were as impeccable and gleaming as something from a fairy tale.

“Ser Arthur,” he old man greeted. “You look well.”

The Sword of the Morning bowed his head. “As do you, Ser Barristan. How fares our Lord Commander?”

“Cantankerous.”

Arthur chuckled at that. “Some things never change then. Are you to take us to the king?”

Barristan nodded, but his smile grew brittle. He glanced at the collection of men and then looked back at Arthur with a frown. “I’m to take you to the king, but if would be better if only a few of you came.”

“Oh?”

The old knight’s frown only deepened. “His Grace will host you at you the Godswood.”

Myles felt himself blink stupidly and looked to Arthur for guidance. The Dornishman’s lips had pressed into a thin line as he stared at his fellow white cloak. With a mechanical stiffness he turned to look at Myles and the assembled men.

“I’ll take only Ser Myles with me,” he said at last. “The rest of the men will remain here.”

What? Myles felt confusion and outrage mingle within his mind. Why in seven f*cking hells would he send away our defence?

Ser Barristan sighed and then gestured for the two men to follow. Myles was still wrestling with his unease as they dismounted and strode to the southernmost part of the Red Keep. Arthur gave him a single look that told him to remain silent, but the worries persisted.

Myles had been to the Red Keep plenty of times in his life, and he knew that it held a Godswood, but he had never once cared to visit. Looking at the patch of forest now, he was shocked by wild and ominous and green it looked. As they entered it felt to Myles that they were entering into a whole other world, hidden away within the noise and stench of King’s Landing.

“Be brave,” Arthur muttered at his side. “And whatever happens, remain silent.”

Myles was about to ask what his friend meant when they finally came to the clearing, and the great oak heart tree that stood tall above all others. He felt immediate relief to see Rhaegar standing there, seemingly unharmed. The Prince glanced at their arrival but turned his gaze back to the heart tree and the figure sitting upon a raised chair beneath it.

King Aerys was once a very comely man, though his face had grown gaunt and harsh in his middle age. Lines marked the corners of his eyes, giving him a squinting, mean look. His bearded mouth was pressed downwards in a scowl as he observed the newcomers.

“I see Arthur Dayne and your old squire,” Aerys cast his gaze to Rhaegar. “Where are Oswell Whent and Lewyn Martell?”

“At Dragonstone,” Rhaegar replied. “Protecting your grandchildren.”

The king snorted. “And what dismal grandchildren they are. Dornish and Northern blood. Mongrels, all.”

“They are my children,” Rhaegar’s voice was cold, and his gaze colder as he stared up at his father. “And they are blood of the dragon.”

Aerys shook his head in distaste. “I never understood your desire to breed with women of lesser blood.”

“You were the one who betrothed me to Elia Martell,” Rhaegar pointed out. He levelled his gaze at his father, “and don’t play at being a chaste man, everyone knows about your string of mistresses.”

“I bed a woman here or there when one catches my interest.” Aerys waved the notion away, but then something shifted behind his lilac eyes as a cruel sneer stretched across his bearded face. “Though… I’ve never thought to breed with one, nor have I ever been so foolish to take one as a bride while already married.”

All the blood seemed to drain from Rhaegar’s face. His expression was frozen into something between rage and grief. “My marriage with Lyanna fulfilled the pact of Ice and Fire,” he said at last, in a voice strained with anger.

Aerys thrust a gnarled finger at his son. “Oh, I know, boy. Your mother said the same thing, when she came begging that day when the Baratheons and the Faith and half the realm spoke up in outrage. It was the only thing that stayed my hand.It wasn’t easy, and if not for our dragons then realm would have turned on us, but the High Septon was mollified and the Starks got their marriage. Never let it be said that the Dragon lies.” The king leaned in from his chair, eyes dancing about as he sneered at his son. “I wonder how the ambitious Lord Rickard felt, in the end. It tickles me at night, thinking of old Stark’s face when he learnt you had killed his daughter with your seed.”

Rhaegar took a single step forward and paused. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side while his whole body trembled with silent rage. The violet eyes almost seemed to burn like twin flames of dragonfire as he stared at his father and for one mad moment Myles was sure the prince would try to strike the king.

“Why did you call me here?” Rhaegar asked instead. “If it’s just to trade insults then I’ll not waste my time indulging you.”

Lilac eyes almost exploded from Aerys head as leapt forward in a snarl. “YOU WILL!” he shrieked, closing the distance between them. “IF YOUR KING COMMANDS YOU, YOU WILL DO IT!”

There was some feral and manic to the king that hadn’t been there moments ago. Aerys was always moody and arrogant, but this sudden hysteria shocked Myles, and when he glanced over at Arthur and Barristan he saw similar expressions.

If Rhaegar was frightened by his father’s outburst he gave no sign. He merely stood in place as his father raged and snarled obscenities, spittle flying about until finally he seemed out of breath.

“I ask again, Father,” Rhaegar’s voice was firm, but unemotional. “Why have you called me back here after so long?”

Aerys glared balefully at his son for several heartbeats. There was a flicker of venom behind his eyes and he turned away at once, gesturing for one of his white cloaks. Ser Gerold Hightower emerged from the green of the Godswood accompanied by two figures. One was the perfumed seneschal, Lord Varys, the orange light of the sunset shining off his bald head. The other was a rather ragged looking man clasped in irons, stumbling along before being pushed to his knees near the king and prince.

The prisoner looked a wretched state, with ragged clothes stained in blood and filth. His beard, long and matted, looked as though it had been blonde before grime and blood had turned it a horrid brown.

“This one,” Aerys cast an accusatory finger, “is an enemy of the realm. Tell them, tell them Varys!”

The eunuch bowed his head and gave a bland smile to the gathered men. “My Prince, good sers,” he greeted, “the man you see before you made an attempt on Prince Viserys life a fortnight past.Only the actions of noble Ser Barristan here saved the poor lad from certain death.”

“What happened?” Rhaegar asked his father.

It was Varys who answered. “This foul man put a poisonous insect in the young prince’s chamber. It would have stung him as he slept.”

Myles felt something horrible creep up his spine. He remembered Richard’s final moments, how his friend’s eyes had glazed over with pain and shock. The discarded puzzle box meant for Aegon. Someone is trying to kill the heirs to the throne…

From his place next to Myles, Arthur inhaled sharply. Myles wondered if the Dornishman was feeling the same odd mixture of relief and unease. He’s plainly mad, but perhaps Aerys is not trying to kill us. Perhaps …we have a common foe. But who? Why? The questions stung his mind.

The prince regarded the kneeling prisoner, eyes scanning the bloodied and beaten form. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“Usurper,” the man’s voice was a raspy croak and when he spoke his mouth revealed several missing teeth. “The Gods are good and I know they will see you all dead!”

From his place Aerys shrieked in rage. “How dare you! Ser Gerold, take his wretched tongue!”

“Stay your hand, Ser,” Rhaegar approached the captive to get a look at him. “What do you mean, usurper?”

“You’re of a foul line!” He insisted, blood and drool rolling down the ruin of his face. “The throne belongs to Maegor, not you usurpers born of Aegon the Thief!”

Varys tucked his hands into his flowing sleeves. “He’s referring to Maegor, son of Aerion Brightflame,” he informed dutifully. “The boy passed over in favour of your great-grandsire.”

“Is that man even still alive?” Rhaegar asked suspiciously. “I’ve not heard mention of him in decades.”

The eunuch smiled his false smile. “Oh yes, he lives. My little birds sing of a discarded dragon calling together brigands and sellswords in the Stepstones, hoping to take vengeance.” His round head inclined towards the prisoner. “This one here even admitted as much.”

Rhaegar shook his head in disdain. “Under torture no doubt.”

“You’ll go to the Stepstones,” Aerys hissed. “You’ll take your dragon and your men and you’ll scour those islands clean of traitors and the criminality that have troubled my kingdom.”

“The Stepstones have always been a den of corsairs and cutthroats,” Rhaegar said carefully. “If this Maegor is even there, and I’ve my doubts that he is,his death won’t be the end of piracy.”

Aerys bared his teeth. “It will, because you’ll claim those isles for the Iron Throne as my father should have done after the War of the Ninepenny Kings.”

“That is folly, Father.”

“Coward,” the king spat. “How are you my son? You have a dragon, you have men at arms sworn to you, how can you be so weak?” His yellow teeth gnashed together in frustration. “You will go to the Stepstones, you will kill my enemies and you will expand my kingdom. It’s long past time you proved your worth as my heir.”

Rhaegar’s mouth twisted into a frown. He looked at his father, the Master of Whispers, and then to Lord Commander Hightower. A cold calculation seemed to run through his mind and Myles felt that violence was near. The prince eventually settled on the shackled man knelt before them and stared for the longest time. His suspicion was plain, but he had few options.

“If I do this thing,” the prince said at last, “you’ll end my confinement on Dragonstone. You’ll allow my family and I to move about the Seven Kingdoms freely and you’ll welcome me back to court as your heir.”

Aerys snorted. “If you prove yourself a worthy son.“

The Prince of Dragonstone sighed, his whole body sagging with the effort. Though there always seemed an otherworldly beauty to the man, Myles could tell that he was exhausted. How could he not be? Dealing with Aerys is like trying to wrestle an eel barehanded.

“Very well, father. I shall begin preparations immediately.”

He bowed his head and made to leave, only for a sharp whistle to halt his movements. Every man in the Godswood turned to see Aerys hold up a skeletal hand. “Before you go, I want you to see something. Dedicate this to your memory, son of mine.”

The king whistled again and from the corner of his eye, Myles saw something move. It was hard to discern at first, amongst the thick overgrown foliage of the Godswood, but something slithered and uncoiled itself from amongst the tops of the trees. Soil and tree roots were displaced as something long and serpentine came into view.

At first it seemed like a monstrously big snake, it’s emerald scales glittering in the dying light of day. But then he noticed the crown of horns, the elongated snout, jagged teeth, and golden eyes observing them all with a strange intelligence. Great wings clung to the tops of the trees like a bat as it leant down to peer at the gathered men.

Wildfyre was named because of her spectacular emerald scales and the colour of the flames that escaped her toothy maw which were the same colour as the alchemical concoction. King Jaehaerys had brought her to battle in the last days of the war against the Ninepenny Kings and it was said even as a young beast she was a terror. In the decades since, the she-dragon had grown into the single greatest expression of Targaryen power.

There was nothing human in Aerys Targaryen’s smile as he looked down at the prisoner. He pointed a single, bony finger at the trembling man.

Myles wanted to turn away, wanted to block his ears, knew that if he didn’t he might never sleep soundly again. But some animal part of his mind told him that if he did the King would know and wouldn’t hesitate to make an end of him as well.

The last glimmer of daylight slipped beyond the horizon, the world grew dark.

“Dracarys!”

Wildfyre seemed to barely inhale before a stream of brilliant green flames burst forth and enveloped the prisoner. His screams were high and horrible, but nothing made Myles stomach churn more than the maniacal, howling laughter of Aerys.

When they left the Godswood, it was all Myles could do not to run.

Chapter 6: THE KING’S HAND

Chapter Text

Which Aerys am I going to deal with today?

It was a question that Qarlton Chelsted had to ask himself every morning when he arose. He would break his fast on a bowl of porridge, wash himself and dress in his finery with the question plaguing the back of his mind.

He had once heard one of the squires about the castle compare him to one of the lion keepers in the Westerlands, and the comparison wasn’t far off. The king could be as ferocious as any beast when his anger was stirred and trying to coax him into a course of action he didn’t like was an agony of terror.

Flattery helped of course. Aerys Targaryen could grow drunk on being told how wise, mighty and gracious he was. How could a man near fifty be so obsessed with attention and praise? He’s like a child. The world’s most dangerous child…

“Think of how the people will love you, sire,” was a common phrase that Qarlton had learnt to rely on. “The smallfolk will love you more than any sovereign in living memory for your mercy, my king.”

Such thoughts rolled about Qarlton’s head as he entered the council chamber where voices echoed about in furious conversation.

The king sat at the head of the table, one leg thrown negligently over the arm of his chair, his head resting against his fist.Lords Staunton, Tyrell, Redwyne and the eunuch Varys sat before at the table. Ser Gerold Hightower stood at guard, one hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword. The white of his cloak was perhaps only a touch lighter than the white of his hair.

Aerys purple eyes lifted as Qarlton approached. “The Lord Hand.”

Staunton nodded a curt greeting, and the others gave grunts of acknowledgment, but Mace Tyrell beamed at him with his dull cow eyes. “Lord Chelsted, perhaps you might lend us some of your wisdom.” Tyrell was a courteous enough man, but lusted for Qarlton’s title. “We’re discussing marriages.”

“Tywin Lannister’s daughter,” King Aerys complained. “He hasn’t married the little golden bitch off yet, and now he throws a tourney in her name to attract suitors.”

Of course it’s about Tywin. It always comes back to him. Qarlton smothered the thought. “Well,” he said, “knowing Lord Tywin, I’m not sure he’ll find any suitor up to his lofty standards.”

“If he’s not careful his Rock will go to the Imp.” Lord Staunton laughed. “Jamie Lannister and Lysa Tully’s only child is a fragile sickly little thing.”

That pleased King Aerys greatly. “The Gods are truly good,” he laughed, “they continuously humble Tywin for his lifetime of arrogance.”

Mace Tyrell laughed along with the king like the lickspittle he was. Qarlton knew from experience that it was an easy way to win favour with the king. Laugh at his japes, compliment him on his smallest accomplishments and he’ll love you like a brother. For a while. One only had to look at Tywin Lannister to know how fleeting the king’s friendship was.

“I’d be very curious to know about Hoster Tully’s movements,” Lord Redwyne pondered aloud. “He and Tywin are connected through that sickly grandchild.”

“Lord Hoster is sending his heir to the tourney in his stead,” Varys informed them. “My little birds tell me that Ser Edmure is very eager to see his sister and her child. As, I’m sure, is their sister Lady Catelyn Stark, who also travels south for the tourney.”

The council grew quiet as Varys words sank in. Lannister, Tully, and Stark were all bound together through marriage. And they’re all going to be together at that tourney…

Staunton tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “The Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the North,” he hummed to himself, “and room for another alliance between Lady Cersei’s legs…”

Varys leaned in close to the king, “It is worth mentioning,Your Grace, that Elbert Arryn’s wife died of a chill three weeks past….”

Something ugly swirled behind the king’s eyes as he turned to sharply regard the Master of Whispers. “A scheme, is that what you’re saying? Tywin plots to gain the Vale and move against me?”

“Even I cannot be certain of what goes on in Lord Tywin’s head,” Varys demurred. “But there is an opportunity for him snatch more power….”

“He always forgot his proper station,” Aerys said through grit teeth, “and to try and move against me now…”

Qarlton could see the storm brewing and moved to quell it. “Your Grace, Elbert Arryn has a son and two daughters. It’s entirely possible that he might not remarry at all.”

The king frowned, but seemed to consider the new information. I have him, Qarlton thought, careful now, press the advantage…

“It’s also worth remembering that Jon Arryn is in good health,” he continued, “so the matter of succession in the Vale is a ways off yet.”

“There’s still a risk,” Lord Staunton challenged. “Lord Tywin has bound himself to many powerful allies and they are all gathering in one spot…”

You damned fool, Qarlton thought. Do you really want to see the entire Westerlands go up in flames and have the whole realm at our gates?

“Your Grace could always ban the tourney,” Lord Redwyne suggested.

Tyrell scoffed at that. “Half the realm is going to that damned thing, why alienate them?”

“Perhaps we could-

“Enough!” All fell silent as the king brought his palm down hard against the table. There were moments when Aerys would be driven to fits of childish rage, but there were also the rare instances when his anger would constrict itself and gave the man focus. With how settled his purple eyes were looking, Qarlton guessed the latter had happened.

“I will attend this tourney myself,” he announced. “I will fly to Lannisport with Wildfyre and remind these gathered lords, these shifty-eyed schemers that whatever they have planned will fail against the might the dragon. The people will see me and my power and remember the love they bare for me and my line.”

Qarlton felt a flush of relief run through him. He will play the gracious king before the common folk, and for a time he will act as Baelor come again…

Mace Tyrell was quick to agree with the king’s proclamation, followed by Redwyne and Staunton who made pleasant sounds of agreement. Varys was silent, and that troubled Qarlton greatly. The eunuch’s attempts might have been diverted for the nonce, but his sway over the king only grew as the days went by.

After soaking up his fill of praise the king called an end to the meeting, though he made sure to keep Qarlton behind.

“My Lord Hand,” Aerys smiled, his voice something akin to the man he once was, “you’re a good and faithful servant. Of course you’re not quite Septon Barth, but I see that you’re a damned sight better than that ungrateful lion I had working with me all those years. A good Hand should not be so ambitious.”

Qarlton felt his stomach churn. The truth was, when he rose to the position of Hand he was eager for glory and advancement. There was power in the office, and great prestige. Qarlton had gotten drunk off his rise, only to realise too late he would be shackled to a mad man. How could I have known? He never used to be this bad…

“I’m glad that you are pleased, Your Grace,” he replied carefully. “I merely wish to be of service to you, and the realm.”

“Service to the realm,” Aerys repeated, delighted. “That’s exactly what I was thinking of. When I leave for this silly little tourney, naturally you will remain behind and rule in my stead,” he leaned in close, “but I would ask that you also pay special mind to Prince Viserys. Keep him close, Qarlton, for protection against any more catspaws, and so that he might get an idea of what ruling looks like for when his time comes.”

It took a moment for the implication to truly set in. “Sire, Prince Rhaegar is your heir.”

Some of the joviality left the king’s face then and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Qarlton was walking on rotten ice and could practically hear the cracks begin to form around him.

“Rhaegar has always been a disappointment.Too soft, too …concerned with his damned books. He’s a fool, really.” Aerys mouth twisted into a scowl. “But I’m surrounded by enemies. Tywin in the west, Brightflame at the Stepstones…I need to prepare an alternative heir should my idiot firstborn prove himself a blunder. That’s why I need you, Qarlton. I need someone I trust to handle things here.”

“I….as you say, Your Grace,” Qarlton bowed his head, trembling. “I’ll look in on Prince Viserys in your absence.”

“Good,” the king replied, mirth returning to his voice, “that’s very good. Better you be my Septon Barth, than my Otto Hightower, eh?” A cackle burst out of the king’s lips and echoed through the empty chamber. “Off with you now, and remember what I said.”

.Outside the council chamber, Qarlton allowed himself breathe again.

The climb up the Tower of the Hand was an arduous thing, even for one such as Qarlton who did it every single day. He always found he needed to pause three quarters of the way up and rub at his aching knees. Why is it always the knees? He wondered. Knees, hips, a back muscle or two, we men are fragile creatures.

He was still pondering his aches and pains as he entered his solar and almost walked right past Queen Rhaella. The bell of silver-gold hair caught the corner of his sight and he recoiled back in surprise.

“By the Seven,” he cursed, needing to steady himself against a bookshelf.

The Queen graced him with a faint smile. “Apologies Lord Chelsted, I did not think to announce myself.”

Normally it would have been hard to miss Queen Rhaella. The king’s sister-wife had been graced with all the otherworldly beauty of her Valyrian heritage, silver-gold hair, purple eyes, creamy skin and high, refined facial features. It was only the lines beneath her eyes that betrayed her age, and the grief that she had suffered in her long marriage to Aerys.

He forced a smile. “What brings you to my chambers, Your Grace?”

“Rhaegar.”

Oh, f*ck.What does she know?He glanced at one of the tall windows and considered jumping.

Queen Rhaella's face had lost any hint at kindness as she looked upon him. “Don’t try and play the fool with me. It’s ridiculous to think that I wouldn’t notice my son’s dragon returning to the city the day gone.“

“Prince Rhaegar is no longer here,” Qarlton admitted, “he left an hour after he arrived.”

“Why?”

He shifted uneasily, trying to think of some excuse he could throw at the woman to get her out of his hair. “Well, he was called away by…”

She slapped him.

“Lord Chelsted,” she said in an icy voice, “I will have the truth out of you. Unlike Aerys you can’t distract me with a sweet word.”

He rubbed his cheek. “Not very queenly of you.”

She ignored that and pressed on with her questioning. “Why did Aerys call Rhaegar back after so long, only for him to leave so quickly?”

“For the love of the Gods,” Qarlton complained, “do you not care that you put my life in danger with these questions?”

“No, my lord, I don’t.” Her purple eyes hardened. “You can risk Aerys someday finding out and punishing you, or you can defy me and die this very night.”

Would she? He had not known the Queen to be a dangerous woman, but the welt on his face proved otherwise. f*ck it, why not?

“From what I was told…His Grace believes that some distant relative of yours was responsible for the attempt on Prince Viserys life,” he admitted. “Maegor Brightflame.”

Recognition shined in the Queen’s eyes. “Go on.”

“He tasked Prince Rhaegar with going to the Stepstones and killing the man,” Qarlton shrugged. “If the prince can do that then His Grace will welcome Rhaegar back to court.”

“Aerys expects him to fail,” Rhaella said, more to herself than anything. “Brightflame might not even be alive, let alone the one scheming against the crown.”

Qarlton threw up his hands. “Someone tried to kill Viserys, that is plain enough. The whole damned castle awoke when it happened.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh how sad for you, losing some sleep. You forget it was my son who was almost killed.” She chewed her lip with a frown. “I won’t be kept in the dark about this, even if I have to work my way through Aerys labyrinth of paranoia.”

For the longest time Queen Rhaella stood in contemplation and Qarlton was left standing, feeling trapped. When she spoke, her words were soft, sweet, and deadly.

“I’ve heard that Aerys is going to Lannisport,” she told him, closing the distance between them and placing her arm about his shoulder. “While he’s gone chasing imaginary foes, I think there should be some changes around here. You are no longer the king’s hand,” she told him gently, “you are now the Queen’s.”

Rhaella led him over to the window and gestured out into the city, to the Hill of Rhaenys and the rebuilt Dragonpit that stood atop it.

“You would be wise, my lord, to remember that Aerys is not the only Targaryen in this city with a dragon.”

Chapter 7: AEMON I

Chapter Text

They burned Ser Richard at twilight.

The body had been wrapped up in light grey cloth by the Silent Sisters so tightly that only the suggestion of the man remained. Flames licked at the base of the pyre, but steadily crawled upwards to try and claim the figure laying atop. Heat rose shimmering through the chill evening air and brought tears to Aemon’s eyes as he watched the smoke grow and then get lost as the blanket of night fell across the sky.

“This is ill done,” Rhaenys declared, face pressed in a deep frown.

“Be silent,” Princess Elia whispered from her side. “Show some decorum, for gods sakes.”

Aemon studied his sister and her mother. Some at his father’s court liked to say that Rhaenys was her mother many years removed, but Aemon didn’t think so. The differences were startling as mother and daughter stood before the funeral pyre. Princess Elia seemed as if she was made of stone, unmoving and unblinking as she watched the dead knight be taken by the flames. Rhaenys openly scowled at the scene before them, teary eyes aglow in the firelight.

The Septon spoke into the night, his voice solemn and strong as he described the Warrior’s courage that had blessed Ser Richard his whole life and the warm embrace that awaited him in the Seven Heavens. They all listened, the gathered household and guests of Dragonstone. Princess Elia had a few of her ladies about, ladies from Dorne and the Crownlands who stood ready to attend her at a moment’s notice, Lord Sunglass held back tears as he prayed, while Lord Celtigar stood back frowning his wrinkly face at everyone and everything,. Aegon stood a little away, watching impassively, his silver hair dancing in the sea breeze. Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Lewyn Martell stood a step behind him, their white cloaks and armour getting sullied by the smoke and ash that began to drift in the air.

“Though life has left this man,” the Septon intoned, “his soul is with the Mother and bliss awaits him for all time…”

Aemon wondered about his own mother. People did not speak of her often at Dragonstone, for she was a second bride taken in the rare and unpopular fashion of the Conqueror and his son the Cruel. She had lived for an hour after his birth and then died in one of the rooms at the castle. He never knew what she truly looked like, how her voice sounded or what kind of a person she was, yet his heart ached whenever he tried to think of her. How is it that I miss someone I never knew? I wish I could have seen her face, and known her love.

Looking over at Princess Elia, he felt even worse. Every time she would kiss Rhaenys on the cheek or hold Aegon’s hand he was reminded of what he never had. The woman was not cruel to him, but it had been made clear early on that she would never be his mother.

Rhaenys nudged his side. “You alright, Aems?”

“A bit sad,” he admitted in a soft whisper, hoping no one else would hear.

Rhaenys pulled him close and wrapped her arms about him, enveloping him in the warmth of her cloak as she rested her chin on his head. They watched the flames rise and shift in the breeze, mesmerising and sad. He lay his head against her and sighed. At least I have Rhaenys and Aegon…

“Ser Richard sits with the Seven,” the old man concluded, “and seven blessings be upon you all.”

The Septon finished his sermon and the beach fell silent, save for the tide and the crackling of the burning wood. The flames danced high enough to consume Ser Richard’s body and the air was filled with the scent of smoke and death.

Aemon shivered and thought he might be sick. He would be eleven in a few turns of the moon and knew he ought to be braver, but he felt cold and sad and scared. Death has come to Dragonstone and nothing is the same.

“The Septon spoke well,” Princess Elia said as they walked back to the castle. “I think Ser Richard would have liked it.”

Rhaenys glared at her mother. “It was a disgrace. The Lonmouths are not of Valyria, his bones ought to have been returned to his family for them to bury as is their custom.”

“Your father wanted the man to be honoured as a friend to House Targaryen,” Elia replied.

“The Others take his honours, it was inconsiderate of Father.”

“Yes, well, that’s nothing new,” she sighed, “but we have to live with your father’s choices, much as it might bother us.”

Though she tried to be discreet, Aemon felt her eyes glance in his direction. It was a struggle not flinch from the words, but he managed to keep a straight face and continue on.

They were within the courtyard when Rhaenys grabbed Aemon and Aegon’s hands, pulling them close to her. “We want to go see the dragons.”

Elia halted her steps and frowned at the three of them. “It’s nightfall, sweetling. Can’t you wait until sunrise?”

“It can’t wait,” she looked at her brothers, “can’t it boys? It’ll cheer us up after all this grief!”

Ser Oswell exchanged a look with Ser Lewyn and Princess Elia. He shrugged. “I can escort them down, it’ll be no trouble.”

Elia didn’t seem too pleased, but waved a hand in acceptance. “Be back in time for supper, or I shall have Ser Oswell throw you all into a sack like feral kittens and drag you to my table.”

Rhaenys led them down the winding staircase into the deepest part of the castle, where the rock was warm from the Dragonmont. The caverns were large and dark, with only sconces of torchlight to illuminate the way. A century of disuse during the Absence of Dragons had worn away some of the splendour of the inner chambers, but Aemon supposed it was suitable enough of a home for the dragons.

The siblings and their knight were greeted by a few of the keepers who tended to the place. King Jaehaerys had revived the ancient order after the hatching of Wildfyre, gathering men and women from across the sea who held knowledge of dragons. Quiet and servile, they said nothing, but watched the newcomers closely as they entered the vast, dark cavern.

“Seafyre!” Aegon called happily. “Here!”

There was a sharp exhale from somewhere in the cavern and then a throaty rumble of acknowledgment. A strong breeze struck them as something moved through the darkness and thudded to the ground before them. A long tongue flicked out to taste the air and then the beast crawled over to greet the siblings.

Though it was hard to see in the torchlight, Seafyre’s scales were a brilliant blue-green, with brighter blue flourishes in the membranes of his wings and the spiked frill that hooded the dragon’s neck and head. His eyes were large golden orbs that blinked slowly at the four humans.

Aegon ran over to his dragon and threw his arms about the creature’s neck in a warm hug. The dragon stood taller than a grown man, with his leathery wings big enough to envelop Aegon’s skinny frame. Seafyre chuffed and crooned at the boy’s presence, basking in the attention.

Rhaenys whistled sharply, a long and lyrical sound that cut through the dark. A deep rumble answered the call and something slithered and clawed in the blackness around them until it’s long neck emerged in the torchlight.

Nymerax was a great tan creature, with large curved horns that recalled a bull’s and mouthful of black teeth. She was biggest of the three hatchlings born to the children of Rhaegar Targaryen and the least friendly. While Rhaenys was met with something akin to excitement, smoke emerged from the She-Dragon’s nostrils as she noticed the others. Rhaenys laughed at her cantankerous mount and pressed a hand against the dragon’s snout, rubbing its scales.

There was another caress of wind at Aemon’s side and when he turned he found his own dragon inches away from him.

While most dragons had scales of vibrant colours mixed together, Aemon’s dragon was white as driven snow. His wings, claws, and every inch of scale covering his body was pure white without any pattern or blemish. It was only the dragon’s eyes that held colour; blood red orbs like two great rubies.For his colouring and silent nature Aemon had named him Ghost.

“By the f*cking Gods,” Oswell jerked back in surprise. “Why is it that the albino beast never makes a sound?”

From her place Rhaenys laughed. “Tis only fitting, Ser. A quiet pale dragon for my quiet pale brother.”

“Ghost might be quiet, but he’s faster than any other dragon,” Aemon told Oswell proudly. “Swifter than the wind itself.”

Oswell grunted. “He might be fast, but it’s hard to miss that snowy hide of his.”

Aemon ignored the man and pressed a hand against Ghost’s head as the dragon leaned into his touch. He was slightly smaller than Seafyre, but still big enough that the boy had to reach up on tip toes to properly pet.

“They’ll be big enough for us to fly soon,” Aegon beamed, one hand pressed against Seafyre’s flank. “Won’t that be a fine thing? Me and Aemon will be able to join you and Father in the sky, Rhae!”

Ser Oswell sighed dramatically. “Why must you brats make my duty all the more difficult? You do realise that I can’t guard you hundreds of feet in the air, yes?”

“Oh, don’t be sour,” Aegon laughed. “Atop our dragons we’ll be invincible!”

“Don’t play the fool,” Rhaenys snapped, “you’re talking as if this isn’t a dangerous time for us.”

Aegon winced. “I just meant that with our dragons-“

“Dragons can’t be with us all the time!” She all but shouted, “Death can take many forms! Poison, a knife in the night, anything! What happened to Ser Richard could have happened to any of us, it almost did! Do you want us to burn your corpse on the beach too?”

Aegon grew silent, his lip trembling as he struggled to hold back his tears. Aemon couldn’t blame him, he had to look away and hope that Ser Oswell and his sister wouldn’t see his own watery eyes. Ghost pressed against him, the warm scales a comfort against his fears.

Rhaenys looked at her brothers and some of the ferocity vanished from her face. Shedetached from her dragon and came over to take their hands.

“I’m sorry for shouting,” she said gently, “I’m just worried, is all. I know it’s not fair, but there are people who want to hurt us and we need to be careful.“ Her eyes were dark and full of fire as she looked from Aemon to his brother. “I will kill anyone who thinks to touch you, but I can’t watch you all the time. So I need you boys to take this seriously, and you need to promise me you’ll look out for each other,” she brought them in close and embraced them. “The dragon has three heads, so we must always defend each other. Promise?”

Aegon nodded tearfully. “Promise.”

“Aems?” Rhaenys asked him, brushing her thumb against his cheek softly.

“I promise.”

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead and then to Aegon’s. They stayed together in their embrace for a long moment before Rhaenys drew back. “Come,” she said, “we’d best get back for supper.”

-

The castle was as dour as Aemon had ever known it. Servants moved about here or there, but there was none of the usual soft chatter, none of the distant banter from the guards as they went about duty. The hallways were dark, the stone dragons snarling and writhing against the walls. The castle mourns,Aemon reflected. We all miss Ser Richard…

Aemon’s family had foregone dinning in the great hall and had instead supped together in Princess Elia’s apartments. The meal was a stew of octopus spiced with dozens of Dornish peppers, served with hunks of brown bread and washed down with a cup of lemon water for the boys, and wine for Princess Elia and Rhaenys.

“How is Ynys going?” Elia asked her daughter from her seat at the head of the table.

Rhaenys looked up over the rim of her wine cup. “Well enough,” she shrugged. “Ynys is vapid and shallow, but kind enough most of the time.”

Princess Elia nodded. “That’s good, you’ll need to keep that one close. Your uncle Doran writes that Lord Yronwood is feuding with Oberyn again.”

“Uncle Oberyn probably started it,” Rhaenys replied. “Trouble follows him like a bad smell.”

“Just so,” Elia laughed.

Aegon stirred himself. “Ynys always gives me strange looks.”

“That’s because she hopes to marry you or Aemon,” Rhaenys muttered, scooping up a piece of stew and slurping it down.

“Oh,” Irritation furrowed between Aegon’s brows. “She can have Aemon in that case.”

Aemon felt his cheeks burn. Ynys Yronwood was very pretty, but as with Rhaenys other Dornish friends she made him feel uneasy. He had once overheard them talking together about him and his mother, the insult they posed to princess Elia, and knew that he ought to avoid them.

Rhaenys looked at Aegon with a wry smile. “How magnanimous you are, dear brother.”

“What’s… that mean?”

“Never mind.”

Aegon frowned at that. He skewered a spiced tentacle and bit into it thoughtfully. After swallowing he said, “Weddings are stupid and boring, so I won’t marry Ynys or anyone.”

“You say that now but give it time,” Elia gently chided, reaching out to caress her son’s silver-gold curls. “One day you’ll be wed, perhaps to a Hightower or a Lannister, and the whole realm will celebrate.”

“Aegon shall wed someone of Valyrian stock,” came a familiar voice.

They all turned to see the newcomer. Aemon’s father was still in his riding leathers and stank of dragon as he strode into the chamber. His long silver hair was slick with sweat and there was a light flush on his cheeks.

Aegon’s face broke into a toothy grin. “Father!”

“You’re back already?” Elia asked in naked surprise. “But you only left yesterday.”

Rhaegar ignored his wife’s question and leant down to press a kiss to Rhaenys cheek and run his hand through Aegon’s hair. A weak smile was all that he granted Aemon.

It’s always like this, the boy thought sadly. There were no hugs from Rhaegar Targaryen, no soothing words of comfort or affection for his youngest, only a sort of awkward duty.

His father pulled up a seat next to Aegon and sat down with palms flat against the table. His violet eyes considered them each briefly before looking back to his wife.

“My father, in his infinite wisdom, has seen fit to send me on a quest,” he sighed, his leather-clad shoulders sagging with the effort. “I’m off to the Stepstones to slay an errant dragon.”

Princess Elia recoiled, confusion and concern writ across her face. “A dragon? Has Aerys finally taken leave of his wits?”

“Yes,” Father replied. “But not as you think. The dragon I speak of is an old kinsman of mine, Maegor Brightflame.”

Elia wrinkled her nose. “I’ve no idea who that is.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The son of Aerion the Monstrous and cousin to my grandfather.” He drummed his fingers against the table, “His Grace the king is convinced that the man is responsible for an attempt on Viserys life. And I’m meant to believe that it was this same man who killed Ser Richard.”

Aemon felt his guts churn with worry. They tried to kill Uncle Viserys too? But he lives in the Red Keep with all the knights and guards to protect him,does that mean they’ll come for us again?

Panic wormed it’s way into his chest, but was smothered at once. The warm hand of Rhaenys found his own and gave a comforting squeeze. The soft look in her eye reminded him of her words and he loved her with all his heart in that moment. We’ll look after each other…

His father looked at his wife and two Kingsguard as he spoke, “If I manage to kill the man and bring the Stepstones to heel then my father will end our confinement here.”

Princess Elia made a face. “Wouldn’t this Maegor be an old man by now?”

“If he even still lives,” Father gestured for one of the servants to bring him wine, and accepted a cup eagerly, “the whole thing is a mummer’s farce to keep me away, though to what end I can’t figure.”

The woman must have noticed the anxious look on Aemon’s face and there was a flash of something kind there. “Perhaps we ought to continue this in private…”

“No,” Father looked at them all, Aegon, Rhaenys and then Aemon. “Some day you will be grown and it is likely you will see war. You must get a taste of it now, lest you be unprepared.”

Rhaenys met his gaze with a harsh one of her own, her hand still interwoven with Aemon’s. “I’m not one to shrink from a challenge, Father.”

“I know you aren’t,” he leant forward, “that’s why I’ll want you to take Nymerax and start patrolling the waters near our island while I’m gone.”

Elia’s eyes went large. “Rhaegar…”

“You’ll be the one to spot trouble first should it make it’s way toward our home,” he went on, heedless of his wife. “We’ll be vulnerable with the fleet gone, so it’ll be up to you to safeguard our castle,daughter.”

Father turned his attention to Elia. “I’ll need you to write Doran and tell him what’s happened. I’m not asking for all the spears of Dorne, but if there is trouble in the Stepstones it’ll reach his shores as well.”

He drained his cup and stood. With the red and black dragon upon his leather armour and his silver hair flowing free he looked like a Dragonlord of old. His violet eyes shone with purpose as he regarded them all.

“Rest well,” he told them, “come the dawn, House Targaryen goes to war.”

Chapter 8: RODRIK I

Chapter Text

f*ck!

The first punch came at Rodrik sideways, spinning his upper body around with the sheer force of the impact and sending him back a half step before he found his bearings. The sand under his feet shifted and sank as the tide came in.

He spat a wad of blood and wiped at the crimson mess running down his mouth and chin.

The man in front of him was an ugly sort. His skin was pale, though a mess of scabs and scrapes littered his bare chest. A jagged grey effort ran across his flat, harsh face from the corner of his mouth up through a milky eye. His body was heavy with corded muscle and he stood large as bear.

Rodrik stared at the man and watched as his mashed up face pulled back into a horrible grin that revealed a mouth of smashed and sharpened teeth. There was a taunt in his single eye.

Rodrik tongued the wound in his mouth, tasted blood. And then the rage came.

The blood surged round his body, the pain, the cold of the sea air smashing into his bare back, the frustration of everything. It all melted together and burst forth into hate.

The wet sand sped by underneath him as he rushed at the other man. A fist collided with his ribs, but his own struck his opponent hard across the jaw. A knee came up and made for his groin, though he shifted enough that it caught the thigh of his salt-stained breeches instead. A growl escaped his lips as he hit the man hard in the mouth, once, twice, only for the third to be intercepted.

Rodrik was pulled into a grapple, stumbling forward he was dazed as two pale arms wrapped about his chest and locked together behind his back, pinning his arms, and crushing hard till his breath came shallow.

It was a great bear hug that he found himself in, though the embrace was deadly as his chest struggled to expand. He looked up and saw the man give him a feral grin, holding him tight as a lover. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe…

Rodrik craned forward and let the last of his humanity go. Like a wild dog he bit down hard on the exposed wattle of the man’s throat and began to tear. He felt his teeth press and dig through the flesh until they came upon something that felt like a chicken gizzard.

The man screamed and punched out but Rodrik hardly felt them. He clamped his teeth down even harder, felt the wind pipe begin to compress and blood begin to fill his mouth. There was a scream, a thousand leagues away it seemed, but he ignored it and squeezed his jaw down until his top and bottom teeth met. He twisted his head away and the man reeled back, blood spurting from his wound. Rodrik spat out the chunk of flesh that had once been a throat and tackled the man to the ground and began to smash his head into the cold, wet sand.

He blinked, and it seemed that the world stopped. Things were quiet about him, even the tide seemed to have recoiled away and for one mad moment Rodrik thought he had been in some strange dream. But then his ears popped, the sounds of the sea returned, and there was a cheering from other drunken men on the beach.

“You’ve made a right mess of him!” Harras Harlaw said, approaching. “Lucky he was just one of Aeron’s old dregs.”

Rodrik furrowed his brow, squinting down at the corpse before him. The rage had mostly retreated, slithered back into the dark cave in the back of his mind and thought returned. His ribs ached something wretched, his knuckles torn up, his mouth full of the coppery taste of blood that he knew was not entirely his own.

“What did he do to you?” Harras asked, offering a hand to help Rodrik to his feet.

Rodrik Greyjoy blinked and tried to think, but his head pounded with an ache that hadn’t fully faded. He shrugged. “Don’t remember.”

He went over to the water and washed the blood from his face, splashed about his pits and back to do away with the sweat and grime. One of his thralls brought his tunic, coat, boots,belt, and axe. Clumsily, like a drunkard, he dressed himself and returned to Harras up the sand dune. Every step felt as though his feet were made of lead.

“Your father has called every man in the Iron Isles to Old Wyk,” Harras told him. “Seems that after all this time he’s finally decided to go through with that scheme of his.”

Rodrik grunted. “Damned fool that he is.”

The two walked back to a bonfire, to the noise and revelry of returned travellers. It had been two days that they had been back home and the men were jubilant. For the better part of a year they had sailed in the Stepstones, fighting and reaving as the Drowned God intended, indulging themselves on Tyroshi, Lyseni, and every other damned fool who happened to run afoul their ships.

What great plunder we found, he thought with a soft grin. Is there a greater feeling than looking at a full hold, gems and coin glittering in the dark?

The two friends came upon a driftwood bonfire and warmed themselves against it. Darkness was falling and their bodies glowed orange in the firelight. The heat was soothing against the bruised and battered aches of his back and lulled Rodrik into a warm daze.

“I suppose I’ll have to call you, Prince,” Harras went on, warming his hands against the flames. “Your Grace, and all that…”

Rodrik scowled. “I’ll give you a clout about the face if you do.”

“Still, you must see it. Balon calling himself king…it’s arrogance.”

“Aye,” Rodrik agreed moodily,” “madness too. He’d make another Harrenhal out of Pyke.”

Harras regarded him for a moment, seemed to weigh something in his mind. “Can’t you talk sense to him?” He finally asked. “You’re his son and heir, surely he heeds your council.”

A thousand memories came back to Rodrik, sharp and nasty. There was never a day in his life that he could recall his father smiling, no warmth in his voice, no love in his heart. The only embrace he received from the man was a hard fist, the only words spoken to him barked commands and sneering insults.Why did you even take a wife and have children if you could not love them?

His fists clenched on their own and he imagined beating his father’s face until the skull caved in. Would that you were not my blood, I’d make such an end of you that they’d whisper of it for the next hundred years…

“My father takes no council but his own,” he said, turning back to Harras. “He’d just as like disinherit me if I challenged him on the matter.”

That did not please his old friend. The man was brave as any other Ironborn, yet his mind was cautious and measured. He was not afraid to die, but he wouldn’t do it on a whim.

“The Reader cautioned him against this,” Harras said. “I heard it from the man himself, and your lady mother too. Perhaps we might have the ships to control the Sunseat Sea, and I’d put one of ours against five Greenlander ships any day, but the dragons, Rodrik, the bloody dragons!”

“I know that!” Rodrik growled. “You think I’m as mad as the rest of them at Pyke? What man has ever withstood dragonfire?”

“Then what will you do?”

That gnawed at him and he found that he did not have an immediate answer. Duty to his blood demanded he’s join in the mad quest, but duty was never something Rodrik cared for. Why do I owe my father loyalty? He wondered. The man has given me nothing, only a life of pain.

The whole matter was exhausting. His body ached and he longed for sleep. He waved his old friend off and trudged back inland, his thoughts swirling.

Saltcliffe was largely unimpressive as far as the Iron Islands went, but Rodrik often took shelter with Lord Sunderly, whose elder sister was his grandmother. Though a small, cold keep, it was a place of respite before he had to face the rest of his kin.

The woman was waiting for him when he returned to his chambers. He had taken her off a Lyseni pleasure barge caught off the coast of Grey Gallows after giving the slavers to the Drowned God. It had been a bloody business, but as soon as he laid eyes on the woman he knew it was worth it.

The Reader had once told him that the people of Lys were bred by the Valyrians for their beauty, and looking at the woman he had taken as his Salt Wife, he grew appreciative of the Dragonlords ancient work.

Doreah had fair hair, like spun cream that fell down to her shoulders. Though she was a slave, her masters had kept her well fed and her body was womanly. Her face was soft and smooth, with bright blue eyes that had a kind look to them.

Too kind for these parts, he thought, entering his chamber and pouring himself a cup of wine.

“M-my lord,” she greeted, eyeing him cautiously. “Are you…do you require anything?”

Life as a slave had meant that she took to servitude easily enough, though it was plain that the violence and harsh nature of his people frightened her. Wearing a dress borrowed from Lady Sunderly, she stood anxiously by the hearth, hands before her, as if waiting for him to shout or strike her.

Rodrik did neither, merely took his cup of wine and slumped in a chair by the hearth. He felt a muscle click together awkwardly in his shoulder and sighed as he leant back. Would that I never had to get up again.

“You’re hurt,” Doreah noted.

He glanced up at her. “A scrape with one of the men,” he took a long drink from his cup. “I’ll live.”

The girl nodded but her concerned expression did not shift. Concerned for me, or for what might happen to her if I were to die? He wondered. She’s so far from Lys, and this is a harsher place.

“What do you know of dragons?” He asked after a moment of thought.

The question surprised her and she hesitated to answer, for fear of some trick. “I’ve heard tales,” she finally said, “though… I’m just a mere slave.”

“Have you ever heard of a man killing a dragon?”

Doreah opened her mouth, closed it again, her blue eyes searched about for some answer in her mind. “They say in the old tales that brave Westerosi knights have killed dragons and saved maidens.”

Greenlander fables, he thought bitterly. A dragon would roast a knight in his armour. Just as King Aerys dragon will roast my people if we go to war…

“There’s an old story here,” Rodrik said, quietly. “Of a great sea dragon named Nagga, who was slain by my ancestor the Grey King.”

“A Sea Dragon?” She asked, gently. “Does House Targaryen have one of those?”

A shadow of a smile crept across his face. “No, and the Reader would say that Nagga might not have been a true dragon, but some other kind of beast.”

“The Reader?” she asked hesitantly.

He laughed at her confusion. “My uncle, who I was named after. We all call him the Reader because….well, he reads all the time. When I was a boy he used to tell me that Nagga might have been some kind of Sea Wyrm, or beast that was kin to the leviathans. He had books that described such creatures. He had books about everything.”

Another story of boyhood was on his lips when he caught himself. Why am I telling her this?

Doreah said nothing, though her eyes were big and curious. She was always watching, eyes full of intent. Rodrik thought that same curiosity had been present all throughout their journey back to the Iron Islands, wrestling with the fear inside her.

He was suddenly struck by how beautiful she looked, even in the drabness of Sunderly’s keep, wearing borrowed clothes. He had taken her as his Salt Wife and taken her to bed, and she had played the part of accepting lover well, just as the Lyseni taught her. But he found on most nights he just liked to talk to her, listen to her voice and watch her.

Perhaps I’m a fool, but there is little beauty found on these islands and even less love, he reflected. With her I can at least pretend it exists for a little while.

He drained the last of his wine and set the cup down. His body was beginning to stiffen and ache and he knew tomorrow would be a chore. “I’m to bed,” he announced, easing himself up with a groan. “We’re to leave on the morrow, for Old Wyk. You might enjoy that, Nagga’s bones are there.”

Doreah looked at him and then at the bed. “Do you wish to have me again, my lord?”

“No,” he sighed, peeling off his tunic and undoing his boots. “But it would please me if you slept beside me.”

He was almost dozing when he felt her settle beside him, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her body pleasant. It was often said that a man aught not to let his guard down around his Salt Wives, lest he end up like Dalton Greyjoy, but Rodrik was too tired to care. If she kills me then at least I’ll die knowing warmth.

They arrived at Old Wyk by noon of the following day. Rodrik’s Young Kraken, Harras’ Grey Scythe and the three other ships of their party found themselves amongst half a hundred other vessels clogging the sea around the island. Red Ralf Stonehouse’s Red Jester, Baelor Blacktyde’s Nightflyer, Lord Drumm’s Thunderer, Rodrik recognised them all and felt a swell of comforting familiarity at the sight of them.

The Iron Victory caught his eye at once, his uncle Victarion’s flagship. It was to be expected, but the sight of it sent a jolt through him. His uncle Aeron’s Golden Storm was also anchored close by, along with his brother Maron’s Steel Eel. Finally his eyes found the Great Kraken, his father’s vessel and Rodrik sucked in a hesitant breath. Just about the whole family is gathered here…

Rodrik was still chewing on his thoughts when they came ashore. He had permitted Doreah to come above deck briefly so that she might glimpse Nagga’s Bones, but after that he ushered her back to his cabin, a nagging source of dread in his mind. What madness am I walking into?

Maron met him on the way to Nagga’s Hill, surrounded by his laughing, smiling cohorts. “Finally found your way home, brother!” he jeered, his friends cackling behind like a chorus of seals. “I half thought you got lost in some Tyroshi whor*house!”

They were alike in looks; pale, leanly muscled, black of hair and eye, but in most other ways the brothers were as different as two men could be. Their mother liked to say that Maron smiled too much and Rodrik too little, but it went deeper. Maron was fool who thought the world foolish. When he wasn’t telling some lame jape every other word to come out of his mouth was an exaggeration or boldfaced lie. He would fight on occasion, but only when he knew his foe was weaker, otherwise he was craven. A loud, arrogant fool, this brother of mine…

Rodrik did not waste time on pleasantries. “We’re to meet at Nagga’s Hill?”

“All the sons of Balon Greyjoy are to stand with him as Tarle Thrice-Drowned crowns him,” Maron laughed. “We’re to be princes from this day hence.”

“Where’s Theon?”

Maron shrugged. “Hiding behind Asha’s skirts, perhaps. How should I know what that weakling does?” He looked at his friends and cackled. “Would that our mother had taken a tumble and bled that one out rather than cursing me with another brother.”

The pulse at Rodrik’s temple began to pound, softly but insistently. His hand moved without thought, coiling into a fist launching out into Maron’s stomach. There was a cough-grunt as Maron’s eyes bulged, then he sank to his knees, wheezing. For half a heartbeat Rodrik through about striking him again, this time across the face, but sanity won out.

Rodrik grunted and pushed on. Harras and the others stayed behind with Maron‘s lickspittles, helping the fool to his feet as he gasped for air and tried not wretch his supper.

Amongst the colossal ivory ribs of Nagga stood the gathered members of House Greyjoy. Soon they would make a king, and soon they might well destroy themselves. And what is to be my place in it?

His uncle Victarion grunted in approval at Rodrik’s approach, while Aeron smiled that stinking, drunk smile of his. Theon and Asha stood a ways off from their uncles, whispering quietly to each other. They were united, the two younger children of Balon Greyjoy, wary of the rest of their kin and watched Rodrik’s approach with caution. He did not blame them. In his youth when black moods found him, Rodrik would thrash them at the slightest provocation. He did not waste words on them now.

There was nothing good in Balon’s eyes as he watched Rodrik come forth, a scowl as ever twisting his face. Anger boiled away again and he had to bite down to prevent a snarl from escaping. What do you disapprove of now? I’ve come to this bloody rock for you, have the decency to thank me you old bastard!

“Nephew,” came a chipper voice, “how lovely it is to see you again.”

The Crow’s Eye had been gone for almost two years after his last quarrel with Rodrik’s father. It was said that he sailed far east, past Asshai and the demon lands beyond. There was bruising around his lips, but little else had changed. His smile was wide, comely and yet more terrible than any man’s snarl. His smiling eye large with delight.

A memory came to Rodrik, intrusive and unwanted. He had a pup as a boy, a scraggy little thing that would sleep at his feet every night till one day it vanished from the halls of Pyke. He searched about, calling it’s name and begging any who would listen if they knew where it was. Euron alone promised to help him look for the dog, out on the shores and fields through rain and wind. Rodrik was drenched and freezing by the time they returned to Pyke and thoughtlessly ate a warm bowl of brown meat stew his uncle offered him. It was only after his second bowl of that mysterious meat that Euron’s smiling eye went wide. “Nephew,” he said, “I think I know where your pup is!”

“Where?” He had asked, stupidly.

“In your belly!”

Euron’s laughter rung through the great hall and into Rodrik’s memories. He refused to eat for over a week until his mother forced oats and honey down his throat. Every now and then he would recall the taste of that stew and find his stomach churning in disgust.

“What are you doing here?” He spat.

That smiling eye did not move. “Your father is to be king,” he laughed, “and what kind of a brother would I be if I did not aid him in the defence of his kingdom?”

“You’ve never defended anything in your life.” He turned to Lord Balon, desperately, “Father, tell me the Crow’s Eye isn’t the one filling your head with this nonsense?”

Balon’s face was like curled leather, his teeth like pale stones in the slit of his mouth. “The Driftwood Crown has always been my destiny, as the Old Way has always been for our people. Euron is but a weapon for my use,” his eyes narrowed, “as are you.”

“You must see this for what it is.” Rodrik looked from his father, to Victarion, Aeron and the others. “Folly.”

Victarion frowned at him. “Know your place, nephew. It is a son’s duty to follow his father.”

“Even if it’s to certain death, Nuncle?” Rodrik shook his head in disbelief. “War against the Greenlanders means war against the dragons. No king or lord has ever defeated the dragons.”

“Are you a coward?” Euron asked, laughing, “could it be that my brother sired a craven weakling?”

Rodrik felt his whole body tense with rage, his fists clenching. He had an axe, but it would not have the pleasure of ending the Crow’s Eye, only his hands would serve. “Try me,” he growled, “let us see who the craven is when I’ve my boot on your throat.”

“Know your place, boy!” Balon snarled, stepping between them and striking Rodrik with the back of his hand. “And grow a damned spine while you’re at it! I mean to sail for war by the end of the week and as my son you will sail with me, or by the God I will see you marooned on some desolate island on the Sunset Sea!”

He looked at his father’s face, searched the dark eyes for any hint of reason or compassion. As always, there was nothing. Lord Balon was as uncaring as the sea itself.

Rodrik decided then what we would do. Rage burned inside him, hotter and more terrible than he had ever felt. He knew in his heart that he was a violent man, and at times felt shamed for how easily he gave his heart over to hatred. But there was no shame in him now, only clarity.

I’ll play my part, he told himself. I’ll go along with this damned war, and when the time comes, when they are drowning in their war with the dragons, I will kill them all and take Pyke for myself…

Chapter 9: MYA II

Chapter Text

“There she is!”

Mya’s father stood up in his stirrups and gestured to the horizon, a great big smile upon his bearded face. The walls of Lannisport stood proud ahead of them, a steady throng of travellers moving through the gates. Fivescore pavilions had been erected outside the city walls, each of them hosting banners that Mya recognised from greater and lesser houses.

Just about every house from the Westerlands was in attendance, but Mya also saw banners of Mallister, Piper, Frey, Tully, Hightower, Florent, Royce, and even a few Stormlords like Dondarrion and Caron. Half the realm has gathered here…

“There’ll be a right mess of fools for us to get through,” her father said as they trotted along down the Gold Road. “It’ll be a pain in the arse, but once we get into the city there’ll be a show like no other.”

They had been travelling for days, Mya and her father riding on horseback more often than not while Lady Janna and the boys remained in the wheelhouse with the retinue of guards and servants that followed. Occasionally her father would take one of the boys and have them sit in the saddle with him, but the journey had proven tiresome for them.

The evening sun was slipping further and further into the horizon, but something caught her father’s eye. “Ha!” He pointed again, “see that girl, the silver banner?”

Mya squinted and looked at the banners again. She frowned hard as her eyes scanned every piece of cloth dancing in the distance. Then she saw it.

“Is that…House Stark?”

“Aye,” he laughed, “Not Ned though, I sent him a raven and the damned fool wrote back saying he couldn’t leave his bog.” He shook his head in clear disappointment, “Down there’ll be his brother, Lord Brandon Stark of Winterfell.”

Mya considered that. She had some memories of Ned Stark, though they were faint. He had always been with her father during those early years when she was a small girl, always standing by as they played together, smiling with sad eyes.

He was nice , Mya reflected. And father loves him well.

She wondered about the Lord of Winterfell and if he would be as kind. Lord Robert certainly seemed interested in meeting the man.

He turned back and opened the slide of the wheelhouse window and informed his lady wife that they were upon Lannisport. There was a chorus of excited voices from within as the boys bristled with energy, while Lady Janna exchanged a few murmured words with her husband. He made a face, slid the window shut and pushed on.

“We’ll ride ahead of them,” he grunted, pressing his heels to his horse and trotting on.

They came upon the small ocean of canvas, bolts, cloth and steel. Men hurried to and fro, horses were led away, pots of stew were boiling at camps, roast pork cooked over a fire. It was a dazzling burst of activity and Mya found herself looking about like a wide eyed child.

Her father laughed at the look on her face. “Good, eh?” His bearded mouth stretched into a grin. “My first tourney was at Runestone, had just about every bugger from every corner of the Vale gathered together and you could hear the damned thing leagues away. The sounds of laughter, men at work, women cheering, the smells of roast meat and mulled wine…Gods but it’s good. Few things are as sweet.”

They dismounted and had men see to their horses, but her father wasted no time in heading in the direction of the Stark camp. Mya hurried after him, both of them still in their riding leathers as they moved through the crowd of bustling people. People dipped their heads at the sight of her father, there were greetings of “M’lord,” and “Lord Baratheon” but what struck Mya was when the occasional page or squire would bow and call her “M’lady.”

I’m just a bastard , she thought to tell them. You don’t have to bow to me . But her father never corrected any of them, merely smiled at her with a glimmer of something she hoped was pride.

They did not have to walk far before they found the Starks. There was a dourness and rough look to the Northmen that stood out amongst the pageantry going on around them. The silver Direwolf banner danced proudly in the wind, fierce as any sigil Mya had ever seen.

Winter is Coming . She wasn’t as learned as a trueborn daughter would be, but Maester Cressen had seen to it that that she knew greater houses, their strongest bannermen, and their words. Of all the words , she reflected, Starks are the only ones who aren’t boasting, it’s a grim warning to all…

The guards frowned at their approach, but recognised her father and didn’t even try to halt his entrance. They found a man inside, directing servants to place a table and chairs about the tent, while he nursed a cup of wine. He looked a bit like the man from Mya’s memories, but bigger, and with eyes that were more used to smiling than sadness.

“By the Gods,” the man smiled at their approach, “if it isn’t Robert f*cking Baratheon.”

“Brandon!” her father bellowed with a laugh, pulling the man into a hug. “How the hell are you?”

Brandon Stark slapped her father on the shoulder and grinned. “I’m well, and so are you by the looks of things,” he gestured to her father’s gut.

“It’s the mark of man enjoying his life!” Her father cackled, “Not like you Starks, always so damned thin all the time! You could all do with a good feed!”

“I find my comforts elsewhere,” the man smiled, turning his grey eyes to Mya. “Who is this you’ve brought with you?”

Her father seemed to have forgotten she was there. “Oh, this is my daughter, Mya.”

She remembered her courtesies and dipped into a curtsy, an inelegant thing in her riding leathers and breeches. “My lord,” she said. “A pleasure.”

There was something about Brandon Stark’s smile that felt off. His eyes wandered over her body and lingered here and there in a way that troubled her. She was reminded of the wolf banner outside the tent, it’s teeth bared, and had to suppress a shiver.

“I think I remember you,” he said. “Ned mentioned you once or twice. The bastard from the Vale, yes?”

Colour warmed her cheeks as she tried to smother the familiar embarrassment and shame. “Yes, my lord.”

“Where are your brats?” Her father cut in suddenly, “I’d heard that Cat was here, so surely there’s a Stark pup or two running about.”

Brandon laughed. “Cregan and Sansa are with my lady wife, off seeing that damned sister of hers at the Rock, while my eldest, Rickard, is back at Winterfell.” A hard look came over his face. “He complained, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“You see that, girl?” Robert said to her, eyes bright. “That’s a taste of the typical Stark gloominess. Imagine ten times more brooding and you’d have Ned.”

“Ned should have dragged his sorry arse down here,” Lord Brandon complained. “He hosted us at that dreary fortress our father gave him, but no matter what I said he would not accompany me south.” He shook his head in clear distaste. “It seems my brother has forgotten what fun is, but I suppose that’s to be expected. All that time in the Vale suffering that dreary mountain air…”

Mya looked at her father’s face and saw a frown there. He had nothing but fond memories and grand stories of his time fostering under Jon Arryn with Ned Stark. She expected him to offer up a retort, and it looked as if he wanted to, but instead he asked, “what about you then? You entering the tourney?”

“Aye,” Stark offered a toothy smile. “I’ll enter the list and knock a few fools onto their arses.”

Her father smiled back, though there was a touch of savagery about it. “I look forward to seeing you on the field.”

The two lords made pleasant noises to each other, but eventually her father, perhaps drawn by the growling of his stomach, bid goodbye and walked with Mya back to the newly erected Baratheon tent. It’s rather easy to find your way around, she noted. Everyone has their banners up for everyone else to see…

Lady Janna had things well in hand when they entered. The servants had assembled cots lined with furs for them all to sleep on in different corners of the expansive tent, while a table was set up in the middle with a spread of food laid out for them. Goose eggs, crackling rashers of bacon, steaming loaves of bread, slices of honeyed goat, chickpeas and melted cheese, onion soup, and rich Arbor wine to wash it all down. Mya and her father both wasted no time taking their place at the table.

The boys chattered all through their meal, talking of this knight and that lord and how they might do in the melee or jousts. There were some arguments here and there regarding the prowess of some particular lordling, but the matter was always settled when her father added his commentary. The boys looked to him as half a god and took even his small comments as holy doctrine.

Mya listened to the conversation intently, trying to keep up with all the names and their skill level, the whole while thinking of the armour she had stowed away amongst her luggage. It won’t be easy, she told herself, but I am capable. I can unhorse a few of these silly boy-lords.

“Did you see Lady Catelyn?” Janna asked her husband.

Lord Robert chewed thoughtfully on a hunk of goat, swallowed. “She’s at the Rock,” he gasped, reaching for a cup of wine to wash it down. “Something to do with the sister.”

“Lady Lysa’s had awful luck in the birthing bed,” she told him. “She bled out two babies before their term, and delivered two stillborns before this most recent one. Only the boy Tommen lives, but they say he’s sickly and weak.”

“Sour business,” Robert muttered, shaking his head. “You’d think that the Lannisters would have stronger seed than that, but then look at the Imp.”

Little Lyonel perked up at that. “Can we see the Imp? They say he has a demon eye and a forked tail!”

While Lady Janna seemed appalled and ready to chastise her son, Robert bellowed with laughter and reached over to ruffle the boy’s hair.

They fell back into a comfortable, warm, silence that was only interrupted by the occasional clatter of utensils. The food was good and for a time their family was contented with each other.

Her stomach was well and truly full when a man pushed through the flap of their tent and strode over to their table bold as brass. Uncle Renly looked like a figment straight out of her childhood memories, thinner and clean shaven, but otherwise identical to her father in his youth. A green cape concealed his body, fastened at his shoulder with a golden brooch in the shape of a stag.

He looks splendid, Mya thought, a little in awe. A proper lord.

“Brother!” He greeted cheerfully, clapping Robert on the arm before going over to press a kiss to Janna’s cheek. He flashed a playful grin at Mya and the boys. “Children! Have you been good since last I saw you?”

Janna huffed. “They’ve been right terrors.”

“Ah, my dear good-sister,” he sighed dreamily. “You had misfortune of practicing motherhood on me and now I’ve spoiled you. Few children are as noble and gentle as I was.”

The two broke into laughter and Renly pulled up a chair at Lady Janna’s side. He casually reached out and tore off a chunk of bread, chewing it thoughtfully before helping himself to some wine. Mya wondered what someone might think if they walked in on them all now. Lady Janna had come to Storm’s End when Renly was still a boy and often indulged him as something closer to a son than a good-brother. Her father rolled his eyes at the coddling and affection, but otherwise said nothing.

What a strange family we are , she thought, quietly nibbling at a piece of bacon. An absolute mix of oddities united behind father.

“You’ve been at Lannisport for a week already,” her father noted. “What’s the word out there?”

Renly put his cup down. “Old Tywin‘s looking for a husband for Lady Cersei, though whether he finds one worthy enough is another matter.”

“She’s pretty enough,” Robert chuckled. “It’s been a few years, but by the Gods was she a beauty when I saw her last. You’d be lucky to have her as a bride Renly.”

The younger brother pressed his lips together for a moment, a flash of discomfort in his eyes. “Oh…I’m far too low for Tywin Lannister’s daughter, merely a third son.”

Lord Robert snorted. “Tywin can’t afford to be too picky…after so long being unmarried people are going to talk about that girl and wonder what’s wrong with her.”

“There’s another matter,” Renly leaned in close, “I was told by Ser Kevan Lannister that you and Janna are invited to the Rock on the morrow. The matter seemed quite important.”

Janna nodded at once. “Perhaps we’ll lunch with Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime.”

Her father waved it away. “I’ll enter my name in the lists first, then perhaps we can speak with the damned lions.”

“Robert,” Janna complained, “you ought to take this seriously. Tywin Lannister is not a man to offend.”

His bearded lip curled in disgust as he regarded his lady wife. “Neither am I.”

Lady Janna’s nostrils flared and for a horrible moment it seemed like there would be another shouting match. Mya glanced at her little brothers, watching it all play out and felt a stab of worry. She nudged her her father’s arm to get his attention. “Perhaps it might be good to go, that way you can take Jaime Lannister’s measure and see how he fares. You’ll both be competing in the lists.”

“I’ll beat him,” he snorted, though a smile replaced his frown and the tension shrank from the table. “Just you watch girl, your old father will knock that golden fool into the mud!”

Renly chuckled from his seat. “You know I was rather hoping you’d stick to the melee this time, give the rest of us a chance at the joust.”

The two brothers began to banter with one another and Mya felt herself relax in her seat. It was difficult, having to navigate so many stubborn people around her, rather like herding mules, but she was an old hand at it.

As the night drew on her father and Renly left the tent to mingle with the other lords and knights outside. Mya knew her father would be drinking, fighting, and probably even whoring, and the thought of it made her sick. She knew in her heart he was a good man, capable of great love and kindness. His big hands that could smash a skull had also gently held her own as a child.

Father, be good , she silently prayed as she lay down in her cot. You can be good, I’ve seen it. Show the rest of the world. I’m watching you and the boys are watching you, show them how to be good and true…

Her mind went to the luggage placed near her cot. In the darkness of the tent, she reached out from underneath the bundle of furs she lay in and gently caressed the chest and the armour within. When sleep eventually claimed her, it was dreams of heroic and chivalrous knights that she found waiting.

The following day dawned bright and clear. Mya and her brothers were breaking their fast with bacon, honeyed bread, and porridge glazed with raspberry jam when Lord Robert returned. His eyes were red-rimmed and he stank of ale, but he flashed them a smile as he sat at the table and began to spoon porridge into his mouth. Lady Janna said nothing, but over her cup of morning mint tea, her eyes narrowed.

After their meal was done they went out and made for the tourney grounds. The field was a churning mass of people that only got thicker the closer to the event one went. The boys never ceased talking the entire time, their words running into and over each other as they noted this thing or that.

It was with a spring of excitement that Mya and her brothers followed their father into Lannisport itself, to where the Lannisters oversaw the tourney arrangements. Mya had to remind the boys to be quiet as they walked into the pavilion towards whatever Lannister cousin was handling the busy work. A few other lordlings conversed amongst themselves as the Baratheons walked by, second sons and lesser knights who would be keen to show off. Mya took note of them all, frowning a some of the bigger more seasoned men, while finding little blooms of confidence at the weaker ones.

I know I can unhorse some of this lot, she told herself, over and over. She would send one of her father’s household knights who owed her a favour to enlist as a mystery knight for her and then she could prove herself. It’ll be just like the stories of old…

“Lord Robert,” the voice was strained, but not unpleasant. “How fortunate.”

The man that approached was broad of shoulder and thick of waist. His golden hair and beard, green eyes, and crimson and gold clothing marked him at once as a Lannister of some sort.

“Ser Kevan,” her father grunted.

Kevan Lannister spared a smile for Mya and the boys, but kept his attention mostly on their father. “My lord I’m not sure if the message was conveyed, but my brother has extended an invitation for you to sup with him this day.”

“Yes, yes,” Robert sighed, the night of drink and debauchery still weighing him down. “I’ll be there, my wife too.”

The man smiled, said his pleasantries, bowed and then disappeared into the crowd, his golden hair lost among the small sea of Lannister cousins. Mya watched him leave and frowned.

“Why are the Lannisters so insisted about this?” She wondered aloud.

“They want something from me,” her father answered. “It’ll be a betrothal, or a fostering, or something of that nature,” he looked down at her. “The Lannisters have their paws in many pies, doubtless Storm’s End seems tasty.”

Mya was still puzzling at that when a chorus of shrieks tore through the air. Instinctively she reached out and gathered the boys to her, pressing them close as people rushed outside. Lord Robert grabbed her arm with one hand while he pushed aside a half dozen others out of his way until they were out into the streets.

The people around them shrieked in surprise, while others cheered in awe as a shadow passed over them. Mya craned her neck up and felt her mouth drop open at what she saw.

Moving through the sky with the occasional flap of emerald wings was the great mount of King Aerys Targaryen, the fierce She-Dragon Wildfyre. Flying closer to the ground as it prepared to land, a low rumble escaped the beast’s throat that sounded like rolling thunder.

It’s huge! She thought in amazement. Is there any other living creature so large or powerful?

She was shaken from her wonder by the pressure on her arm where her father gripped tightly. His face was twisted into a snarl as he stared up at the great beast.

“Targaryens,” he spat. “Damn them, damn them all.”

Chapter 10: ASHARA II

Chapter Text

Ashara wept as she bid goodbye to her children. At first it was not so bad, with Arya promising her with a hard look in her violet eyes that she would help Ned watch over the keep and whack any bad men who came near. But when it came time to bid goodbye to Robb, the boy did not understand and clung to her skirts desperately.

It hurt her heart to peel the boy away and then hand him off to Ned while he sobbed. She had never been parted from the children for any real length of time and their absence brought forth nasty memories of her first babe, the beautiful little girl that had died before she had taken her first breath...

None of that, she told herself. My mind is to be on the future, not the past.

The journey to White Harbour went by fast, Ashara travelling with a dozen men and a few of her ladies. Perhaps a third of them were Northerners, but the rest were men from Starfall, who would bleed and die for her. They entered the port city with little fanfare and found their ship waiting, it’s captain a familiar Dornish trader who frequented the route to the Narrow Sea.

Her first night bedding down in her cabin she slept fitfully, the dreams that plagued her vivid and horrible.

She stood alone on the pale battlements of Starfall looking out over the rocky beach. It was exactly as it had been all those years ago before she had come North and married Ned, every inch of it perfect and true. She ran her hands over the crenellations, felt the wonderful smooth marble under her palms. When she breathed in she could smell the sea, taste the salt on her tongue. It was lovely, it was home. Home in a way that no other place in the entirety of the world would ever be.

There was peace, until there wasn’t.

Ashara could not hear the waves at all. A cold breeze covered the whole world in a heavy drape of silence. She tried to scream, only for the sound to be devoured by the cold winds that rose and clutched around her.

Pain awoke inside of her suddenly, twisting and pulsing. Cramps, stabbing pains of lancing heat that were familiar to her. She willed her hand to slip down between her legs, she felt the wetness and held up her hand to see the blood.

She felt the pain come again, so horrible and wretched that she felt as bile rose to her throat. There was another blistering explosion and she felt the wetness spread as something bloody passed from her. Ashara knew what it was, but she could not bear to look at it, not again. She blinked hard and tasted salt on her lips. The pain, the awful sharpening and grinding pain in her womanhood continued so fiercely that she felt the fires of all seven hells upon her at once.

Ashara blinked and she was at the balcony of the Palestone Sword, looking out into the sea. She felt herself slick with blood and as the pain and grief pulsed inside, she took a step. The world fell away, the sea rose to greet her like an old friend……

Heart pounding, she jerked awake, and found herself in the darkness of her cabin. She felt about herself and sagged with relief knowing that she was not bleeding, though she was sweaty beyond measure and breathing heavily. “Dream,” she whispered in the dark. “Only a dream.”

As she lay there, body exhausted and mind limp with the remnants of fear and ghostly pain, Ashara allowed herself to cry.

The weeks that followed were bothersome, with the fierce winds of the Narrow Sea working against them for much of the voyage. A seemingly endless squall fell upon them, bathing the ship in cold, salty water and obscured any hint of natural beauty that might have existed. The few times she ventured above deck Ashara brooded at the helm as the ship smashed through the choppy waters, her mind fixed on Dragonstone, as if willing the island to appear on the horizon.

When the day came that the seat of House Targaryen emerged it was a bitter and ominous sight. The voyage had exhausted Ashara, she had to be helped off the ship by one of her retainers, and the grotesque stonework of Dragonstone did little to inflame her excitement.

The old saying went that the Valyrians were closer to Gods than men, but Ashara had never believed that. As she approached the ancient fortress she was reminded of all the old tapestries that hung about the Red Keep. There were depictions of men and beasts, mingling, women with male parts, with wings and tails, horrible chimeras of the most unnatural sort.

Not Gods , she thought as she beheld the castle. They were closer to monsters than men.

Despite her misgivings about the castle, some of Ashara’s gloominess recoiled once she saw the assembled family of her friend as they stood ready to greet her in the great hall of their home. Elia looked splendid in her family colours, her orange cloak a wonderful contrast to the grey and black rock that was her home. Standing before her were the three children, all of them dressed in their finery and doing their utmost to appear stoic and adult.

Ashara marvelled at the sight of them. When she last visited Rhaenys was still a girl, round of face and showing off her missing baby teeth. In the years since she had grown into a beautiful young woman, looking the best parts of her parents. Very soon her beauty would be adored by all in the realm. Prince Aegon was Rhaegar’s younger duplicate, though there was a warmth and an energy to the boy his father never possessed. There was more gold than silver in his hair and his purple eyes were large and made for smiling. The other boy….

Gods, but he looks like Ned. There was something of Rhaegar around Aemon’s eyes and he had the Targaryen nose, but everything else was Stark. The sight of him was enough to make Ashara’s heart clench with homesickness. It was hard to look at the child, and even harder to look away.

“Lady Ashara,” Rhaenys curtsied in her black and crimson dress, “welcome to our home.”

The boys followed suit, Aegon bowing his silver-gold head, uterring a “welcome, my lady.” Aemon mirrored with a “welcome to Dragonstone, Aunt.”

“I’m honoured to be here,” she smiled at them all. “It’s only been a few years but look at how the three of you have grown. Rhaenys, so beautiful. Aegon and Aemon sprouting up like beans and ready for battle in no time!”

Elia gave her a smile that was bright as the Sun of her family's sigil and took Ashara's hands within her own. "Ash,” she whispered, “it’s good that you came."

“I wasn’t going to leave you here alone during all this,” she replied, squeezing Elia’s hands. “How are things, really?”

The princess made a face. “Not here,” she turned to her children, “you’ve all a lesson with the maester shortly, perhaps you ought to get ready?”

Aegon opened his mouth to answer, but caught the sharp look his mother was giving him and quickly shut it. He frowned for a moment before hurrying over to Ashara and planted a small kiss to her cheek before he left. Aemon shyly did the same and then raced off after his brother. Rhaenys shook her head at the boys antics and followed them. Their laughter echoed out in the hallway before slowly fading.

Elia looped her arm through Ashara’s and the two strolled off in the direction of her solar. It was pleasantly warm after days at sea and the flowers that Elia kept about the chamber were a welcome reprieve from the salt and smoke that hung in the air.

They came to a table close to the balcony and sat down across from each other. Ashara leaned close, “How are you feeling?”

Elia's smile was faint. "Tired, more oft than not."

Ashara felt a swell of uneasinesses creep up her spine and coil itself around her heart. Elia’s health was never robust at the best of times, but with the threat of danger so constant and so close she would be worn down from the stress.

“What can I do?" she asked hopefully, holding onto her friend's hand as though it were an anchor for her happiness. She’s my oldest and dearest friend , what would I do if she was gone from this world?

“You being here is enough,” Elia assured, smiling sweetly. “The children will be falling over themselves to impress you and that’ll keep their mind off things while Rhaegar’s away.”

Ashara frowned at her friend. “Where has Rhaegar gone?”

“The Stepstones,” Elia blanched. “Chasing shadows for Aerys, who is convinced that the man who tried to kill my son is hiding there.”

“Aerys is convinced, but you’re not?”

Elia’s lips pressed together. “There is a rebel lord out there that might hold hatred for the Targaryens, but it seems unlikely and random that he would suddenly decide to strike at us now. I think…no, I feel that something else is going on.”

Ashara could only take so much before the words came tumbling out. “Are you safe here?”

“Uncle Lewyn and Ser Oswell are guarding the children night and day,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “We’re…as safe as we can be, given the circ*mstances.”

“But is that safe enough?”

Elia’s whole body seemed to deflate, looking every bit as frail as the court gossips claimed her to be. Ashara had never thought her best friend as anything other than a pillar of strength, but as she sat there, she feared that the princess might crumble to dust.

“I want to take Rhaenys and Aegon to Dorne,” she confessed softly, in a voice little more than a breath. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she began to silently weep. “I want to have them at the Water Gardens where they could play and be safe, far away from the Targaryens and their madness. Gods, Ash, I want to free of all this. A decade on this damned rock, having to worry about when my husband and his father will kill each other. I’m so bloody tired . I want a little happiness back in my life…”

Ashara shifted her seat over and pressed close to her friend, putting an arm around her shoulder. It might have been hard for a Princess of Dorne to allow others to see her in such a state, but Ashara was beyond that.

Elia surprised her then by turning her head and capturing Ashara’s lips with her own. The kiss was pleasant and soft in the way that only a woman’s could be, and for a moment Ashara allowed herself an indulgence.

When was the last time I kissed another girl? It had been a common thing when they were younger, warming each other’s beds and bringing comfort when needed. When they came to court their affections had cooled some, even if the warmth of friendship remained.

Ashara gently broke away. “Elia,” she sighed, “that’s a path I can’t go down again.”

“If you’re worried about Rhaegar, it’s fine,” she insisted, her dark eyes watery with emotion. “We haven’t shared a bed in years, he doesn’t care who I lay with.”

“That might be the case for your husband, but that’s not how it is for me and Ned,” Ashara told her, not ungently. “I love you Elia and I always will, but not in this way, not in the way I love Ned.”

Crying, Elia nodded. “I…I’m sorry, I was being foolish and…sorry.” She took a shuddering breath and ran a hand through her hair, “Gods, why must I ruin everything?”

Ashara took Elia’s hands, small and thin. “Nothing’s ruined,” she soothed. “You’re sad and confused, it’s fine.” She pulled free a handkerchief and gave it over to the princess. “You’re my dearest friend, and I’ll be here to help you through all of this. Now dry your eyes, we’ll be having supper with the children soon enough. There’ll be laughter to come, I’m sure.”

Elia laughed at her own silliness and they embraced, whispered sweet words of kindness and then Ashara took her leave. She walked to the guest chambers in a daze. It was an odd sensation, as if she was watching herself from above. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of concern and confusion. How did things get so dire? There was a time when Elia and her family were truly happy together, but that feels a thousand years ago…

The chambers that had been prepared for her were warm and well furnished. Several of her own people were on hand to set her belongings where she liked them and assist her in changing from her travelling garments. The sun hung low outside her window and supper would be upon them soon, so after she had dressed into a violet gown that matched her eyes, Ashara had her girls help style her hair into a Dornish fashion of ringlets.

She sent the women away and lingered over a desk, eyeing off a parchment, ink and quill. A letter informing Ned of her safe arrival would do him good, and it would surely result in a reply. She ached to hear about the children. Was Arya keeping to her lessons? She struggled with her letters. Was Robb doing alright without her to press a kiss to brow every night before bed? It would bring her peace to know, and to have her own words conveyed to them.

A knock came from behind her.

“Come,” she said without looking, taking a quill in her hand.

“Wine for you, M’lady.” It was a quivering voice, a girl’s voice.

Ashara gestured broadly and leant over, dabbing the quill in the ink pot. She had time enough to at least start the letters to her family. Three, I think. One to each of them.

The impact was so sudden that Ashara barely felt it. A hard, sharp pain to her skull, followed by warm wetness running through her hair and down her neck. Glass rained down onto the desk before her, along with dark droplets. She blinked, touched at her damp hair and for a moment cursed that wine had been spilt over her. It was only when her vision swam, and the world shifted from under her that she realised she was bleeding.

As Ashara hit the ground there was a curse in garbled Valyrian. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a flash of something and then the girl was on her, a dirk glinting in her bony clenched fist.

She stabbed downwards at the heart and Ashara lashed out with her feet and hurled the girl sideways. A scream escaped Ashara’s lips, loud as she could manage.

Panting and talking to herself in Bastard Valyrian, the servant girl lunged again. She was a little thing, but full of wiry muscle as she tried to drive the blade into Ashara’s throat. They wrestled together, Ashara desperate to keep the blade away from her skin lest there be poison on it. Her head was pounding, her clothes were stained with blood and the nasty hot breath of the girl was getting in her face.

For a horrible moment her grip slipped and the blade lowered, inches from the underside of her jaw. But then the weight bearing down on her was gone as big hands tore the girl away from her.

Ser Lewyn Martell had an arm about the girl’s throat while his other hand was clamped down tight around the girl’s wrist, keeping the blade facing away. With a squeeze and twist there was a horrible crack and the bone snapped. The girl howled in pain, but the knight struck her hard across the face and brought silence.

“Ash!”

Elia and half a dozen knights rushed into the room, some pausing to look at Ser Lewyn’s captive while the others attended to Ashara. She blinked, the pain in her head oppressive and worsening, her stomach ready to churn.

“Call the maester!” Elia snarled, grasping onto Ashara’s head. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. We’ll get you mended.”

Ashara winced, blood running into one of her eyes. “The girl, she…”

“Enough is enough,” Elia hissed, blinking back tears. “There are knives in the dark and we must needs someone to solve this,” she turned to her uncle, “send a raven. It’s time Oberyn came to Dragonstone.”

Chapter 11: MYLES II

Chapter Text

The Narrow Sea was blanketed in fire and death.

It was black smoke in a tall pillar, rising up from the middle of Torturer’s Deep where there was a wooden fortress, still smoking, but burned down to the low foundations. There’d been a makeshift encampment too, but nothing more now than a pile of black sticks and blackened dirt. Such trees and plants that grew on the rocky, jagged land of the isle had been wiped away by the inferno. Goats, pigs and whatever else had been kept as livestock were roasted black, the scent of their cooked meat intermingling horrifically with that of the corpses of burnt men.

Myles turned and spat at the ground. The Stepstones were ugly and hard, home only to most desperate and cruelest of men. There were caves and coves aplenty where cutthroats, smugglers, and corsairs nestled in together like hungry rats. They were used to catching merchant vessels unawares, with sudden, swift, explosions of violence when numbers were on their side. Against a fleet of warships and a grown dragon they were decimated with ease.

The shoreline of Torturer’s Deep was crowded with ships; two dozen war galleys from all the houses sworn to Dragonstone and a handful offered up from weary, reluctant, Prince Doran. Two Pentoshi vessels, fresh from a voyage to King’s Landing had come upon the fleet and thrown in with Prince Rhaegar, claiming that their patience with pirates was at an end. Of the combined fleet only a single ship had been lost to them in the fighting, and of the three thousand men, fewer than fifty had died storming the islands.

Even so, he reflected, it was a waste of good men.

They had scoured Grey Gallows and Torturer’s Deep not long after, but all they found were criminals. Perhaps the world would be improved by their deaths, but the so called rebel lords supposedly hiding out among the isles were nowhere to be found.

Myles could only shake his head at the whole thing as he returned to camp. Voices raised and cheering greeted him, as had been the case since the battle had ended. The men were drunk on the easy victory the pirates gave them, their taste of battle all the sweeter because they hadn’t had the bitterness of grief that often came with it.

He ignored the singing, the dancing, and the food being enjoyed by the men and made straight for the biggest tent. A few familiar knights and the two Pentoshi captains nodded to him on their way out, but Lord Ardrian Celtigar stopped him up.

Age had eroded any Valyrian beauty that the Lord of Claw Isle might have once possessed. Only a few tufts of silver hair remained on his spotted pate, the skin of his face wrinkled and pinched in a way that gave him a shrewd look. “Ser Myles, I would have moment of your time,” he said.

“As you will, my lord.”

“Torturer’s Deep and Grey Gallows fell swiftly, did they not?”

“Aye, thankfully the battles did not draw out.” Myles was careful with Celtigar. The man was fond of flattery, but there was no true friendship in his eyes.

“Soon enough all of the Stepstones will be ours and the Iron Throne will control call trade coming through the Narrow Sea. Has Prince Rhaegar discussed with you his ideas for who might be left to manage things once an outpost and garrison is established?”

There it is, those red claws of his grasping for more wealth , Myles thought. “The prince has not spoke to me of such things,” he said, “he has had other matters on his mind. If you’ll forgive me, I’m to speak with the prince now.”

No one else barred his entry to the tent and inside he found the Prince, Ser Arthur, Lords Velaryon and Sunglass all standing at a table peering down at a map that had been scrawled across on old piece of hide.

“Myles,” the prince said when he looked up, “come have a look at this.”

The map depicted the Stepstones well enough, but specific detail was given to the largest of the isles, Bloodstone. The shorelines, the rise of hills, the occasional forest. Fresh ink had marked a place near the centre of the island.

“Another pirate den?” He asked.

“The home of Maegor Brightflame,” the prince said. “Our Pentoshi friends swear that there is a large gathering of men on Bloodstone, better organised than any corsair camp has any right to be.”

Myles frowned at the map again. “Do you believe them?”

“I’ve had my own scouts verify similar accounts,” Rhaegar tapped at the centre of the island, his finger smudging the fresh ink. “There lies a great fortress at the heart of Bloodstone where armed men toil.”

Ser Arthur stirred himself, one hand resting on the pommel of Dawn. “We’d be facing rebels and sellswords this time, not pirates and smugglers.”

“If we act swiftly, then the Warrior will be at our side,” Lord Sunglass put in, his chest puffing with misplaced pride. “I can have my men ready to sail at first light.”

“Mine too,” Velaryon grunted, his expression far more stoic than the other lord.

Myles managed to contain his groan of frustration, but it was a near thing. It had been a single day since Torturer’s Deep had fallen and he was not keen to rush along into another battle that would involve a stronger foe. I’m sorry, Lord Sunglass, but f*ck the Warrior.

Rhaegar caught his expression. “My lords, perhaps you might go and see to your men. I would speak with my two knights.”

“My Prince,” Sunglass bowed, and took his leave. Velaryon did the same, though hesitated a moment to give Myles a concerned frown before pushing out the tent.

Rhaegar waited until he was certain that others were well gone before he said, “you seem troubled, old friend.”

“Troubled, aye, and frustrated too.”

The prince bared his palms. “I’m always willing to hear your concerns.”

“We’ve brought fire and steel to these islands, we’ve slaughtered countless sea rats and scoundrels. I’ve watched the men grow gleeful with the bloodshed,” Myles let out a shaky breath, “…and I feel no closer to finding justice for Richard’s murder. We’re wasting time here.”

Arthur frowned from his place at the prince’s side. “Don’t forget, we were commanded to come here by Aerys.”

“I know, though it’s a wretched chore that madman has given us.”

“What’s the alternative?” Arthur’s brow furrowed with frustration. “Do we defy the king’s edict and risk a war with the Iron Throne?” He shook his head. “Even if we did return at Dragonstone we’d be no closer to finding the enemy working against us.”

“I don’t think we’re any closer to that right now,” Myles pointed out. “Pirates weren’t sending poisons and beasts into our halls, I can promise you that.”

Rhaegar studied them both for a moment in that quiet way of his. There was something to his violet eyes that seemed as if they could see into a man’s soul.

“Do not think I’m making light of this, Myles,” Rhaegar’s words were soft, yet they carried weight in the war tent. “Richard was my friend and it was my son who was the intended target. I mean to feed whoever did this to Urraxes.”

Myles dipped his head. “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“We are caught in some labyrinth of riddles and lies.” Rhaegar glanced at the map. “Answers are what we need and there are answers on that island. Either the Brightflame is the mind behind this plot, or he is a mummer’s tiger held up to distract us, either way we’ll find out when we take Bloodstone and be one step closer to the truth. You must trust me on this, old friend.”

Trust , he thought. Haven’t I trusted you all these years?

Myles looked at Ser Arthur and then at the prince. Perhaps he could have argued the matter further, but there was some sense in what Rhaegar had said. He listened for a time as the prince laid out his plan for battle, nodded when appropriate, and bid his leave when it was clear there nothing else to be said.

As he walked through the sprawling war camp Myles felt himself thoroughly uninterested in the joviality of soldiers. He took a skin of wine and ventured off a ways to the beach and made a bonfire as night fell. The crackling of flames and the sounds of the tide were comforting as his mind began to wander.

In another life he had been a foolish boy with dreams of knighthood and he was blessed enough to be made squire to the heir to the throne. There had been no greater honour and Rhaegar had been more than someone to serve, the man was a friend and mentor when he needed one most. Alongside the Dragon Prince and the Sword of the Morning Myles felt himself in the company of legends, people who would shape history. And I will be there with them , he had thought.

Though he was a skilled warrior and respected enough, it was easy to think himself a mortal among gods. Rhaegar had a dragon and Arthur a magic sword, but what did I have? I was just their friend who made them laugh.

It was different with Richard. His fellow squire was more capable than most, but as human as any man. He would fret and worry like an old woman and in his vulnerability it made Myles more comfortable with his own. Encouraging Richard brought courage to Myles when he otherwise felt useless.

And yet I failed him when it truly mattered. The pain of it stung him most days, the guilt a weight hanging from his shoulders.

“Ser Myles?”

He was torn from his musings by the appearance of a young man standing awkwardly by his fire. Fair-haired, fresh -faced, the man would have looked half a boy if not for his damned height. There was familiarity, but Myles had to strain his mind to recall the lad’s name. “Ser Justin Massey,” he said, more to himself than a greeting.

“Ser, might I join your fire?”

Myles had no desire for company, but was too exhausted to quarrel. He gestured vaguely to the ground and took another pull of his wine skin. Ser Justin looked about and settled on a log for his seat before producing his own skin of wine.

“I would have thought you were taking supper with Prince Rhaegar and the other lords, Ser.”

Myles glanced at the young knight. “I might have said the same about you.”

That got a laugh out of Massey. “I had thought about it, but there is an impenetrable wall of courtiers around the prince. My voice would have been lost in a sea of those seeking favour.”

“So you come to me hoping I’ll lend you my ear and pass on words to the prince?”

“You’ve the cart before the horse, Ser,” Massey leaned forward a little, his rounded face glowing orange in the firelight. “I wish to hear about the Prince from you.”

Myles gave an exasperated sigh and shrugged. “He plays the harp and rides a dragon.”

“It would seem that is all he does,” Ser Justin frowned. “My house has long been loyal to the Targaryens, going back to the conqueror himself. There have been great men and poor, each with their own unique qualities and House Massey has served ably. I’ve watched this prince, and I’ve heard the stories, Ser. He drinks but little, does not eat to excess and it is said he is the vision of chivalry around women. He is even courteous in how he speaks among the men.”

“Does that trouble you?” Myles was more curious than offended.

“Yes.” Justin stared at Myles for a moment. “I have never known a man to be free of a vice.”

“Rhaegar is not like other men.”

Justin’s brow rose. “Then how might you explain the Stark girl he brought to his bed?”

Myles worked his jaw as frustration crept over him. It was an old wound, one that had confounded Myles for years. He and Richard had asked Rhaegar what he was doing with that girl, as did Jon Connington, but the prince had never answered them to satisfaction. Sometimes he would speak of falling for the girl’s wild spirit,other times he would mention dreams and the ancient pact of ice and fire.

She was pretty enough, he reflected, but she was still little more than a girl. Why take her to bed when he could have had any woman in the seven kingdoms? Why go the extra step of marrying her? There were too many unanswered questions and it disturbed Myles more than he was willing to admit . The whole thing was obscene and that girl child died for it.

Ser Justin took his silence for the defeat it was. “I’m right, aren’t I? The prince is as human as the next man.”

“It was a foolish decision,” Myles argued. “A man is not a drunkard for having a taken a single cup of wine.”

The look Massey gave him was full of pity. “If you say so, Ser.”

“Why ask me this?” Myles demanded, the embers of rage stirring to life in his chest. “You cannot bring Lyanna Stark back to life, so there’s nothing for a grasping knight like you to exploit.”

Before Massey could respond Myles was up on his feet and marching back into the camp. He ignored everyone and everything until he found his tent. As he lay in his cot, desperately urging himself to sleep, his mind continued to spin with ugly thoughts and treasonous doubts. For years he had served Rhaegar, loved Rhaegar as one might an older brother, and yet that nagging reminder of his folly shook him.

Trust , he thought. I have to trust him to do right.

When dreams finally came, they were ugly and unnerving.

-

The rain fell down little by little, colouring little damp dots in the soil and putting a pleasant scent in the air. Myles had loved the rain as a boy, loved the sound of it falling and the way the greyness of it coloured the sky. Now the sight of the rain falling on the stony soil, on Ser Arthur’s white cloak, on his own armour, filled him frustration. Out on the Stepstones, rains often meant storms, and storms made it difficult for dragons to fly and to burn.

He recalled the old stories, of how Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meraxes were grounded during the taking of Storm’s End, how Orys Baratheon had to win the battle with his own steel and strength against Agrilac the Arrogant. Myles was no Orys Baratheon, but the wooden fortress of Bloodstone was no Storm’s End.

They had landed on the western coast of Bloodstone, three ships so far while the rest encircled the island, and not any hint or sign that the sellswords and rebels were aware of them. They were two hundred men, all out in the drizzling rain and crouched low together amongst the plethora of rocks and shrubs that provided a slight cover.

He felt Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, and then the knight gestured to follow after him where another collection of men were squatting together near the protection of a boulder.

They were muttering urgently amongst themselves when he and Arthur approached, all bent over like sickly old men. Of the Narrow Sea lords only Bar Emmon thought to join them, the rest were Dornishmen on loan from Prince Doran.

Harmen Uller turned to them, utterly unaffected by the rain. “Gargalen’s scouts spotted some of these rebels of yours, a dozen men in patchwork armour with dyed beards and Dothraki blades,” he grunted, gesturing to the east through the rocky terrain. “Sellswords by the sounds of it.”

Arthur nodded calmly. “We had prepared for this. Men like that will break once they see the dragon.”

“We’ll still have to bloody them beforehand,” Myles pointed out. “This weather will slow Urraxes down.”

“All we have to do is draw the bastards out to meet us on the field,” Lord Bar Emmon said. “There are few enough of us that they’ll think we’re easy pickings. Once that happens, we’ll give the signal and Rhaegar will rain hell on them.”

None of them were enthused but all understand that there was no point in complaining. Franklyn Fowler looked between all of them, his craggy features creased with deep lines. “Well,” he said, “let’s get to marching.”

-

The fort was nothing like Myles imagined. The wet wood was crumbled and sagging, hastily shored up by clumsy, ignorant, hands and crumbling again. Daylight showed through the rotted-out, hacked-up, gaps along the gates that moved and swayed with the wind. The whole thing looked like a water-logged corpse.

The men inside were alive enough though, and when they saw Myles and men approach it had been a matter of steel.

Through the rain and the wind arrows shot clumsily through the air, missing their marks, bouncing off rock and soil and spinning away. One or two unlucky bastards screamed as they were skewered, but Myles put them from his mind and continued his advance. He could hear hoofbeats as the sellswords came forth, a dozen riders followed by an ugly stream of patchwork warriors coming on foot. Myles gritted his teeth, and he curled his fingers tight around the cold grip of his sword and watched them come.

They were blessed enough that a few of their own archers managed to strike a couple of the riders, but not so blessed as to stop the horses from charging through their ranks. Men were stomped on, kicked, bit, while the screaming Tyroshi hacked away with their strange curved blades. The Dornish spearmen brought some of the destriers down, but not without losing many of their own.

Myles brought his sword down hard on a burly, bald man, the blade chopping deep into the exposed throat and spattering sticky spots across his face. Another warrior jostled into him, spat a curse in bastard Valyrian and was silenced when Myles turned his blade in an arc that took his head.

There were men everywhere fighting, and shouting, swinging blades, thrusting spears and chopping with axes. He saw a man smash a sellsword in the face with his shield,saw the foreigner stumble back and slip in the mud and stab himself. He saw Dornishmen riddled with arrows stabbing at men twice their size with blackened spears. He saw Ser Arthur Dayne, clad in white and wielding the sword Dawn carve through the enemy ranks like some sort of beautiful and horrible dance.

We’re making them work for it, he noted, but there are still more of them for us to get through…

He was about to lift his blade again, to push his weary body onwards for another onslaught when the world shook around him. The sounds of battle seemed to shrink as the air filled with the thunderous roar of Urraxes.

Instinctively all men looked upwards, some cheered while others screamed. The silver beast looked to be in a foul mood as it flapped it’s great wings through the rain and wind. Arrows bounced off the brilliant silver scales and further incensed the beast as it came closer to the ground.

“Fall back!” Arthur shouted, “ fall back !”

Most of the men headed the command as instructed, but a few were slow and found themselves trampled or batted aside as the dragon landed. Urraxes bared his glistening fangs as his great blue eyes took in the enemy soldiers. There a strange kind of intelligence within them, almost human as he took note of the little men before him. Saddled stop the dragon, Rhaegar gave the command that the beast must have been waiting for. “Dracarys!”

Even in the cold wind, even in the rain, the white gold flames that Urraxes spewed forth were the hottest thing Myles had ever felt. A score of men were reduced to smouldering corpses within an instant, while others raced about aflame, desperate to douse themselves in the mud. Urraxes was merciless, crawling forward like a great bat and tearing into the men with talons and fangs. A few brave men tried to skewer the creature with spears, but none broke the slick, silvery hide and died screaming for their efforts.

Most of the Targaryen host had backed away, only the archers still loosing their arrows on the shrinking enemy. Between the dragon’s ferocity and the volley of arrows the sellswords were overwhelmed, most dropping their blades and running. They did not make it far before Urraxes’ tail struck them like a whip, leaving broken bodies and smashed armour.

Within an hour it was done. The enemy had either fled or been reduced to a burning, smashed pulp of flesh in the mud. Urraxes contented himself by feasting on the dead, the growling, chewing sounds coupled with the smell cooked flesh enough to make a man gag.

The gates of the fortress were brittle enough and gave way after a few men battered at it with a crudely made ram. Ser Arthur was first through the breach, cutting down the handful of fighters left, before the fort grew still and open for them.

Myles picked his way slowly through what had been the enemy camp inside the fort. A small court yard was a muddy, mess, with discarded cooking pots that stank of unfinished meals and spoiled meat.

Inside there was a crude hall, with a few tables and a mess of fallen cups and smashed tankards of wine. There was blood on the floorboards where Arthur’s men had cut down the last few guards, their crossbows and swords hanging limp by their sides. Where a throne might have been was a single chair, and upon that chair, Arthur’s sword at his throat, was an old man.

He was dressed in a black tunic adorned with a faded, torn Targaryen dragon stitched over the chest. The man himself was much the same, pock-marked, balding and scarred. His purple eyes stared at the newcomers with wonder and terror.

“Is this him?” Myles asked, “is this the infamous Maegor Brightflame?”

“It is.”

Rhaegar appeared in the hall, clad in his riding leathers and stinking of dragon hide. He took five short strides and he was before the man, inspecting him like a farmer would a hog. He clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Not as fearsome as I was led to believe.”

“I knew this day would come!” The man snarled, spit flying from his yellowed mouth. “The line of the Usurper has come to kill me, isn’t that right? ”

Rhaegar was unmoved. “Why did you send people to harm my son and brother?”

The old man blinked in momentary confusion and then snarled. “Don’t try to mislead me, usurper! I was told of your intentions! You know just as well as I that the people of Westeros drink secret toasts to my health, waiting for the day they could be rid of you!”

“Told by who?” Rhaegar gestured about, “was it the same person who paid for those sellswords? Who was your benefactor?”

The Silver Prince made to take another step forward but there was a sudden twang sound and Rhaegar jerked to the side. Myles spun about and saw one of the wounded men, a crossbow held in his bloody hands and aimed in their direction. He made to reload. You cheeky bastard…

A single thrust of his sword was all it took to send the blaggard to the Stranger. Myles flicked the blood from his blade and turned back to the prince, a question on his lips that died when he saw the pained look on Rhaegar’s face.

“I didn’t see…” Rhaegar blinked once, hard, and then looked down. At his side, wedged between a gap in his leathers was a crossbow bolt, a bloom of crimson leaking out near his ribs. “Oh.”

The Prince collapsed into Myles arms, a sharp wheeze escaping his lips. Myles clutched at his liege, panic overtaking him as he looked about for aid. “The Prince! Get someone, a maester, anyone!”

Outside Urraxes roared and all went to chaos.

Chapter 12: THE LICKSPITTLE LORD

Chapter Text

The air was thick with heat and humidity, and a breeze carried with it the horrid stench of the city.

Qarlton did his utmost to ignore his discomfort and brought his attention back to the present. The small council sat gathered, sans the king, and Arbor gold was still being poured when the Braavosi bankers made their pitch to the lords, employing long illustrated carpets and finely crafted wooden models of buildings yet to come. King Aerys in one of his recent and very public moments of eccentricity had announced his attention to build a port city of marble on the Stepstones once his son had cleared the place of traitors and criminals. Somewhere along the line the Iron Bank of Braavos caught wind of the plan and decided that they might offer the coin to pay for such a thing, sending envoys hoping to coax the throne into signing a loan.

Fools, thought Qarlton. Aerys will lose interest in this scheme before it even takes root.

It had been a common issue with the king. His flights of fancy were sudden and ferocious, but within a day he would move on to another plan and having left the city on his dragon, it fell to Qarlton to handle the political clean up.

The Braavosi detailed how stone could be mined from nearby locations in Tarth to use in the construction of a central keep and how skilled workmen from Braavos could build a massive port that would follow the natural curve of the island coastline. The foreigners spoke of how they could arrange favourable negotiations for every bit of outside labour that would be brought into the project and how efficient it would all be. Construction, they insisted, could be completed within five years.

“Clearly you’ve put a great deal of thought into this,” he said to the man Tycho Nestoris, “how much gold would all of this entail?”

The banker bared his palms. “Three million gold dragons.”

“Oh, only that much?” Lord Staunton scoffed. “That would have the throne indebted to the Iron Bank and these Braavosi builders you want to bring in for years!”

“Only until the port is established and trade begins to flow through the Stepstones,” Nestoris said. “I understand your trepidation, my lord. But the question you must ask yourselves is whether you can accomplish King Aerys’ wish without our help. I assure you that the other banks of the Free Cities will not be so helpful as we.”

Staunton looked very near the point where he would reach out and throw a decanter of wine at the banker’s head. Lords Tyrell and Redwyne exchanged quiet murmurings amongst themselves, Pycelle looked on the verge of sleep and Varys sat in his seat watching everything with a bland smile on his powdered face. It fell to Qarlton to offfer up something resembling dignity.

“You must take care to remember, Master Nestoris, that the Seven Kingdoms is not a realm of beggar lords and lackwits,” Qarlton said, his voice firm. “The Iron Throne has generous subjects and plenty of skilled men who can be put to work.”

“My Lord Hand, I did not mean to cause offence-”

Qarlton silenced him with a raised hand. “Nor did you. But the council must weigh all its options in this endeavour, both within the realm and without,” he said, coming to his feet and gesturing for the great chamber doors and the two Valyrian sphinxes that stood by it. “If you would be so kind, me and my fellows will need to discuss this matter amongst ourselves. You and your men are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of the Red Keep before returning home. I promise your masters shall have our answer within the turn of a moon.”

Hopefully by then Aerys will have moved on to his next folly...

A boy found Qarlton on his way back to his chambers, informing him in a solemn tone that the queen had need of his presence at the Great Sept of Baelor and that he ought to go immediately. It was an irksome request as Qarlton was loath to leave the Red Keep so late in the day, but he swallowed back his irritation and made the preparations.

Adopting a simple hooded-cloak, riding leathers and well-worn boots, the Hand of the King made the journey across the city in the company of three guards. He need not have, as the streets were mostly empty of the usual filthy masses and grasping beggars that would have normally clogged the path toward Visenya’s Hill. It was only upon reaching the Sept that Qarlton realised why.

The Great Sept of Baelor had always been an impressive sight, a structure of splendid marble work, gold, and crystal that could only have been commissioned by the holiest and most pious of kings. Yet in the years since Aegon the Unlikely had given his life to restore dragons to the world the Sept had changed, towering sculptures of the former king and crystal dragons stood at the entrance in the holy temple. Dragons were artfully carved into the stonework, their place reverentially displayed as a guest walked up the steps and into the place of worship. Under the reign of Jaehaerys and Aerys, the Sept had become as much a monument to Targaryen splendour as it was to the Seven.

It was at the plaza of the Sept that a crowd had assembled, hundreds of commonfolk squashed together and jostling for a better view as their eyes looked intently at the statue of Baelor the Blessed and the High Septon standing beside it. The sound of a whistling birdlike call cut through the air announcing the arrival of the queen and her dragon. A shadow passed over the crowd as the creature began to circle and close in on the ground. Guards pushed some of the crowd backwards to clear space near the statue as the great she-dragon began to touch down, a gust of dust being thrown up as the beast landed.

Maiden was often said to be the most beautiful of the Targaryen dragons, with scales a pale pink and horns and crest that were a deep red. There was something to the shape of the she-dragon's skull that recalled the elegance and dignity of an eagle and her golden eyes seemed to be ever watchful as she regarded the crowd of humans. She lowered herself to the ground and Queen Rhaella dismounted along with Princess Daenerys, mother and daughter looking like visions of Old Valyrian goddesses as they approached the statue of their ancestor.

Nearly everyone in the plaza inched forward and a wave of anticipation moved through the crowd, building in fervour as the queen climbed the steps near the statue. The queen bowed her head to the High Septon and the old man give her a blessing before taking a step back. Once the crowd had quieted, she began to speak in a rich and splendid voice.

“It gladdens my heart to see you all gathered here on this day.” She paused briefly to allow her words to be felt. “It was six and thirty years ago that my grandsire, Aegon the Miraculous, gave his life to bring dragons back into the world of men. The Seven knew that the world was in dire need of their most wonderous creations and only the blood of the dragon could lead us through darkness. My father, Jaehaerys the Savior, proved the validity of this when he took his noble stead Wildfyre and felled the wretched army of godless savages and their leader the misshapen Maelys the Monstrous before they could invade the realm.”

She aimed a finger toward the east. “We must always remember that evil lies in the hearts of cruel and greedy men and that there is always another threat on the horizon. There always those willing to bring steel and death to our Seven Kingdoms, those who would spill the blood of the oldest crone to the youngest child.”

The crowd stood in stunned silence. Even Qarlton was surprised at the fire in the queen’s voice and the power of her words. In Aerys court Rhaella had never been so openly impassioned with her speech or manner, mostly seen and rarely heard.

She scanned the audience and when she next spoke some of the edge had left her voice, though none of its strength.

“It is House Targaryen who will keep you safe, we who are blood of the dragon and chosen by the Seven to safeguard the realms of men. But it is also your loyalty and faith in us that allows this realm to prosper,” she opened her arms to the crowd. “Look, each of you, to the ones on your left and right, and to those in front and behind...”

Qarlton did as instructed, meeting innocent gazes and kindly ones, concerned looks and expressions of curiosity.

“...and think of them with kindness. Every man, woman, and child must maintain the King’s Peace, for it is also the will of the gods that their faithful be good and kind.” She made a gesture and several knights emerged, in their arms baskets of bread which they began to hand out to the crowd. “Put your faith in the gods and put your faith in House Targaryen.”

Many in crowd pressed forward, arms stretched out. They took the bread, but many more also reached for the queen, tears in their eyes and expressions of joy in their faces. Soon a cacophony of voices called out.

“Long live the Queen!”

“Rhaella!”

“Targaryen!”

“Maiden!”

Extraordinary, Qarlton marvelled. She fills their bellies with food and their heart with powerful words and these smallfolk love her as though she was Baelor come again.

The sun was low in the sky by the time the crowd had dispersed enough for Qarlton to meet with the queen and princess. She spoke soft words of encouragement to her daughter and then urged the girl over towards one of the white cloaks when she saw Qarlton’s approach.

“My Lord Hand, what did you think of the occasion?”

“You have a way with words,” Qarlton told her.

“I’ve had years of practice,” she replied mildly.

Her eyes moved about the plaza and then she said something in High Valyrian that made her dragon get up and coil its great serpentine body about the two humans, her scaly head near Rhaella while the powerful spiked tail lay near Qarlton. The heat from the creature’s scales was enough to make Qarlton sweat beneath his cloak.

“Marvellous creatures,” Rhaella smiled, running her hand along Maiden’s snout. “They keep away birds, and mice, and rats...”

Qarlton looked about. Princess Daenerys and one of her sworn shields were a way off, talking to the High Septon, while a few Septas went about tasks along the grounds. It seemed quiet, though Varys had spies everywhere.

“Why do you put so much effort into this?” he found himself asking. “Of course, it’s expected for the queen to engage in charitable pursuits, but what I’ve just witnessed was closer to a sermon.”

Rhaella was quiet for a moment. Her purple eyes tracked the movements of birds overhead in the orange sky as the day slunk beneath the horizon and then her eyes came to rest on her dragon. Maiden’s gaze met her rider’s, and something unspoken passed between queen and beast.

“Few people are aware of how my grandsire managed to return the dragons to the world,” she said at last, “since most of the people who were present when it happened are now dead. For over a century there was nothing left of the beasts, save for their skulls and a few eggs that had turned to stone. And then...after one night of fire and blood, the dragons lived once again. For many years people assumed it was the will of the gods, and my father was quick to promote that thought. He was thought weak by some, but he had a fierce mind. He knew that if House Targaryen was to endure another century, we needed to be seen as we once were; closer to Gods than men.

“Maesters and other learned men might keep historical records of our decline, but the smallfolk do not. The potter, the butcher, the innkeeper, these people do not know what happened two hundred years past. They have forgotten the Dance that almost brought my house to ruin and only know what they see before them. Dragons live again and it was my kin who brought it about, if we continue to instil that reverence upon them they will love us as they do the Seven.”

Qarlton felt himself frown. “And do you believe that?” he asked. “That you are blessed by the gods?”

“I know my family’s flaws,” she replied with a snort. “There were originally seven eggs that my grandsire sought to hatch at Summerhall, one for each god. And yet only three eggs warmed with life, and only Wildfyre hatched right away. It wasn’t for another two years that Maiden and Rhaegar’s Urraxes hatched, and it was only through their coiling that my grandchildren have their own dragons. It was a miracle ...but an incomplete one.”

She paused to glance at Qarlton. “The smallfolk do not need to know of such things. They don't need to know that it was only an incomplete hatching, or how warlocks and Shadowbinders had also been called from across the sea, or how my grandparents and uncle Duncan died screaming.”

Qarlton watched as a septa went around collecting the empty bread baskets, then said, “you show them your dragon, you spin them a tale of Targaryen salvation and give encouragement and food.” He laughed to himself, “You’ll become another Queen Alysanne.”

“And I’m encouraging Daenerys to do the same,” Rhaella gestured with her chin to the girl. “Viserys is lazy and will need further instruction and perhaps a firm hand in time, but Daenerys has been blessed with the Valyrian look and a gentle nature. It is no chore for her to help those in need, so it will be easy for the realm to come to adore her. Once her egg hatches it’ll be all the better.”

He reflected on that as he watched the little princess. Daenerys was an adorable and pleasant girl whose kind nature could even mellow Aerys in one of his foul moods. Though how long will that last?The king tempered his worse nature around his youngest children and often spoiled them, but it was said he was the same with Rhaegar in his youth. And look at what became of that...

Qarlton was stirred from his musings by the encroaching sound of heavy boots on cobblestone and when he turned his head to the east, he saw dozens of men-at-arms marching towards the Great Sept. They were all of them well dressed and moved with the uniform pace that only years of hard military discipline could create, following their commander as he strode up the great steps and made his way towards the statue of Baelor.

The man went to his knee before the statue and began to pray, but not before giving the queen and her dragon a meaningful look. It took a moment for Qarlton to place the name with the face, but when he did it startled him. Bonifer Hasty. The soldiers fell behind their commander and began to pray as well, all of them reverent as they recited different prayers of victory and strength.

And that would be his Holy Hundred come for their evening prayers...

The dragon’s shadow fell over them and when Qarlton turned he saw that the queen was smiling. Looking between the woman and the kneeling men, it suddenly occurred to him that their prayers might not be directed to the Seven above but to the She-Dragon before them.

“You asked me why I wanted you here,” Rhaella locked eyes with him. “I wanted you to see. My father instructed me so that I might keep the people faithful to House Targaryen. I am not about to let Aerys and his growing madness bring all my hard work crumbling down. I have cultivated loyal men, my lord, faithful men. They are all over this city and within the Red Keep. I plan to use them.”

He blinked in confusion. “Use them?”

Rhaella’s purple eyes locked onto him. “The king has taken leave of his wits, and it is long past time new power ushered House Targaryen into the future. When Aerys returns to the city, once he is separated from his dragon and vulnerable, I mean to take him into my custody where he will not be able to harm anyone else,” her eyes narrowed on him, “and you, my Lord Hand, are going to help me do it.”

Chapter 13: MYA III

Chapter Text

“The Knight of Storms!”

Inside her borrowed, mish-mash armour, within her oppressive great helm, Mya began to sweat. It was an effort to keep her breathing steady and her heart from dancing within her chest as she tried to ignore the hundreds of faces that were looking at her. The armour served its purpose in disguising her sex from the casual observer, and no one seemed to realise that the mare she rode was her own Swiftfoot.

“Ser Whalen of House Frey!”

Yards away, the knight’s stallion trumpeted with impatience and pawed the muddy ground. The knight himself, adorned in very plain-looking armour, rolled one of his shoulders. Mya watched Frey’s squire hand him a lance, long and ominous looking, and tightened her fingers around the grip of her shield. I can do this. I can do this...

A horn sounded.

Mya breathed in, the world seeming to have slowed to a crawl around her. She released her breath, recalled all the training she had done over the last few weeks and months, and gave Swiftfoot a light touch of spur and couched her lance. A moment later Mya lifted her plain, dirty, shield and held it until it covered most of the left side of her body. Initially she had worried that the weight of lance and shield would have made her clumsy, but a rush of fear and excitement somehow managed to steady her movements and give her strength she did not know she had.

The world around her stretched and distorted into a blur as she pressed her heels harder into the horse’s sides. The cheers and jeers of the crowd were a distant, pitiful sound to her ears within the helm, the expressions on their faces a forgotten thing as the narrow slit of her visor forced her to focus only on the knight riding in her direction. It felt as if her whole being was pulled forth, carving through the world like a hot knife through butter. Her teeth grit together, her legs tight around the mare, Mya felt stronger than she had ever been, as though she was more than a human being.

Frey approached; spatters of mud went everywhere as his stallion galloped ever closer. Mya could see the white of its muzzle, the black shine of its coat, so different from Swiftfoot’s grey. The blue Twins on his shield stood out amongst the blurs of greys and browns of the world rushing past. The Frey knight leaned forward in his saddle as if to get a better look at her and began to bring his lance down.

Mya felt the moment approach and swung her lance up over Swiftfoot’s neck and left across the tilting barrier. She focused on Frey’s armoured chest and the lance moved with her eye. She held her breath and for what felt like a small eternity the world was a gruelling slow thing until suddenly her arm was rattled up to her shoulder and an explosion of splinters flew in the air where once Frey had been.

She kept galloping onwards, the weight of her lance suddenly far lighter than it had been a moment ago. It took a moment for it to occur for her to look down and see that the end of her lance had smashed and as she came about on Swiftfoot she saw that Frey had been unhorsed, laying in the mud with his own shield and lance discarded.

A booming cheer fell upon Mya like a wave, so powerful and overwhelming that her body trembled like a newborn foal. With a shaky breath she urged Swiftfoot on, slowing as she came by Ser Whalen across the barrier. For a horrid moment Mya feared that she had killed the man for how still he lay in the muck, but then he slowly raised an armoured hand and waved her off with a grunt. The crowd cheered even louder.

The herald’s voice cut through the air like a bolt of lightning. “The victor!” he announced. “The knight of Storms!”

Through the slits of her helm, she finally peered at the viewing stand crowded with knights, ladies and lords great and small. Mya searched through the mess of faces until she found her family, her father and brothers watching with amused, oblivious, smiles. Do you see me? I won!

Some of her excitement died away when she lifted her head and saw King Aerys frowning down at her. The king was lounging boredly but there was a clear expression of distaste across his sickly, pallid face. Mya imagined that somewhere the great green dragon would be snarling in contempt and she urged Swiftfoot away.

Tradition dictated that Ser Whalen ought to ransom his gear back from her, but Mya did not even look back as she trotted away from the field. Swiftfoot took her until she was well away from the cheering and chaos of the lists and for the first time in what had felt like days she lifted the helm from her head. Her black hair was drenched in sweat, clinging to her face and getting in her eyes as she furiously pawed at herself.

She removed as much of the armour as she could, bagged it, and then led Swiftfoot back near to the Baratheon tents. Mya pressed a kiss to the mare’s head and led her over to a bag of feed. “You’ve earned yourself a few apples tonight, girl.”

She had stashed away a cloak earlier and quickly threw it about herself to conceal the armour as she approached the family tent and went by the guards unnoticed. A few of Lady Janna’s servants had been left inside and Mya had them fetch a basin of water and then gave them leave to explore the tourney grounds for an hour.

Once she was alone, she washed at her face with the basin of water and went about trying to remove the last pieces of armour. It was a horribly tedious business and she wondered how the hell soldiers managed after a battle if they had no squires to attend them. She was still wrestling with a piece of it when her brothers burst through the tent flap.

Three pairs of identical blue eyes gawped at her and she stared at them in paralysed shock. A thousand crushing, panicked thoughts raced through her mind, thoughts of what Lady Janna might say, how her father might chastise her, but Mya found she could speak none of them. It was Steffon who broke the silence, his mouth hanging open like a trap.

“I knew it!” he turned to excitedly slap Lyonel and Ormund on the arms. “Didn’t I say that was Swiftfoot out there, didn’t I say?”

Ormund looked at her armour and then up at her face. “Why didn’t you tell us you were knight?”

“Ladies can’t be knights, stupid,” Lyonel cut in, before doubt crept across his face. “at least...I don’t think they can.”

“But that was you out there, wasn't it Mya?” Steffon asked, desperately. “You were the Knight of Storms who unhorsed the Frey knight?”

Lyonel seemed to think on it. “Well, if you are a knight, can I be your squire? I promise I’ll behave and shine your armour up good.”

“You were very good, Mya,” Ormund told her in that sweet little voice of his. “You rode better than some of others we watched.”

Mya hadn’t known what she might have expected from her brothers but the panic in her heart quickly gave way to something else. Before she could stop herself, she drew the three of them to her and began to cry and laugh, pressing kisses to their heads and hugging them tightly.

With the help of her brothers small and deft hands Mya was able to remove the last of her amour and stow it away, but not before getting them all to promise to keep silent about the whole thing. It was plain that they were buzzing with excitement but after she had stressed repeatedly to them that it was important that no one know they had calmed themselves. It also helped that she had promised to allow them to serve as her squires, in the small ways that they could without giving the whole thing away.

She had washed herself, put her hair in an elegant but simple braid and hastily dressed in a gown that was gold and black, with long lace sleeves. It was a modest attire, but it would conceal some of the stiffness in her movements and any bruising on her body that she wouldn't have an excuse for.

Many hours later her father and Lady Janna returned to the tent, her father frowning about something as he went straight for the flagon of wine and downing a cup. Lady Janna might have disapproved but her attention shifted to Mya as soon as she saw her.

“Where were you?” she asked sharply. “You seemed to vanish after the first few matches.”

“I felt ill,” the lie was well prepared and came easily enough. “It must have been the blood sausage I had earlier.”

Steffon hurried to her side. “It’s true, we saw her be sick!”

“Yes, Mya threw up everywhere!” Lyonel agreed readily.

“It was awful, Mother,” Ormund added, “you’ve never seen someone so sick!”

Bless their silly little hearts, Mya thought, trying not to smile.

Janna blinked at her sons, her mouth opening and then closing again. It took a moment before the lady found her words. “Alright....” she turned back to Mya with a slightly softer expression, “are you going to be fine watching the boys this evening?”

“You’re going somewhere?”

The Lady of Storm’s End sighed dramatically. “There’s to be a feast at Casterly Rock and with the king and all the other assembled great lords going it’s expected that your father and I also attend. I had thought to bring the boys but...”

“I’ll not have my sons near that blasted madman!” her father slammed his cup down hard on the table, the spilt wine staining the white cloth like drops of blood. “We’ll go, eat their food and sit through this nonsense, listen to that old man and Tywin complain at one another and then we’ll be back before the hour of the wolf.”

Janna shook her head in disapproval. “Robert you will have to mind your tongue during the feast.”

“If I must listen to that old man call me ‘Cousin Robert’ one more time...” his meaty fists clenched and unclenched. “Those damned Targaryens have been laughing at me for years and now I must endure breaking bread with them.”

“Robert...”

“Perhaps my father might have loved him, but my father is long dead,” he went on, oblivious to his wife’s warning looks. “That blasted dragon of his...If not for that wretched beast I would have smashed his wretch of a son with my hammer for taking away Lyanna, for stealing her...”

“ROBERT!”

He looked at his lady wife as if only noticing her for the first time. “Dammit woman, what?”

“Enough with your bile,” she hissed, “get yourself ready and don’t make a scene. It’ll be all our heads if you speak out of turn.”

He looked at her, then to Mya, then to the boys. A flush of shame and rage swirled behind his eyes, and he pushed out a deep breath. He didn’t apologise as that was seldom his way, but he did quieten down and went behind the partition to dress into his evening finery. When he emerged, he was dressed in a black tunic that was emblazoned with golden stags, black breeches, boots of fresh leather and a brown cape that was clasped to his person by two small golden antler crowns. He would have looked the image of a perfect lord were it not for the sour look on his bearded face.

Lord and Lady Baratheon gave their children a final look and then left for their supper with the king while the others looked to their own meal. While it was no feast, the servants had prepared a meal of roast duck, barely bread, a mash of pumpkin and carrots washed down with wine for Mya and lemon water for the boys. Without Lady Janna there to judge her, Mya found herself wolfing the meal down and taking seconds, such was her hunger after the day's events.

The servants cleared away the debris and bid them all good night and no sooner that they did the boys began peppering Mya with questions about what they would get to do for her on the morrow. It was a struggle to get them all changed into their night clothes and into bed, but eventually the great tent fell silent as they dozed. Mya herself was feeling the aches and pains of the joust coming on and welcomed the cot as she collapsed into it. She thought of her victory against Frey, heard the cheers of the crowd and the smile of her father, imagined the excitement the next day might bring and slipped into a warm and content sleep.

She woke to the sounds of dogs barking and men shouting.

A groan escaped her mouth as she stirred and lifted herself up in the cot, rubbing at her sore eyes and shaking stiffness from her joints. It was complete darkness, yet she knew at once something was wrong. The shouting was getting louder and there was something foul in the air that made her stomach turn.

Though she was only in her shift, Mya eased up from the cot and went over to the entrance of their tent. The shouting, barking and screaming was unmistakable as she peeked her head out the flap. She winced at the wretched smell of smoke in the air and blinked back tears as it got in her eyes, but once she had regained focus it was hard to ignore the source of the commotion. There was an orange glow in the distance like a bizarre sunrise coming off the sea. Then her mind made the connection.

Lannisport is burning...

She looked about desperately and found that there were no guards out the front of their tent and felt a spike of fear shoot through her heart. The glow of the fire looked as if hell itself was coming for her and she retreated into the tent. Her heart pounded as she looked about. Where are the guards? Where are the servants? There was another horrible thought that plagued her. Where are Lady Janna, and Uncle Renly? Where is Father?

Wincing, she cast the thoughts aside and decided that she would not stand around cowering. Hastily throwing on a pair of riding breeches and boots, she wrapped a cloak about herself and left the tent. There were people moving about, guards and knights rushing ahead towards the distant flames. Is it the dragon? She wondered, moving to get a better look.

A serving woman rushed by, and Mya reached out to grab her arm. “What’s going on?”

“Ironmen,” the woman croaked, eyes huge with fear, “they’ve set fire to Lannisport!”

The woman broke free of her hold and hurried off somewhere in the fog and smoke. Mya felt her stomach twist in knots as she tried to reckon with the news. She knew the Ironmen were savages, but Maester Cressen had taught her that they had not raided the mainland in almost a hundred years. Coming back to herself she knew that she could not wait around for the Greyjoys to carry her off to slavery and death.

She returned to her tent and hurried over to her brothers' cots, shaking them urgently as they groaned and complained at being woken. “Boys, get up,” she urged, trying to keep the panic from her voice, “you need to get up this very instant.”

Lyonel made a face as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s wrong Mya?”

Steffon and Ormund gave her a look of betrayal as they squinted through bleary eyes. She addressed them with as much authority as she could bring. “Boys, listen, something’s happened and you need to get dressed at once. We need to be ready to leave.” She gave them all a meaningful look. “Lannisport is under attack, and we need to leave.”

Orumund looked at her with large, fearful eyes. “But what about Mother and Father?”

I don’t even know if they’re still alive. “They’re at Casterly Rock, probably taking charge of the situation with Lord Tywin and His Grace the king. But we aren’t safe here, so we must leave.”

The boys moved quickly enough though it was plain they were frightened out of their minds. Mya helped them dress into simple riding clothes and made to do the same when a thought occurred to her. She looked at Steffon, trembling with fear, and moved to the chest at her bed. I can encourge them...

“Boys,” she croaked, swallowing hard, “you said you were my squires, so will you help me into my armour?”

A bit of the fear in their eyes was replaced by curiosity and excitement. Their little hands trembled and shook some as they buckled the pieces into place, but it did them some good to put their minds to work. Soon enough she was fully adorned in armour, though she decided to forego the helm for her brothers’ sake. The short sword was one she had pilfered from the armoury of Storm’s End, an old forgotten thing, but it would serve well enough if it came down to violence.

I know how to fight, she told herself, over and over. I know how to fight and will fight if I must.

They grabbed a few things, a skin of water and half-eaten loaf of bread, some of Lady Janna’s jewels, and then hurried from their tent wrapped in cloaks. Between the fire, the smoke, and the general chaos it was difficult to find their way about, but Mya eventually led them to where the horses were hitched. The animals knickered and pawed at the ground, clearly agitated by the sounds and smells but Mya saw Swiftfoot and her heart leapt. The mare calmed some at her whispered words and Mya went about unhitching her mount and another for the boys.

She decided that Ormund would ride with her while Steffon and Lyonel would double up. “I’m keeping them hitched together,” she told the elder two boys as she lifted them onto the horse’s back, “so we’ll stick close, and we won’t get lost.”

“Where are we going, Mya?” Lyonel asked.

“Back the way we came,” she said, getting atop Swiftfoot and holding Ormund to her. “We’ll find the road and then keep on. Ironmen don’t stray far from the sea.”

Moving along the path out of the camp and away from the tourney grounds allowed them a better view of Lannisport. It was a grim sight. The entire port was a wall of flame and smoke that was quickly spreading into the city itself. If she listened hard enough, Mya thought she could hear the screams carrying through the air.

They moved along at a steady pace until something caught her eye in the dim, orange light up ahead on the path. She squinted her eyes, then she saw them. Horses coming along with a cart behind them, moving quick. In the poor light she couldn’t make out the men, but she felt the warmth of panic creep up the back of her neck. The hoof-beats were loud and then there was a bellow from the driver as the cart slowed and then eventually stopped before them. Mya reluctantly did the same with her and her brothers' horses.

Three men, close enough now that Mya could get a good look at them. Axes, spears, and good armour. For a moment she thought they might have been watchmen from the city, but there was a scraggly and sallow look to them that was unsettling and when she looked at the sigils they bore on their chest plates...

Kraken...

Her hand came to rest on the hilt of her sword, though she tried to appear casual. Out of the corner of her eye she glanced at her brothers on the horse beside her and was keenly aware of Ormund pressed up in the saddle with her. There was a horrible sinking feeling as she looked at the men on the cart and the weapons they held.

“By the God,” one of the men remarked, gesturing with his axe at her, “You see that Ralf? Just our luck, a woman riding right into our hands!”

The man-Ralf- snigg*red at that. “Pretty thing too.”

The third man frowned at the boys and then at Mya. “Looks like the bitch has pups.”

“Let us pass,” the words came out in a shaky voice that had none of the strength or authority she hoped for.

The first man gave her a horrible rodent smile. “Why don’t you come with us, eh? We’ll take you meet Prince Marron, and he might even make you his salt wife. You ever met a prince, girl? We even brought you a cart, for you and your whelps to ride in.”

“To hell with Marron,” growled Ralf. “Take a look at her. This one’s a good sort, why should he get all the fun?”

Under this cloak, they don’t realise I’m armed and armoured, she thought. I could close and...

Mya felt like she was about to wretch but swallowed it all down. It was one thing to joust at a knight in full armour with a tourney lance, it was something else entirely to kill a man. She looked at the three men, one to the other. The cart had just about blocked the way forward and the boys looked pale and small in their saddles. Damn it.

“Let the boys go ahead,” she told them with a shaky voice, “and I’ll...I’ll let you...do as you would.”

Ormund whimpered and pressed himself to her, but she had to ignore it. She kept her eyes on the three men, noted how they were all greybeards. Mya had fought in the practice yard against a few of the more indulgent members of her father’s guard and liked to think she afforded herself well. Could I take them? I have the element of surprise.

“C’mere girl,” the first man said, “then we’ll talk about them boys.”

She looked down at her brother’s blue eyes, saw the tears gathering and felt his body shake. Leaning down she pressed a kiss to his head, and whispered, “stay back, and close your eyes.”

Steeling herself, Mya dismounted and walked over to the wagon until she was right by the man. She swallowed back the bile in her throat, tried to control her breathing, and then looked up at the wretched figure. His face was like worn leather and his bulbous nose was covered in blackheads. He leered down at her and she could smell the ale on his breath.

“You’re even prettier up close!” he hooted, reaching down to touch her face. “Gods, look at those lips!”

Mya permitted it, her hand around the hilt of her sword. Her thumb worked the blade up from its sheath, slowly, slowly...

It was a clumsy motion, a crude wave of her short sword up and catching the man’s bare arm just before the elbow. She felt the blade pass through flesh, crack into the bone and then tear itself free. An explosion of blood shot down her face and neck and she was deafened by the man’s screams as he stumbled backwards clutching at his bloody stump.

Don’t wait, she told herself, don’t hesitate! Onto the next!

“That bitch has a blade!” the one called Ralf grabbed at his axe but had to shove away his bleeding, spasming friend before he could do anything. “Damn it, die somewhere else!”

The third man leapt down from atop the wagon and crashed into her hard. They hit the ground and tumbled together. Mya’s head exploded with light when the man punched her near the brow, but she managed to twist and kick from under him and threw one of her own into his ribs hard as she could. There was a grunt of pain and then he punched her again, this time catching her on the chin and rattling all the teeth in her head as she fell back. Her hand reached out, grasped and groped about for her sword. She took a blow to the sides, though her armour absorbed most of it.

Big hairy hands closed around her throat, horrible as they began to squeeze the life from her. Mya’s thoughts grew desperate, blurring together. Her hands found something, she closed around the pommel and brought it up and felt the man’s throat open as the blade pushed through to the back of his neck. She was showered in crimson, so warm and horrible that it blinded her.

Mya shoved the corpse away, wiped desperately at her face. Her body ached and she was sticky all over but before she could get her wits back Ralf was before her, axe held high and an ugly snarl on his face. The boys screamed and shouted at the man and when she looked over, she saw their frightened little faces watching her. Don’t look, she wanted to tell them, run away, but found she had no voice.

She sucked in a shaky breath and waited for the blow to come, for the axe to fall and rend her apart. The boys shouting grew louder, but when she looked up all she could see was the man about to bring her death and the glint of his axe.

The snarl on Ralf’s face was gone in an instant as his skull disappeared in an explosion of blood and brain. A hammer stood where the head once was before it was yanked free of the shoulders, the body giving way and falling twitching to the ground.

A tall figure stood before her and for one terrifying moment she thought it was another of the Ironmen. But then big, strong hands lifted her up and held her to a black tunic clad chest and she knew at once who it was. “It’s alright girl,” her father soothed, “it’s alright...”

A moment later three little bodies collided into hers and clung desperately. Steffon, Lyonel, and Ormund all sobbing and trying to talk over each other. Mya couldn’t hear the words or make any of her own. The relief was so overpowering that she felt her body go to jelly and her mind to mush. Instead, she allowed her body to shake and the tears to come as she sobbed into the combined embrace of her family.

“You did well, Mya,” her father told her in a voice that was gentler than she had ever heard. He looked at the boys and smiled sadly. “You saved our family...”

There was an inhuman screech that cut through the air and made her father cling tightly to them. Lord Robert looked into the sky and then back to his children. “We need to move and get as far away as we can.”

“What’s happening?” Steffon asked weakly.

Robert Baratheon looked grim. “Aerys is about to unleash his dragon.”

Chapter 14: RODRIK II

Chapter Text

The first drops of rain came down as the sun was consumed by thick grey clouds. Come the evening a storm would be upon them that would grip the western coast for days yet.

“A storm is soon to be unleashed on Lannister,” Euron Crow’s Eye announced to all the gathered men aboard King Balon’s flagship. “Lions are mighty beasts, but wind and rain batter them as it does everything else. It will blow our fleet right into them like an iron fist.”

The lords and captains roared their approval, banging their shields and axes together. Storms might trouble a common sailor, but the Ironborn were followers of the Drowned God and had been hardened warriors of the eternal battle against the Storm God and his creations. Wind, rain, choppy waters, the Ironborn had fought and overcome such things and had the advantage over the Greenlanders.

Rodrik Greyjoy did not join the revelry. Neither did his mother’s kin, he did not fail to note. The Reader has not been quiet in his criticism, he remembered, watching as his uncle frowned at the Crow’s Eye and King Balon. He knows that favourable winds or no, this is like to be a bloody business for us.

It was said that Tywin Lannister had called half the lords of Westeros to his tourney to whor* out his daughter for the highest bidder. That would mean a mix of lords congregating around the city when they sacked it. His kingly father had been undeterred by the news and stubbornly insisted that such Greenlanders would be pompous knights and that no tourney lance could fell a kraken.

“We’ll deal with the Lannister fleet first and foremost,” The Crow’s Eye had told the other Greyjoys when they assembled the night before. “We’ll sneak in under the cover of darkness to catch them unawares, and while their fleet is anchored, we’ll set ablaze to it all.”

King Balon had looked at Maron and Victarion. “You’ll be the ones to see this through,” he told them in iron tones. “Hobble our enemy as they sleep.”

“Sweet nephew,” The Crow’s Eye had grinned at Rodrik’s direction. “I would ask that you and your men escort a few of my ships.”

He scowled at his uncle. “Escort?” his lip curled, “are you so craven, uncle, that you can’t sail your own ships near danger?”

There was something about Euron’s blue-lipped smile that chilled Rodrik at once. “These ships are special, my dear boy, and while me and the Silence are busy elsewhere, I’ll need a puissant warrior to see these vessels brought close to the lion’s den.”

“What say you, father?” Rodrik asked the king. “Is your heir to be reduced to the Crow’s Eye’s errand boy?”

Balon gave him a look that could curdle milk. “You’re my son, aye, but I am your king, and if say you serve my brother then you’ll do as I command.”

That had ended any further discussion and they had spent the rest of the day calling the captains of the Iron Fleet together so that they might understand the path ahead.

Watching the madman work the gathered lords into a frenzy had been enough to turn Rodrik’s stomach and he had slipped away unseen as his father and uncle had their attention elsewhere. He returned to his Young Kraken and informed the men of their orders before retreating below deck to his cabin, where it was warm and dim. A beeswax candle burned inside, and Doreah sat in a chair by its light reading one of the books he had found for her.

“Oh,” she snapped the leather tome shut and stood up. “My lord...”

Rodrik waved her down and collapsed into the chair opposite. He felt a mountain of worries before him and dreaded what the morrow would bring, though there was nothing for it. His father would not hear reason and it would be on Rodrik’s head. Pushing the ugly thoughts aside, he looked over at the girl. “Perhaps you might read a bit to me.”

“What would you have me read?” she asked in that soft, pretty accent of hers.

“Whatever you like.”

Doreah looked down at the book and began to leaf through the pages, her lips pressed together furtively as she searched for something. When she found her target, she started in a clear, firm voice. “It was said that when the Rhoynar rose up against the Valyrians, Prince Garin assembled an army a quarter of a million strong, with water wizards to join them...”

Rodrik closed his eyes and listened. Very quickly the words themselves lost meaning, but the melodious sound of her voice, that accent of hers that rolled and danced over certain words, it had a soothing aspect that lulled him. He did not fall asleep, but his mind drifted and wandered thoughtlessly, like a speck of dust in the wind.

He could not say for how long they sat there together but when he opened his eyes next the candle had burned away considerably. She paused her reading when she noticed his gaze on her. “My lord?”

“I’m going off to battle tomorrow,” he told her. “I’ve been commanded to take my ships and sail with my uncles and brother to Lannisport. I don’t know what that’ll bring me other than bloodshed, but it’s always possible one of the Westermen might get the better of me, or perhaps even mine own uncle Crow’s Eye,” he shrugged in feigned indifference, “I suppose men die in war.”

Doreah’s eyes grew large with fear and once again Rodrik wondered if it was fear for her wellbeing or his own. Don’t be a fool, he scolded himself. Of course she’s afraid for her own skin, she thinks she’s going to die on this ship.

“Tell me something, and speak true,” he searched her eyes. “What do you think of your lot here?”

There was hesitation, but she must have seen something on his face and after a moment’s thought she said, “The day before last I overheard two of your crewmen quarrelling. One man accused the other of cheating him at dice and they fought, with knives, I think. The victor went on his way, but the other was long in the dying. I heard him cry out for two hours before someone gave him the gift of mercy.”

“It is the coming war,” he tried to explain, “the men feel anxious with the promise of battle and sometimes they act foolishly.”

She brought her blue eyes to him. “Your people are cruel, and frightening. In the pleasure house I would have service many customers, but I was trained in that art, and I knew that no matter what indignity happened at least I would be protected from lasting harm.”

I can keep you safe, he wanted to tell her, though he knew it to be a lie. Few would enter his cabin or chambers without his say, but he could not watch her all the time and often enough his ship would find itself in battle or lost in some horrible storm. Death and danger would follow him for all his days. That is what it is to be Ironborn...

“On the morrow I mean to hand you over to my uncle, the Reader,” he said after considering it. “If I survive the coming battle then mayhaps I’ll collect you. And if my father wins his damnable war, then I’ll be a prince in truth and one day I might even sit the Seastone Chair. As my Salt Wife you’d have a place of status at Pyke and any children we might have would be rulers of the sea, beloved and feared like few others.”

Doreah looked at him cautiously. “And if you don’t come back?”

“If not...well, the Reader is not a cruel man. Like as not he won’t use you to warm his bed and he’d never beat you. You might have it nice enough back on Harlaw serving his household, attending to my lady aunt.”

He rose to his feet and approached her, closing her book and leading her over to his bunk. “But if that happens, I’ll be dead, and tonight I want to live.”

In the cold light of day Euron’s ships were a queer sight. The three big ships looked to be merchant vessels from Yi-Ti that the Crow’s Eye had captured and altered in some way, crewed by his mutes, bastards and brindled men and every other mongrel that was mad enough to find themselves within Euron’s thrall. Freaks often flocked to the madman like flies to sh*t and even surrounded by his own loyal men Rodrik was loathe to get too close to the ships.

He noted how the mongrel crewmen were loading in bags of sand in great quantity from a nearby isle, though he knew better than to ask about it. Euron will lie and lie, and I’ll be no closer to the truth. Instead, he commanded his men to keep a reasonable distance from the freak fleet as they ferried them into Lannisport.

“Bring them in close to Casterly Rock,” Euron told him. “So close that you might fondle the lion in his den.”

Rodrik frowned at the ships and then back at his uncle. “What am I to do with them when I arrive?”

“Get them to the coves and docks of Casterly Rock and my men will do the rest,” the Crow’s Eye had said, his teeth bared in an ape’s smile. “When the time comes, all will become clear.”

And with a final wretched smile, his uncle had departed with the Silence.

Yet I am still haunted by the man and his foreign devilry, he thought, bringing his fleet closer and closer to the Westerlands. Though the skies had been a horrid dark grey and the rumble of thunder continuous, the winds had been with them, ushering the ships with such an unnatural strength that it seemed as if the vessels had glided across the Sunset Sea. It was on the second day of travel that they passed Fair Isle, the third that they skirted by the length of Kayce, and finally on the night of the fifth that the Iron Fleet found themselves before Lannisport.

The bay of Lannisport was rough and choppy as the stormy winds blew in, and in what little moonlight there was Rodrik could make out Iron Victory to the southeast, the golden kraken of their house on his sails. The flagship of the Iron Fleet led the other vessels toward the anchored Lannister ships like a hungry wolf leading its pack towards unsuspecting sheep. He would have to trust his uncle and younger brother to their task while he saw to his own.

When Rodrik looked up the storm clouds had parted enough that a shot of moonlight illuminated the enormous mound of Casterly Rock on the shoreline, taller and more omnious than anything he had ever seen before. He began to give out commands as they broke off from the main body of the fleet and began their escort. Seven ships in addition to the three Euron had sent with him, not a grand collection but appropriate enough while all eyes went to Lannisport proper.

“Out oars,” Rodrik shouted. He waited for it and then nodded in approval when he heard the oar master’s drum begin to beat rhythmically like the heart of some leviathan. The many wooden limbs of the ships pulled them across the water, closer now to the sea gates and the scant little docks the Lannisters hid within its coves.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the first glimmers of light and turned to it. Flames rose suddenly and furiously in the distance as Victarion and Maron went about their task. Soon screams and shouts began to emerge, the sounds travelling across the water. Rodrik felt a black worm coil in his stomach, anxious now that the bloody work would begin.

As Euron had promised his ships moved ahead of the others when they were in sight of the sea gates, moving at the unseen and unheard command their horrible master had likely drilled into them. When he listened hard, he could hear the thrum of arrows being loosed through the air, followed by bodies splashing into the sea. Like a collection of seals a few Euron’s mongrels slipped from their ships and began to swim towards the gates, dragging themselves up onto the rocky shores before vanishing. After what felt like an eternity later, one of the gates began to ease open like a whor* spreading its legs for a customer.

What will they do? Rodrik wondered. He had not been given a command to take Casterly Rock, and in truth it would have been a folly to do so given how few ships and men he had under his command. A steady stream of row boats began to file into the open cove, and when Rodrik took out his Myrish glass he noted that Euron’s men were loading up large crates of clay jars.

“Drop anchor,” he called to his men. “Keep us a few yards away.” Whatever it is the Crow’s Eye is doing, I’ll not have my men near it.

Time seemed to have stretched on agonisingly as the men did their work and Rodrik found himself growing more uneasy with every passing moment. He felt more like an accursed smuggler than a true Ironborn; sneaking in under the cover of dark and hoping that guardsmen would not sound an alarm.

There was full chaos in the distance as Lannisport burned. A chorus of screams and shouting had erupted and filled the night air while flames had danced and swelled so powerfully that it looked as if the Doom of Valyria had come to the Westerlands. Victarion on his own was like to burn the Lannister fleet and then be away, but Maron was greedy and would undoubtedly try for some plunder in the city itself.

More fool him, he thought with a feral grin. Lannisport has a city watch who will likely make his boys bleed. That might teach my smiling fool of a brother a lesson he’ll not forget...

There was a great bloom of fire in the distance that caught his attention again, a burst of flame that seemed bigger than the rest. Rodrik wondered if his uncle had found an extra reserve of oil for his fires. He frowned as he traced the pillar of flame and smoke upwards into the sky. Something was moving in the moonlight, but at this distance he couldn’t discern more than a shadow.

He looked back at Euron’s cogs, felt his impatience spike. What’s taking those damned curs so long?

A sound drifted in with the wind, strange and difficult to discern. To Rodrik’s ears it sounded like a distant and distorted cry of a gull, though different somehow. He looked about and saw nothing, only the black sea in the moonlight. His eyes darted back to the hulked black hill of Casterly Rock and searched for any sign of activity or movement amongst its fortifications. A few yards away Harras Harlaw was pacing about the deck of his own ship, as sick with worry as Rodrik.

Within his chainmail Rodrik shivered. He used the Myrish glass once again and saw that Euron’s men were still unloading what seemed to be an endless supply of clay jars. Though his crew were scarred, and brutish mutes collected from every foul corner of the world, they handled their cargo with masterful gentleness. What is in those bloody jars?

The Crow’s Eye had travelled further than any living Greyjoy and was said that he was familiar with every wretch and blaggard from Flea Bottom to Slaver’s Bay. Whatever it was that his diseased mind had churning away, it would be something no rational man would bother with.

Rodrik was violently wrenched from his musing when a powerful gust of wind smashed into his ship and almost sent him toppling over. He caught the rail and steadied himself, though not without letting slip a string of curses and looking about furiously. Have the winds finally turned on us? Before he could gather his thoughts another strong burst of wind struck the ship, though this time he was better prepared for it. When he looked up, he thought he saw something pass by over the moon.

The odd sound came again, the call of the gull-thing. It was closer now and clearer, clear enough that Rodrik suddenly understood what his ears had been telling him.

Dragon...

“Raise anchor!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Oarsmen get us away!”

But it was too late. That horrible inhuman screech was loud as rolling thunder and when he looked up, he saw the enormous shape emerge from the clouds, its great wings silhouetted by the moonlight. Rodrik had often seen eagles along cliffsides dive down and pluck fish and crabs from the shallows and carry them off with their razor talons, what he saw now was much the same, only as the green dragon swooped in to claw and tear chunks from the ships it made sure to belch furth a burst of flame before flying up again.

All was chaos. A great rendering crash was heard as two of his ships came together in their desperation to flee the beast. There was the screech of splintering wood as other ships found themselves entangled, men rushing here and there, screaming every curse and prayer that a man might know. The water churned into a thick, foamy soup of brine and blood and ash as men were tossed overboard and crushed between the hulls.

He looked at Harras Harlaw desperately. The Knight of Grey Garden was racing about the deck shouting commands, his armour and Valyrian steel sword glimmering in the moonlight. He pointed his ancestral blade up as the dragon came round for another pass and Rodrik saw that he had bowmen lined up and waiting.

The beast swooped down, emerald scales glowing in the inferno it had made of Rodrik’s fleet. “Loose!” Harlaw howled, like some demon from hell as his bowmen sent a swarm of arrows up into the nearing dragon. Despite the poor visibility the sheer size of the monster meant that most of the arrows found their target, though they did little more than bounce off the creature's emerald belly.

The smoke and soot in the air made Rodrik blink and wipe at his eyes. He felt a bloom of heat, and when he opened his eyes Harras, and his crew were aflame. Their ship fell to pieces before his eyes, the mast, sail and every bit of rope and timber went up in bright flash of fire so hot and horrible that Rodrik had to shield his eyes. The few poor souls who weren’t killed instantly threw themselves overboard, desperate for the Drowned God’s embrace.

Rodrik felt a fear so horrible and gruesome that he felt his gorge rise and stomach empty itself on the deck. Around him men were screaming, shouting and crying as the horrible shadow passed over them yet again. When he cast his gaze about, he was met only with devastation and heartache. His fleet had been reduced to a burning, sinking mess and his own flagship was taking on water, tilting at an odd angle.

A great thump from starboard shook the Young Kraken with enough force to throw men off deck and bring Rodrik to his knees. The impact had made him bite down on the inside of his cheek, so hard that he tasted blood and felt tears well in his eyes. When he lifted his gaze, he saw that Young Kraken had collided with one of Euron’s damned useless cogs.

The dragon roared and closed in from above, falling on them like a bolt of lightning. Rodrik glanced at the waves. Do I jump? He wondered; his body shaking. If I’m to die, then at least I might find comfort in the Drowned God’s halls rather than melt to the monster's breath....

He held himself by the railing, ready to jump when he noticed something that stayed his hand. Starboard amongst the black of the sea and the orange of the burning ships there was a streak of an altogether different colour racing across the waves. Green goo leaked across the surface of the water out from a hole in the side of Euron’s merchant ship.

Wildfire...

The Crow’s Eye’s scheme suddenly became clear, and horrible. How his uncle had managed to pilfer such a horrid thing as the green substance, Rodrik did not know, but as a piece of burning pitch fell into the emerald blood, he knew that he would die that day. Rodrik watched the streak of green flames rushed up to consume the vessel and the jars within, hissing and spitting like a feral beast as it did.

“By the GOD!” He screamed, “WILDFIRE!”

Above, the dragon screamed in vicious glee as it descended onto Young Kraken, one of its great talons clutching onto the mast and ripping it as fire began to bubble from its toothy maw. Death in front of me, and behind...

Rodrik did not hesitate as he rushed portside and threw himself overboard. The sea rose up to meet him, wonderfully cold against the inferno above and behind. He flailed about, sinking in his mail as water rushed up his nose and mouth. The sea shook him in its depths, shaking him like a babe with a rattle till he caught hold of something and wrenched himself up. He coughed and gasped, his arms wrapped desperately about a smashed piece of the mast even as his armoured weight tugged it down.

Above him there was a roar and burst of air as the night sky exploded with green flame and emerald death came raining down. A monstrous screech of agony cut through the chaos and Rodrik caught sight of the dragon, tangled in the burning green wreck and batting its great wings at the alchemist’s ooze. He would have smiled at the creature’s pain, but he felt his grip about the mast loosen, his body begin to sink. Somewhere a man screamed in High Valyrian, his voice thick with agony, but Rodrik paid him no mind. There were many screams around him.

With one free hand he reached and tried to unbuckle his mail, desperate to be free of the burden that was pulling him down. But as he did, he felt himself slip and the mast left his grasp.

He took a breath, and then the sea swallowed him.

Chapter 15: MYLES III

Chapter Text

“It’s very possible the prince might die this night,” the maester informed them, washing his bloodied hands in a basin of water.

Seven save us, thought Myles, if the prince dies then all our lives are forfeit. In the humid wastes of Bloodstone, all he could think of was finishing their campaign against the rebels and returning home, but now that it had been completed, he was filled with a looming sense of dread. It had been five days and the prince’s condition had only worsened. If he were to die, then the best they could hope for from King Aerys was exile. At worst...No, I mustn’t think of that. It does no good to imagine such horrors.

“Is there nothing that can be done?” Ser Arthur had stood vigil over the prince for most of the five days he was abed, yet his eyes were still alert and curious.

The old man looked long at him. “Ser, the bolt broke through one of his ribs. The marrow has entered the prince’s blood and as you can see,” he gestured the sweat-soaked, trembling form of Rhaegar Targaryen, “a fever has him. Whether he survives will be a matter of chance, I think.”

“What can we do for him?”

“Keep him cool, give him water if he’ll take it.” The old man sighed. “I’ll be back in a few hours to check on him.”

Myles waited until the old man was gone before speaking. “That bastard looks like a dried raisin and is just as charming. Celtigar did us no favours by bringing him here.”

“The maester did what he could,” Arthur said, the soul of patience. He dabbed a cloth in some water and pressed it to the prince’s brow. “The Gods will decide Rhaegar’s fate.”

“And ours,” Myles said ruefully. “Aerys might not have much love for his son, but he’ll still blame us for failing to protect him.”

He looked down at Rhaegar’s prone form. His silver-gold hair clung to his waxy face, the sheets under his cot stained through with sweat. A fat black fly buzzed about threatening to land on his shivering body. It’s hot and miserable enough with just the weather, how must it feel to cook from the inside as well? Rhaegar moaned a little but did not wake as Myles shooed the fly away. Hell, he decided. It must feel like hell to be Rhaegar Targaryen.

Arthur finally lifted his gaze to Myles. “What have the men said amongst camp?”

“It’s a foul mood out there,” he replied. “Whatever joy was gained from smashing the rebels shrank as soon as word broke out that the prince was wounded. Between the blasted heat and the love, they hold for their prince, I fear men will be coming to blows soon.”

The Kingsguard grimaced. “I shall speak with the lords, try to raise moral.” He hesitated a moment and then asked, “what of the dragon?”

That damned dragon...

In that unnatural way that dragons are bonded to their riders, as soon as Rhaegar took his wound Urraxes worked himself into a frenzy. Much of Bloodstone was a blackened, blasted waste and near twenty men had been lost to the dragon’s wroth while another dozen was wounded trying to calm the beast. Eventually things had calmed enough that the men were no longer at risk whenever they brought food for the silver wyrm, but Myles knew that would change if Rhaegar died.

“He’s still out there,” he told Arthur, “On the hill overlooking this very tent. I don’t think he’ll move until Rhaegar does.”

Arthur nodded wearily but said nothing else. There was concern in his eyes as he glanced back at Rhaegar, but not the same overwhelming fear that Myles knew was plain in his own. As a knight of the Kingsguard he was sworn to protect a prince of the blood, it would be him that took the brunt of the blame should Rhaegar pass. And yet, thought Myles, he still seems to have faith in the prince, even now...

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Myles asked after a moment’s thought. “I can watch the prince for a few hours, and the maester will be along to do his inspections.”

The knight studied the sleeping form of Rhaegar. “Two hours,” he said with a voice full of hesitation. “I can make do with two hours sleep, then I’ll return to my post. For the love of the gods, Myles, call out if ought is amiss.”

“I will,” he agreed, “but you just worry about getting some sleep. You’ll be no good to anyone if you’re dead on your feet.”

Myles nodded at Arthur’s relieved expression and waved his friend off. He settled into one of the folding chairs near the bunk and pondered the prince. Flies buzzed about Rhaegar like predatory birds, but he waved them away. Even now, on your sickbed a thousand leagues from home, I am serving you. It had been many years since his time as Rhaegar’s squire, many years and many miles travelled together. It can’t end here, he thought miserably. Not after we came so far together...

“The first time I met you I thought you were half a god,” he told Rhaegar. He looked down at his hands and rubbed at the calluses and scars that lined them. “It was one thing to be squiring for the crown prince, that was an honour that I didn’t think I could shoulder. But you were different from that, more than royalty. You seemed wiser than any maester I had ever known and infinitely patient... it was like you had lived for a thousand years and could not be surprised by anything.”

A chuckle bubbled up from Myles chest and escaped his lips. “I don’t think that now. I know you’re a man capable of mistakes, a man of flawed nature.” He shook his head as the memory came to him, bitterness creeping into his voice. “That business with Lyanna Stark was one of the most idiotic things to ever happen, and what was worse, you kept compounding the issue. It wasn’t enough that you took another man’s betrothed into your bed, you had to go and marry her despite how much the Faith seethed at the idea. And that boy, Prince Aemon...it’s ill-done, how you keep him close but always at arm's length.” He sighed and his whole body ached with the effort. “You are a poor husband to both your wives and a poor father to your son.”

Myles lifted his gaze and looked for any hint of response from Rhaegar, any sign that his chastisem*nt had reached through the fog of the prince’s fever dreams. Other than the steady rise and fall of his chest, Rhaegar was indifferent.

“Even so,” he went on, “I still believe in you. You are obsessive in that way all Targaryens are, and thoughtless at times when it comes to the hearts of others, but you’re never cruel, you help those that need it, and you don’t abide injustice. With time, and mayhaps proper council, you might become another Daeron.” He leaned in close and held the prince’s hand. “That’s why you can’t die here. The realm needs you, old friend, and there’s work to be done.”

Myles sat with Rhaegar for hours, talking for a time about anything and everything. But eventually the tent silent save for the faint, strained, breathing of the unconscious prince. He was stirred from his vigil by the coming of the maester, who shuffled over to the prince and inspected his wounds with disapproving murmurs.

“He has not stirred?” the master asked.

“Twitched some,” Myles replied. “Mostly he lays, sweats, and sleeps.”

The Maester clicked his tongue. “Would that we were in a castle, out of this damned heat and these wretched flies.” He gestured at the prince, “his fever has gotten worse. It’s not as steep a decline as I feared, but he has indeed gotten worse.”

“What can we do?”

It was the voice of Arthur, returned from his respite. He strode through the flap of the royal tent and approached them with a concerned look in his eye.

“There are things that might help breathe a little easier in his sleep, things that might help with his pain should he stir, but otherwise...” the old man made a face, “observation is all we can do...”

The two knights exchanged a glance and made to argue with the maester when a boy stuck his head inside the tent, eyes huge with worry. Myles recognised him as Lord Bar Emmon’s nephew and squire. “Sers,” he said, out of breath, “my uncle bid me to fetch you, there’s a matter...a fight...”

Myles looked at Arthur. “I’ll see to it,” he sighed and followed the squire out of the tent.

The first thing he saw was the evening sky, blood red and the outline of the dragon on the stony hill looking down on them. Something about the shape of its wings and its crown of horns recalled the image Myles had seen once in a book of the Lord of the Seven Hells. He tore his eyes away from the ominous sight and followed the boy through the camp, wincing at how sticky the heat was and how foul it stunk as they walked through it.

He heard the argument before he saw it, raised voices loud and hoarse filled with every obscenity that he knew and several he didn’t.

At one of the tables where the lesser lords and knights had settled down to feast for the evening two men stood on either side, both red faced and bulging eyed. One was a tall, thin, stooped-shouldered young man with long silver-gold hair and comely features. The other was an older man of middling years with thick shoulders, muscular arms and a mop of brown curls that merged into a scraggly beard. Myles knew them both. The younger man was Lord Velaryon’s bastard, Aurane Waters, while the older was Ser Gilbert Farring.

“You think we can afford to sit idle here?” the Bastard of Driftmark asked incredulously. "Right now, the pigs and sheep we brought with us are going to that beast, but what will it be after they’re consumed, eh? The horses? The prisoners we took?”

Farring scowled at the lad. “The dragon needs to be fed, dolt. Until Prince Rhaegar rises, we all must make sacrifices!”

“And what if he doesn’t rise?” Aurane challenged. “What if he dies abed and that blasted monster decides it might like to have us for its next meal? We’d be better off getting back on our ships and leaving these cursed rocks and that wretched beast.”

There was the sound of steel being unsheathed and Farring had his blade free, the point of it directed right for Waters’ heart. “I’ll not hear another word out of your treasonous mouth!”

“Put up your f*cking steel,” Myles growled, storming up to the man without heed and grabbing him by the tunic. “I’ll not have blood spilled within this camp!”

Farring blinked at Myles as if he had just woken from a dream. “But, Ser, you heard what the bastard said...”

“Aye, I did,” Myles spat, shoving Farring back a step, “but one idiot boy’s words aren’t cause for you to kill him. Gods be good, you’re a knight Ser Gilbert, act like one.” He rounded on Aurane Waters and held up a finger, “and you, learn to hold your f*cking tongue.”

The Bastard of Driftmark grit his teeth. “You must see the sense in what I’m saying, Ser. The prince is grievously wounded its said, might be he’ll die, and we can’t afford to wait here forever. We’ve not enough food or supplies!”

That was true enough. A dragon had a large stomach and Urraxes was quickly working his way through their livestock. It wasn’t helped by the prisoners they took as well, twenty men including Maegor Brightflame, who were another set of mouths to feed. But I can’t put them to the sword, not when they might be useful to us when dealing with Aerys...

“There is good fishing to be had in these waters,” he told the lad, though raised his voice loud enough so all might hear. “If the worst comes, we’ll still have that to lean on. And even dragons fish, I’ve seen so myself back on Dragonstone.”

What Myles didn’t tell them was that while he had seen Urraxes scoop fish from the sea, the dragon was more like to turn his attention to the men and horses on land before resorting to that. He smothered his own concerns deep inside himself and held a stern expression as he turned to regard the gathered men.

“The maester is seeing to the prince, plying his arts with all the wisdom afforded to him by the Citadel,” he lifted his chin, steeled his gaze. “We won’t be on this island for much longer, but until the prince is healthy enough to depart, I expect you men not to shame yourselves. Any man I catch fighting or trying to instigate a fight, I’ll have him flogged.”

Satisfied that his point had been made, Myles turned on his heel and marched in the direction of his own tent. Though he did not think he would sleep much, he knew he ought to attempt a few hours' worth for when he would next stand vigil. If the gods are kind, I will not dream...

He felt eyes on him as he approached the flap of his tent, but when he spun about there was no one and the gloom was deepening around him. Theirs was a dusty camp, made amongst sand and stone and surrounded by hills and it was a wretched thing to be outside for so long. When he cast his gaze upwards, he saw no stars, the sky had darkened almost to full blackness.

After much tossing and turning in his cot, Myles slept and dreamed. He was running along the stony shores of Bloodstone, running toward Prince Rhaegar’s tent, and yet men were raging a vicious battle all around him. He pushed and ducked and tripped through the mess of screaming men, cursing as he tried to get by, running in that slow agonising way that was common in dreams. He felt with that strange dream-wisdom that if he did not get to the tent in time all would be lost. A sword was in his hand, and he used it, carving his way through the thick briar of men and inching closer to the tent. He took a wound, though even as he bled there was no pain. As he worked his way through the battlefield, he took more wounds until he was red from head to toe and stumbling near the flap of the tent, crawling the last few yards. He looked up and within the blackness of the sky he saw two sinister eyes peering down at him and mouth full of razor fangs. The monstrous grin split apart, and fire belched forth to consume him right as he touched the tent.

He woke suddenly, sitting up sticky with sweat.

In the darkened tent, he fumbled about in confusion as he rose and groped for his smallclothes. He could not say how long he had slept for, but he felt in his heart that he had to get up and see the prince at once. He tugged on his breeches, pulled down a tunic, clasped his sword belt and put on his boots, half stumbling from his tent into the darkness and over towards the prince’s own.

Myles felt a spike of terror flood his being as he entered the tent and did not see Arthur standing vigil. His friend would not leave his post without cause and certainly not willingly. His concern shifted to outrage when he saw a hooded figure kneeling beside the prince, and he had his blade out within a heartbeat. “Get away from him,” he hissed.

The figure did not move, but a melodic voice emerged from within the hooded cloak. “This man is close to dying.”

A woman?

Slowly the figure rose and turned to face him. Slender hands threw back the hood and revealed one of the most beautiful women Myles had ever laid eyes on. Copper hair hung down past her shoulders, at odds with the pale, creamlike skin of her heart-shaped face. Her nose, her cheeks, her lips, they were all full and well-defined as though she had been sculpted with loving care by the gods themselves. Her beauty was offset by a single feature; her eyes were blood red.

Myles opened his mouth, but the words would not come.

“I am here to help you, Ser,” the woman spoke with an accent that he could not place, but he found her voice entrancing in a queer way. “I wish to save your prince.”

Myles glanced at the man lying on the cot. Rhaegar’s long silver hair was splayed out and clinging to his pillow, so damp with sweat that it seemed like he had just taken a bath. His breathing had grown rapid, his chest pumping up and down in quick succession while a clear look of pain coloured his sleeping face.

A breeze caressed his neck as Arthur entered the tent with the maester at his side. It took the white knight perhaps two seconds of looking from Myles to the newcomer before he had Dawn out and directed at the woman’s person. The maester ignored them all and rushed to Rhaegar’s side, checking the man’s eyes, breath and skin desperately for anything that might give him hope.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Arthur asked, never taking his eyes off the woman. “Where did this one come from?”

Myles felt a cold finger of sweat run down his chest when he looked at the crimson eyes. “I don’t know, she was here when I came.”

“I mean neither you, nor your prince, any harm,” the woman insisted. “My name is Melisandre, and I came here because the Lord of Light summoned me to do His work. R’hllor’s chosen son is in dire need of the help I can give.”

R’hllor? Myles felt his mouth twist. He remembered Thoros of Myr, the Red Priest who had been sent to King’s Landing years past. The man was funny once he was in his cups and impressive at the melee, but otherwise little more than a strange warrior Septon who liked to play with wildfire.

“Say your prayers if you like,” the maester glanced up from Rhaegar’s side, his face pale with fear. “But I’m afraid there’s little to be done for the prince now.”

Melisandre’s red eyes fell upon the man. “For a learned man, you seem quite ignorant,” she turned back to the knights, “I can save our prince, I only ask that you trust me.”

“Trust...” Arthur worked his jaw, his eyes moving from the priestess to Rhaegar’s wretched state. For the first time in an age the Sword of the Morning showed uncertainty. He cannot act, Myles realised, sadly. He’s paralysed by duty to his prince and love for his friend...

“Arthur,” he said, speaking softly. “Rhaegar might well die no matter what we do, perhaps...” he remembered his dream, remembered the fire. “Let the woman try...”

It was as if something shattered and the knight sagged in his armour. He nodded wearily, turning to regard the priestess with tired eyes. “What do you need?”

Melisandre looked down on Rhaegar, her red eyes searching for something in his stricken, sickly face. “A brazier, for the fire I need and....” she looked over at Myles, “There is one in your keeping who has King’s blood. A dragon of a lesser sort. I shall need him for this.”

“The man you speak of is a rebel lord,” Myles tried to argue, “He’s to be taken to King’s Landing to face justice and harsh questioning.”

“You might keep your rebel lord, or you can keep your prince,” She replied. “But you may only have one.”

Myles wanted to argue further, but the quickness of Rhaegar’s breathing put the fear of the Stranger into him, and he left the tent to see it done. A little while later the old man was dragged to the tent by a pair of guards, screaming and rambling in that way of his. Myles silenced him with a fist to the gut and threw the man before the red woman and her brazier. She regarded Maegor Brightflame for but a moment and then ushered the knights and maester out of the tent.

An hour past, with Myles and Arthur standing outside the tent. Voices came from within, sharp and sudden cries that were nothing like anything remotely human. The sounds gave way to strange, ethereal singing in High Valyrian that was at once beautiful and horrifying to hear. A wind picked up and the tents across camp all shook violently and from on top his hill Urraxes roared in outrage.

The sun rose a bloody crimson that morning and when the tent flap opened, Rhaegar Targaryen emerged, naked from the waist up. Where once there had been a weeping, yellow wound at his side, was now only a faint burn scar. His eyes shone like purple flames as he looked at Arthur and Myles.

“Sers,” his voice was strong and rich as ever, “get the men ready, we’re going home.”

Chapter 16: MYA IV

Chapter Text

The fires burned all through the night. No one in the Baratheon retinue slept, save for the children who would not be parted from Mya. Her own blue eyes remained fixed on the horizon, the orange and green flames dancing in the night air like demons come to revel in Lannisport’s destruction. The smell of smoke was ever present, and Mya wondered if the fire would engulf the whole world. She sat from her position atop the hill they had relocated to, arms around the boys, watching for riders in the night. Her wounds had been tended to, but she could not rest. “Father,” she said, when the Storm Lord came up, war hammer in his grip, “will the dragon attack us too?”

“The dragon flew away,” he grunted. “Aerys took the beast to sea to burn the Ironmen on their ships. Most like he’ll be having his fun with them for a while yet.”

“But what about when he’s done with them?”

“Aerys Targaryen is a mad fool, but he wants the commons to love him. Once he’s slain Greyjoy, he’ll return here to soak up praise and thumb his nose at Lord Tywin.” He set his war hammer down and eased himself into a seat next to Mya. He studied her, and the three boys piled on top of her lap, faces buried under the blanket she had strewn over them. Lady Janna stood behind them, pacing about. In a low voice, she worried about Renly and her Tyrell kin. “He took Loras with him into the city,” Mya heard her stepmother say, “it’s been hours, and we’ve heard nothing of them.” Her father seemed less concerned and thought that it was likely that Renly and Loras were simply waylaid. “The two of them are more than cowering peasants, most like they cut down any Ironman who came their way and are holed up somewhere.”

Mya pushed out a shaky breath and looked at her father with teary eyes. “Shouldn’t we look for them?”

“Not yet,” Lord Robert said. “We won’t find anyone in that mess right now, not until the morrow when the reavers have been properly put down.”

Dawn came with hazy grey skies and air that burned the eyes. Mya slept for perhaps an hour, but between the weight of the boys pressed awkwardly against her and her own worries, sleep was a difficult thing to come by. She and her father broke their fast with bowls of porridge while Lady Janna fussed with her ladies. I cannot stay here with them, she told herself. She forced herself to eat a second bowl, knowing that she would need her strength up.

“You’re set on coming with me?” Her father asked, as she saddled up her horse. “There might still be raiders hiding amongst the city, and crazed, desperate fiends.”

She looked at him. “I pity those fiends, then.”

“That’s my girl,” Robert laughed.

There was talk of Lady Janna coming too, but her father put an end to that right away. She would be of little use if it came to a fight and the boys would need their mother to keep them calm. Janna’s eyes flicked to their sleeping forms, looked if she was about to weep and went over to caress them.

Mya and her father rode down the hill, followed by a dozen armed men. For the first half mile they were silent, save for the rattling of their armour and the flapping of their cloaks in the wind. The silence was broken when her father turned to regard her. “Where’d you get that armour?”

“Borrowed it,” she muttered, unable to meet his eye, “from the armoury back home.”

“Why’d you...oh,” He was silent for a beat, then coughed out a weak laugh. “The Knight of Storms, I was a fool for not seeing it.”

Mya sagged in her saddle, ears burning red with shame. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” His face coloured with confusion. “You knocked that bloody fool Frey on his arse!”

She forced herself to look at him and was shocked to see a bright smile on his bearded face, his blue eyes twinkling with pride. “You’re not...angry with me?”

“Mya...” he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s not easy for me, to be the father of a girl. What do I know of ladies other than how to...” he caught himself and started over. “It was easy when you were little. I could play with you, sing to you and take you places. Cressen would teach you your letters, sums, and heraldry. But now...you’re a woman grown; I’m lost and... I worry that you won’t need me anymore,” his blue eyes glittered with something, “but if...if you want to use swords, and fight in tourneys, well...I could teach you, if you like.”

She stared at him through blurry vision, blinking back the tears. “Father,” she said, feeling the warm tears slide down her face, “tourneys or no, I’ll always need you.”

He laughed at that and reached over in his saddle to squeeze her shoulder. His smile was bright, and it seemed to Mya to be the greatest thing she had ever seen. “Wipe your tears girl,” he said softly, “lest the men think we’ve gone soft.”

She laughed at that and hurriedly swiped at her face, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

They decided that it would be better to take a secondary path that would take them to one of the side gates into the city. Her father reasoned that it would have less foot traffic from refugees and bandits that might be roaming about. Mya felt uneasy about traveling so close to the shoreline, constantly turning to inspect the beaches, lest more Ironmen take them unawares.

It had been a half hour’s ride when Mya spotted something that startled her. Though it was a way off, she saw men along the beach, armed and armoured and approaching a lone figure. When she squinted, she saw it was a helpless old man and reached over to catch her father’s attention. “Look!” she pointed, “Ironmen!”

Her father’s nostrils flared, and the fury built up behind his eyes. He put his heels to the stallion’s side and raced down toward the beach, his war hammer raised in one hand. A moment later Mya and the guards were following, their steel drawn. It was a terrible thing, and Mya felt a splash of fright in her heart, but she managed to wrestle it down and allow her rage to take hold. These were no different to the ones who tried to hurt her and the boys, evil raiders who cared little for life and love. She felt that the lesson of steel was all they deserved.

They fell upon the Ironmen like an avalanche of blades and hooves, trampling and slashing at the foes before they had time to realise what was happening. The dozen Ironmen were armed and armoured, but they were all afoot and Mya had often been told by her father that a mounted knight will always win out in such a situation. Swiftfoot was not a war horse, but somehow, she knew what to do as they came upon the enemy, kicking, biting and trampling on the surprised brutes. There was a clash and clang around her as the others began to hack and stab at the Ironmen, Mya fell into the same rhythm, raising her sword and bringing it down furiously on the men before they could bring their axes to bear.

Mya had always known her father was a great warrior, but it was only upon seeing him smash in the heads with that great hammer of his that she understood just how freakishly strong he was. The Ironmen were all large brutes, heavily armoured and adorned with ugly iron helms. It seemed to make no matter what they were wearing as Lord Robert struck them with his heavy slab of a weapon, crushing in helms, smashing chest plates, and, in one instance, striking a man so hard with the hammer that his head exploded in a splatter of brain and bone.

The madness of it all seemed to last for an eternity, but when it was over Mya knew it couldn’t have been more than a few moments of violence. Her hands trembled and she found that she couldn’t release the sword from her grip, her whole body heaving with pain and shock. She closed her eyes, took a moment to collect herself and steady her breathing, and then opened them.

Her father had dismounted and was walking over to the old man the Ironmen had tried to take and for the first time Mya was able to get a proper look at him. His long hair was pale and tangled with sand and muck, his pale beard stained with blood and vomit. The man’s clothes were torn and blackened, revealing a thin, haggard frame that was covered in scars and burns. Mya felt queasy when she saw the state of his right hand, for it had been so thoroughly burnt that the fingers had fused together like some wretched looking claw. Poor thing, Mya thought. Between those wounds and the Ironmen, it's a miracle he’s still alive...

“It’s alright,” her father soothed, approaching the feral man, “we’ll not harm you.”

The man’s eyes were large and frantic, yet at the sound of her father’s voice his movements stilled, and he reached out with his good hand. “C-cousin Robert?” he asked in a hoarse, wheezy voice, “Steffon’s boy?”

The surprise was plain on her father’s face. “Your Grace?”

Mya looked at the man again, saw that his dishevelled pale hair was in fact silver-gold, his large wild eyes were purple. Though he looked an absolute pitiful state there was no mistaking it. The wounded man before them was Aerys Targaryen.

“I... I thought you were on your dragon,” Her father sputtered, clearly taken aback. “You flew out to face the Ironborn last night.”

“Treachery!” the king shrieked; his voice sharp as a gull’s. “Tywin tricked me, he-he sent me out knowing the Greyjoys had wildfire! It was a plot against me!”

Her father looked down at the man with eyes that looked like chips of ice. “Where’s your dragon?”

Aerys blinked at that and gestured broadly down the beach. “Resting, she was hurt,” a mad little cackle escaped his lips, but tears threatened to spill from his purple eyes, “It was just a trifling thing, fire cannot kill a dragon!”

“Is that so?”

Her father’s grip on his war hammer tightened and Mya felt a jolt of panic. She dismounted and rushed to his side, her hand a tiny thing against his armoured arm. Don’t do this, she bid him with a look, it’s not right. You’d be cursed as a Kingslayer...

Conflict danced across Lord Robert’s face and for one mad moment she was certain he was going to smash the king’s skull to bids. But then the old man spoke, his voice a weepy croaking thing.

“A boon,” he said, crying and smiling at her father as if he was a messenger sent from the seven themselves. “You saved my life cousin; I’m indebted to you. Steffon’s boy, Steffon who was my truest friend.”

Robert looked at the king for a small eternity, his face utterly unreadable. But then he let the hammer dangle at his side and then gestured to Mya. “This is my bastard daughter, Mya Stone,” he introduced, “I would have the taint of bastardy removed from her so that she would become a trueborn Baratheon.”

“Oh,” Aerys glanced at her for half a heartbeat and then waved dismissively with his good hand. “Yes, of course, she may have the Baratheon name.”

Mya was in a daze, barely comprehending as her father and his men helped the king onto a horse, promising to take him to a maester when they got to Lannisport. She felt numb, dizzy and very confused as she trotted beside her father along the track toward the city. Her whole life she had carried the name Stone around her neck like an ugly sign. Even after being brought into her father’s home and given a place among her trueborn kin, she was conscious of how to act around those of higher birth. She would often shrink back, hold her tongue and hope that the lords and ladies of the realm would overlook her so that she might continue to enjoy the life her father had given her. But that did not change the envy she felt, seeing her brothers wear the family sigil, the sadness in her heart knowing that she would always be a step apart from the others.

Baratheon. The name was like a prayer whenever she thought it, whenever she mustered the courage to even whisper it. And now it’s to be my name?

“Father,” she croaked, “.... why do this for me?”

He looked at her and then glanced back at the road ahead. “You deserved it, after what happened with the boys.”

“But Lady Janna and the Tyrells,” she insisted. “You’ve paid them an insult by legitimising me.”

Lord Robert snorted. “To Seven hells with Janna and her kin. You’re my daughter and being given the Baratheon name won’t change the fact that you have three brothers who would come before you in my succession.”

“Still, this will cause you trouble...”

“Mya,” he sighed, “If I were to die on the morrow, I couldn’t say what your future would be. Might be that Janna would let you stay at Storm’s End, mayhaps Cressen, and Stannis, and Renly would speak on your behalf, but I couldn’t be sure of that. Now at least you’d have protection.”

Mya hadn’t thought of that before, but now that he’d said it a worm of worry coiled in her stomach. Lady Janna was tolerant of her, but nothing beyond that.

“We just need to hope that one holds to his word,” her father said in a low voice, inclining his head towards Aerys. The king sat hunched over in his saddle, clutching his burnt hand to his chest and muttering to himself a string of barely intelligible curses. Lord Robert huffed. “Don’t worry, I’ll remind him once the maesters have seen to his wounds, have him write it up all proper.”

Slowly, Mya found herself relaxing and a sprout of hope began to grow in her heart. It had been a hellish experience at the tourney, and she doubted that she would be free of nightmares for a time, but something good had come from it. She allowed the embers of joy to grow and warm her being.

Her joy had died when they reached Lannisport.

Where the tourney grounds had once stood, they found a smoking wasteland. The grass had been scorched, the pavilions nothing but kindling, and the city gates beyond looked a black ruin. As they rode through into the city they found that the fire had largely burnt itself out, but here and there were patches of green flames in the ruins of what might have once been an inn. The streets were a sea of ash, trodden down by footsteps and traffic.

Mya looked over to Aerys, to see if there was any hint of remorse or guilt in those purple eyes, but she found none. In place there was fear and revulsion as he beheld the bloody, ash-covered people wandering about the streets calling for help and for the loved ones they had lost.

Perhaps he is not all to blame for the carnage, she mused, but he was reckless with his dragon and its fires. Who could see so much misery and feel nothing?

Lannister men found them, forty soldiers on horseback wearing crimson and gold. At the head of them was Ser Jaime Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock. Adorned in lobstered steel gilded with a roaring lion across the chest plate, his golden hair flowing in the wind, he seemed a fantasy come to life.

“Lord Robert,” he drawled, “come to see the-gods, is that.... Your Grace?”

“Where is your coward of a father?” Aerys demanded, sitting up in his saddle, “was he too afraid to meet me himself?”

Lannister looked extremely uncomfortable, looking from the king, to Robert, and back again. “Pray forgive, Your Grace. We did not know that you would be here, not after you took flight on your dragon...”

Aerys snorted. “Never you mind my dragon, she will return to me,” he looked about, “I command you take us to Tywin!”

“As you wish,” Ser Jaime replied, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Your Grace.”

The Lannisters had set up a fortification in the heart of the city and for the most part it had been relatively untouched by the Ironmen and the dragonfire. Along with the gold lion, Mya spotted dozens of other banners and presumed that it was here that the lords competing in the tourney had made their stand against the reavers. She scanned the mass of highborn faces, desperate to find Renly and Loras among their number.

They dismounted and were led through a sprawling collection of tents into a Sept that had been used to house the wounded of noble birth. The pews had been cleared away and the walls were lined with cots while Septas, Septons, Maesters, and Silent Sisters hovered about. At the head of the Sept, beneath a Seven-pointed star, stood Lord Tywin Lannister, speaking quietly with his brother Kevan. Their discussion ended at once when they spotted Aerys.

“Your Grace,” Lord Tywin greeted with an inclined head and a detached voice. “You are returned.”

Aerys Targaryen snarled something inhuman at the man, thrusting his wounded claw in Lannister’s face. “This is what your treachery has done Tywin,” he shrieked, “look, look!”

Green eyes flecked with gold did just that. “You’ll need a maester to attend to that,” he observed, “I’ll send for my own to treat you.”

“You won’t!” Aerys snarled, looking around before pointing at one of the old men tending to the wounded. “This one will serve, this one who isn’t your creature!”

Tywin continued to stare at the king, unfazed by the ranting and raving. Even with how feral, how wretched and mad the king seemed in that moment, Mya found Lord Tywin to be the more frightening and found herself pressing closer to her father.

“Am I to assume the Greyjoys were defeated?” he asked mildly.

“There was wildfire!” Aerys hissed. “Wildfire burnt everything!”

Lannister tilted his head. “And where is your mount? My scouts did not see or hear the beast approach.”

It seemed as if the king was ready to lung at the Lord of Casterly Rock and claw his eyes out. The Targaryen’s face had gone red, his eyes bulging and his chest heaving with rage. It seemed that the less Lannister gave him, the more the king’s rage grew.

Mya felt terribly uncomfortable and looked away, scanning the dead and dying that lined the sept. A mop of coal-black hair caught her eye and before she could stop herself, she called out, “Uncle Renly!”

She was at his side in an instant, fighting back her tears as she beheld the wounded man. His face was a mess of small cuts and bruises while his chest and arms were bound heavily in bandages. What pieces of flesh she could spot amongst all the bandages were bright red, as though he had been extremely sunburnt. It was when she came upon his right leg that she felt tears spill down her cheeks, for it was gone below the knee.

Renly looked up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Mya?” his voice was thick and slurred, as though he was drunk. “Where....Janna?”

“She’s safe,” Mya told her uncle, sinking down to her knees beside him. “Janna and the boys are fine.”

“Must tell her...” he swallowed uneasily and began to weep. “Loras...he...”

Gods, no...

Mya tried to contain her own tears and took her uncle’s hand within her own. A shadow fell on her and when she looked up, she saw her father standing there with a grimace upon his bearded face. His eyes studied Renly’s wounds, taking note of each one of them and looking more stricken. Renly was lucky to be alive, but he would be a cripple.

A rumble of thunder rolled overhead, followed by a mess of screaming. A hundred knights and men at arms rose and rushed out the entrance of the Sept. Aerys grew very still, quirked his head to one side as if to listen to some silent message and then began to push his way through the crowd of people, a horrible laugh on his lips as he disappeared into the chaos. Mya and her father exchanged and look and hurried out alongside the Lannisters to see what the king was doing.

A cloud of dust and ash shrouded everything outside the Sept, so horrible and choking that Mya struggled not to gag. But amongst the dust a serpentine neck arose, and a huge figure stirred. The dragon’s emerald scales were coated in ash, and there was a gruesome series of scars and scabs that covered the beast’s neck and maw. Rage burned away in those horrible eyes as it stared down at them all with human intelligence and for a terrifying moment Mya was certain that the beast would spit forth another burst of flaming death.

“Let this be a lesson to all men,” Aerys growled, going over to his dragon and grinning malevolently at everyone assembled before him. “On the morrow, the sunset sea will run red with the blood of House Greyjoy. Pyke shall become a new Harrenhal and the Iron Isles will be scoured clean!”

A cold hand grasped Mya’s heart. She looked at her father, at Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin, and all the other assembled warriors and lords. In that moment, they had an identical look of grim resignation as the king mounted his beast and took to the skies once more.

War,she realised, it’s to be war...

Chapter 17: THE QUEEN'S HAND

Chapter Text

“Lord Tyrell has left us.”

Queen Rhaella showed no pleasure at the news, no frustration, no regret, nothing beyond mild interest. She looked across the table to Paxter Redwyne with big inquisitive eyes. “Did he say anything before he left?” she asked.

“Well, he told me that he was resigning his office, Your Grace,” said Lord Redwyne. “As you can imagine, he was very upset. Loras might have been his third son, but Lord Mace loved the boy well and spoke often of his accomplishments. Lord Baratheon was kind enough to return the boy’s bones, so House Tyrell shall grieve together at Highgarden for some time.”

It’s a small miracle they even have bones to bury, thought Qarlton. Dragonfire, wildfire, reavers and bandits. Aerys has made a bad situation worse. He remembered the reports Varys had brought them, the different yet similar accounts of barbarity along the coast.

“He can’t just leave,” Prince Viserys declared, with all the outrage a boy of four and ten could muster. “Who is going to be Master of Coin?”

“We’ll have to find a new one,” Lord Staunton sighed. “I’m sure there are plenty of men capable of managing our coffers.”

“But what of the war?” Viserys asked, looking about the table desperately. “Lord Tyrell cannot just sit in his castle crying over his son while the Ironmen burn our cities!”

“I doubt we’ll need him,” The Queen explained to her son. “The Ironborn must be fought at sea, with ships, or by air on dragonback.”

Lord Redwyne nodded in agreement and smiled at the prince. “I shall be leaving on the morrow to join your kingly father in this battle, my prince. Between the royal fleet and His Grace’s mount, the Greyjoys will soon be crushed and peace restored to the realm.”

“And with that,” Rhaella announced, “I think it’s time for you to see to your lessons.”

The young prince was hesitant to leave the chamber and Qarlton could understand why. It had been a special privilege for the boy to sit with the Small Council and listen to affairs of the realm, and Qarlton had only allowed it because he knew that Aerys would check if he did not. The boy left them all with a stiff bow and as soon as the chamber doors were closed the mood shifted.

“With you taking the fleet to the western coast, we’ll be vulnerable here,” Staunton told Redwyne. “I mislike that.”

Lord Paxter shrugged. “I’m not sure what it is that you fear, my lord. The danger is on the other side of the realm.”

“Danger can come from any direction,” Staunton muttered before turning to Varys. “What is happening on the Stepstones?”

“Such romantic tales are coming from those barren rocks,” the eunuch tittered. “There are reports of Prince Rhaegar and his dragon doing battle with corsairs, rebels and other miscreants across each of the isles. His men have been encamped on Bloodstone for days. Doing what, I cannot say.”

A queer look passed over Queen Rhaella’s face as she listened to Varys give his report. Qarlton might have thought it to be a mother’s concern for her son, but there was something that didn’t sit right with him.

She seems angry about something, he realised. But what is it?

“Can it really take so long to kill some salt-stained wretches?” Staunton laughed. “The prince has one of the largest dragons.”

Qarlton cleared his throat. “You might remember, my lord, that Targaryens have tried to take the Stepstones in the past. Dragon or no, those islands are full of rat holes. Isn’t that right, Grand Maester?”

Pycelle startled. He had been so quiet that most assumed he had dozed off in the corner. “Y-yes,” he agreed in that croaky voice of his, “Daemon the Rogue Prince spent years with his dragon trying to tame the Stepstones.”

“That was then, this is now,” Staunton grumbled. “It seems to me that the prince is meandering about and enjoying his plunder while the realm bleeds.”

And I’m sure you’ll say as much to the king when he returns, Qarlton mused.

“What use is Prince Rhaegar in this coming battle?” Redwyne asked, looking about the table. “The Iron Islands are not Dorne. They are a miserable spit of dirt surrounded by a fleet of wooden ships. Wood burns, and there is nothing those brutish cretins could do to harm a dragon while in the air. His Grace will rain death upon them and my own ships will intercept any who try to flee. This will be one of the shortest wars since the Conquest.”

Varys sighed dramatically. “Even a short war is a terrible thing, perhaps the good prince and his dragon could have made it even shorter and saved more lives.”

“I have a dragon.”

All eyes went to the queen, who sat and stared pleasantly at the gathered lords. Her purple eyes travelled from one face to the next until they danced over Qarlton with a hint of amusem*nt. “I suppose it is easy for you all to forget, but my Maiden is one of the larger dragons. Smaller perhaps than my husband’s Wildfyre, or Rhaegar’s Urraxes, but she is still a large enough mount that the weapons of men aren’t much of a worry to her.”

“That is a...” Staunton groped about blindly for the words, “generous and brave offer, Your Grace, but-”

“If two dragons are not enough,” The queen casually gestured to the chamber doors, “there is also Viserys own Brightwing, who is old enough to be ridden into battle. Perhaps that might satisfy your concerns, Lord Staunton?”

The Master of Whispers tried one of his pleasant smiles. “It might be better if-”

“Oh, even that is not enough, Lord Varys?” Rhaella cut him off, a silver-gold brow raised. “Shall I send for my granddaughter on Dragonstone? I’ve heard that her mount Nymerion is a vicious beast. There, that will be four dragons unleashed upon the Ironborn, will that ease the terrified, worrisome hearts at this table?”

Staunton and Varys held their tongues and had the good sense to look chastised. There was a painful silence until Qarlton could no longer bear it. “I think we can all agree that His Grace the king is more than capable of defeating the Greyjoys.”

Queen Rhaella smiled thinly at the room. “I think perhaps we have settled the matter then. My Lords, you may go.”

Redwyne inclined his head and swept swiftly from the chamber, Staunton not far behind. Pycelle rose with great effort and limped off to his chambers, to nap or fondle some hapless servant. Varys lingered to smile kindly at the queen before gracefully slipping off. Was that an attempt at appeasem*nt, Qarlton wondered, or some veiled threat?

He made to leave when the queen stopped him.

“Lord Hand,” Rhaella’s voice was soft. “Might I have a moment of your time? There is another matter about the war I might discuss.”

“Your Grace,” he sank back into his chair.

“Though I did not mention it when Viserys was present... I have received word from Casterly Rock,” she levelled a stare at him. “Lord Tywin has much to say about my kingly husband. Aerys took a wound during the initial battle at Lannisport and he refused to be treated before he left on dragonback. It was a grevious injury to hear tell, one that might even leave him crippled.”

Qarlton inhaled. “Does Varys know?”

“Of course,” she scoffed. “He didn’t bring it up because it’s not his nature to openly challenge others but have no doubt that he is very aware of what is going on in the Westerlands. Despite the bluffs I made,” she shifted in her seat uncomfortably, “there is a real chance Aerys might die in battle.”

“I’m surprised that bothers you,” he said. “All things considered.”

Rhaella’s brows furrowed. “It doesn’t suit me to have a king slain by reavers, not after all the work my father and I have put into rebuilding House Targaryen’s image with the faithful. They must believe us half-gods and see our dragons as unstoppable. It’s for the good of the realm and lasting stability.”

“Is that why you were not happy to hear about Rhaegar’s misadventures?”

“Rhaegar should be here in the city, not on the Stepstones and certainly not at the Iron Islands,” the queen sighed. “With Aerys so vulnerable, this would be the perfect time for him to take charge of the realm.” she plucked a piece of silt from her gown, “no, as it stands, we must hope that Aerys survives the coming battles, at least long enough to return to the capitol. And then...the transition of power will be left to us. If he is sickly or crippled, we might be able to take things in hand.”

It’s a precarious path we walk, he thought. Hoping that the dragon will be too busy licking his wounds to see the knives at his back...

“I have my men,” she went on, “but this business with Mace Tyrell is ugly. At very best this is something of a missed opportunity, had we been able to intercept the man before he left the capitol, we might have been able to turn him. His support would have been invaluable to counter Staunton and Redwyne would never have moved against his liege lord and kinsman. But instead, he slipped through our fingers...” she shook her head. “Mace Tyrell on his own is not a large threat, but that mother of his.... I wonder what Lady Olenna will make of her grandson’s death? As we speak there might be something dangerous brewing at Highgarden, while all eyes are fixed on the Iron Islands.”

Qarlton sat back in his seat, looked up and studied the rafters. “The Tyrells have never struck me as the sort to rebel against the throne, and even if they did.... dragons would solve that argument.”

“If only it were so simple,” Rhaella rubbed at her face wearily. “Knowing the Queen of Thorns as I do, she would try some form of chicanery...the woman is cunning as she is old,” her mouth pressed down in irritation. “Aerys has only made things even uglier with this.”

“His Grace,” Qarlton murmured, “has never been known for his grace.”

Rhaella gave him a sharp look. “This wasn’t clumsiness, wasn’t some thoughtless blunder. I know my brother well, this was madness pure and simple. I’ve heard the reports and I’m sure they’ll multiply once the aftermath clears. Aerys didn’t even try to limit himself to the Ironborn, he wanted to burn Lannisport and he did it in front of half the f*cking realm. Even if I am to remove him, this will haunt House Targaryen for years to come.”

Qarlton had nothing to say to that, and truly it did not bother him. Aerys was the thing that haunted his dreams at night, dynasties and their future concerns were a lesser matter.

“I have my men ready for Aerys return,” Rhaella told him, “But our plan will only succeed if you play your part. It won’t just be your authority as Hand that I need, it’ll be brave men and swords.”

Qarlton tried to keep the weariness from his face. “I’m working on it.”

The queen looked at him, mouth set in a hard line. “See it done then,” she said at last, “and remember that you’ll have one chance to end this before Aerys retaliates.”

There was a dozen things Qarlton might have said and would have said if he wasn’t worn out from the day of arguments and manoeuvrings. “Yes, Your Grace.” Qarlton bowed, but Rhaella’s attention was elsewhere.

There was a warm breeze coming in from the south as he walked through the courtyard. The sky was orange and pink beneath the clouds as the sun began to set, but the chill of night had not yet reached the Red Keep. He knew it would eventually come, rolling in from the Blackwater. In his boyhood he had squired at Seagard with Lord Mallister and it was much the same, warm during the day but with a bitter chill coming in with the evening tide.

Those were some good times, he reflected. Lord Mallister was a kind man, and I had hoped to one day marry his daughter. Nothing had ever come of it of course, even after the girl had danced with him many times at feasts and made her own interest known. I was too scared to ask Lord Mallister for her hand and I worried over it for months. It was a bitter memory, seeing the girl eventually marry that Bracken heir while he hesitated and fretted over what to say. I lost my chance at happiness that day.

Qarlton often cursed himself for his cowardice, for his hesitations and the missed opportunities that had plagued his life. He had risen to the lofty position of King’s Hand, and yet it had gained him nothing but more fears to dominate his life. I’m still that weak boy who would cringe and shy away whenever the Booming Tower of Seagard rang and warned of raiders...

He raised his eyes to gaze up and over at the bell towers that bloomed up across the keep and the city. They would be ringing during times of war, when the city itself was under direct attack, though such a thing had never happened in Qarlton’s lifetime. Give it time, he thought, we might yet have raiders in our waters and dragons in the sky.

“Have you an appointment to keep, my lord?”

Qarlton turned to find Manly Stokeworth beside him. “Commander,” he smiled weakly, “I was lost in my thoughts.”

The Commander of the City Watch looked at the sky as the sun began to set. “I can understand how. I came to this city when I was a lad of eight and ten and even after all the years, I find that it can still surprise with its hidden moments of beauty.”

“Oh?” Qarlton looked at the greybeard, a man who had easily twenty years on him. “You’ve never thought of leaving in all that time?”

The old man laughed. “Where would I go? This city is the beating heart of Westeros, it’s where the laws are made and the fate of millions is decided. I am nothing so special as to have much to do with that, but I like to think my service here with the gold cloaks plays its part in helping the realm.”

Qarlton pondered for a moment. “You must have seen things change over the years...what was the city like during the reign of King Jaehaerys?”

“It was...hopeful. I’ve seen three kings reign in my time and never known a better man than Jaehaerys,” Stokeworth replied with a broad smile. “I was still young then, freshly joined the gold cloaks, but His Grace had a wonderful mind. In the few times we were called upon at the Red Keep the king always made sure to remember our names and listen to the suggestions of my predecessor,” he sighed ruefully, “would that King Aerys was so diligent. These last few years have been something of a trial to get his ear and we’re in dire need of fresh steel to arm ourselves and better provisions...” Stokeworth seemed to realise who he was talking to, “of course, I’m sure that His Grace has been busy with more dire matters than the City Watch.”

A thought came to Qarlton then, swift, sudden, and utterly ensnaring. This was one of the many moments where the world rolled itself back to reveal an oppertunity, the sweetest of fruits ready to be plucked if he was brave enough to reach out and grasp it. Swords, he thought, allowing himself to smile, and brave men to wield them...

“Perhaps you might join me in the Tower of the Hand,” Qarlton said, smiling, “and we might have a long discussion about the future of the city watch.”

Chapter 18: ASHARA III

Chapter Text

They carried the corpses in on their shoulders and dumped them like three sacks of manure upon the stone floor. Wind whistled up from the cavernous bowels of the Dragonmont, and, somewhere in the dark, Ashara thought she heard the dragons stirring. They’ll have a feast soon enough, she thought, there is no shortage of traitors.

She stood by Elia in the dark, stone chamber, and tried to make out the faces of the dead men in the torchlight. There wasn’t anything about them that stood out as familiar and from the shabby clothing she assumed they weren’t servants of Dragonstone.

One of the men was shaved bald, with a tiny stubble beginning to sprout back up across his pate and stained red by the blood from where his temple had been smashed in. Another looked as though he might have been sleeping, if not for the red-brown stain that bloomed through his tunic near his heart. The final man...

A red ruin, she noted. Oberyn had to work that one over before he would talk...

The Red Viper looked splendid in the dank chamber, dressed in a golden tunic, orange breeches and high boots of bleached leather inlaid with scrollwork. To look at him, one would not have known that he had spent the better part of the night putting men to torture, but Ashara could see the little twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth, the grim satisfaction that came with putting things to right in the only way he knew how.

Elia did not share her brother’s energy. Her eyes were fixed on the dead, her face still puffy from sleep and worry. In the days following the attempt on Ashara’s life, Elia had worn herself sick fussing over her friend. Even after Ashara recovered, Elia refused to allow herself to relax until Oberyn had arrived. It was only with the combined voices of Ashara, Rhaenys and the maester that the Princess allowed herself to take some sweetsleep. Out of sheer bad luck, Oberyn chose that night to arrive and begin his warpath.

“Bring them in,” Elia commanded, her voice a thick croak. “I’m ready for answers.”

Wordless, two of the guards peeled themselves from the walls and obeyed, their steps echoing through the cavern. Two other guards remained, along with one of the dragonkeepers, who kept looking off into the darkness. Ashara found her fingers lacing themselves through her friend’s, the two of them anchoring one another as they had always done.

As the guards dragged the prisoners through the doors, Ashara made note of how Oberyn’s dark eyes seemed to shine like obsidian. Is it pride he feels, she wondered, seeing these dragged before them knowing that he was the one to break them? Looking at the two prisoners, Ashara could only frown. One was a big man, with a thick beard and a barrel chest, while the other was the woman who had tried to murder her. Both had faces swollen and discoloured with bruising. What a difference time in the dungeons will make...

“You said there were six in total,” Elia noted, “not counting the corpses, we’re a man short.”

“One is long in the dying,” Oberyn replied mildly, “I would not burden you with his death rattle, sweet sister.”

Elia ignored her brother and stared at the two prisoners, both forced to their knees with spears pressed into their backs. “Who are they?”

“The man had served as a guard for the last three turns of the moon,” Oberyn informed them, “the woman is a much more recent addition, come all the way from Pentos. It was her who was the leader of this little plot, her who recruited the dead men from the nearby village.”

Ashara looked at the woman for a long time. It was hard to see what the other was thinking when so much of her face had swollen shut. “Why does a Pentoshi want me dead?”

Oberyn gave her a faint smile. “You will forgive me for saying this, but on your own you aren’t worth the time and effort to murder. Yes, The Daynes are legendary in their skill and the heroes they birth, but they aren’t the sort to move kingdoms. House Stark is an ancient and very powerful one, but you married a lesser son.” His eyes darted to Elia for a moment and then back. “But you are very dear to us, sweet Ashara. Your death would incite House Targaryen and Martell into violence, and even... war.”

Her mind raced to consider that. She was Elia’s dearest friend, sister to Rhaegar’s greatest champion. They would both scream for blood to pay for blood...

“Who would we make war on?” Elia asked.

Oberyn hummed. “That is the question, isn’t it?” he glanced off into the darkness, where the chamber melted into one of the many caverns the dragons had made their nest. “They already sowed the seeds with that business with Ser Richard Lonmouth.”

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” Ashara asked the woman. She had to supress the urge to rub at the scar on the back of her head, hidden so wonderfully as it was beneath her hair. “There might be a kinder fate for you if help us now.”

The woman looked up at Ashara with a single bloodshot eye and spat at her feet. “Death is coming for me one way or another,” the woman murmured through split lips, “to hell with you.”

“She’s playing with you Ashara,” Oberyn said, clicking his tongue. “She already confessed that she was hired by an intermediary. I’ve squeezed all the juice from this orange, now the only thing left to do is to throw it away.”

Elia squeezed Ashara’s hand once and then set her dark eyes on the two prisoners. “You brought death into my home, threatened the life of my friends and family.... for what, coin? Glory?” she shook her head. “My children are blood of the dragon and behind you is a tunnel that leads to the home of their mounts.”

A single nod was given to the dragonkeeper, who turned and began to sing in High Valyrian, the man’s rich voice bounced off the volcanic rock and the stone floors into the deepest and darkest places within the cavern. At first there was nothing but the sound of the wind blowing in from the sea, but then...movement. The prisoners looked about in confusion, squinting into the darkness. A horrible realisation soon found them as something lurched forward.

Golden eyes that glowed with malice were the first thing that caught the torchlight, followed by a mouthful of onyx teeth and curved horns. Its nostrils flared as the scent of blood was inhaled and drool began to slip from between its jaws.

“Your actions have given my daughter more worry than one her age should endure,” Elia told them, coldly. “It is only fitting that her dragon is the one to end you.”

The tan serpent flicked its tongue once, to taste the air, its eyes going from the corpses and then back to the prisoners. For a moment it looked at Elia, head tilted in consideration. She’s looking for , Ashara realised. Elia shares her look, and likely something of her scent.

“Nymerax,” the princess addressed the beast, ‘Dracarys.”

The dragon snorted, apparently disappointed that her rider was not around, but cast her molten eyes on the prisoners. Her leathery wings stretched as much as she could within the confined space and Ashara was reminded of the hawks her father used to keep, right before they snatched up a piece of meat.

“Come,” Elia said, squeezing her hand. “We needn’t be here for the rest.”

They were out the door when a burst of warm air brushed the back of Ashara’s neck, and an intermingling of screams stretched out from the chamber.

That night her dreams were grotesque, swirling things filled with agony and tears. She woke perhaps a half dozen times during the night, only to try and force herself back into an uncomfortable doze. When morning came, Ashara was awake and feeling more wretched than she had in an age. Two of her servants, girls she had brought from Moat Cailin, helped dress her and work her hair into something halfway presentable.

In the princess’s solar, they broke their fast on boiled eggs, black bread, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, cheese and rashers of bacon. Ashara was pleased to have the children sitting with her and Elia, the sight of them enough to banish bad dreams and loathsome thoughts. Rhaenys was moody, picking at her eggs with a frown writ across her face, while Aegon spoke animatedly with everyone, explaining some wonderous trick Oberyn had shown him in the training yard. Aemon ate in near silence, only looking up to answer his brother when prompted.

Gods, but he looks so much like Ned and Robb, she thought, watching him over her cup of morning mint tea. That quiet way about him too...

“You know,” she said after a moment’s thought, “I was thinking that I might visit the Godswood here at Dragonstone,” she looked at the boy, “would you like to accompany me, Aemon?”

The boy looked at her with those thoughtful grey eyes and after a moment of consideration he nodded his assent. “Yes, Aunt Ashara.”

Elia could not quite supress the frown that formed upon her lips, but she quickly covered it by drinking from her morning lemon water. They had spoken of it before, Elia’s difficulty with the boy, but whatever Rhaegar had done the little prince was Ashara’s nephew, cousin to her own children and she would not disavow him.

They spoke quietly amongst themselves for a while, trying their best to ignore the horrors of the last few days and lose themselves in the mundanity of childhood playing out before them. It went well, until Rhaenys suddenly stirred herself and asked after Oberyn. “He promised he would teach me to use a spear as Obara does.”

“Your uncle is busy,” Elia replied carefully, “though perhaps we might see him at lunch.”

In truth Oberyn was amongst the villages near the castle, searching for any further hint of treachery amongst the smallfolk living there. It seemed a folly to Ashara, but Oberyn had a nose for sniffing out trouble, no matter where it might sprout.

I shall endeavour to remain within the walls of Dragonstone, Ashara thought, at least until the Red Viper is certain the danger has passed.

After they had finished their meal Aemon found her outside her chambers, the little prince dressed entirely in black. It was a somber image, but something about it seemed to fit Aemon. She smiled at him, and offered her arm which the boy took with all the reverence someone of his age could muster. It was a pleasant morning, with the breeze being delightfully warm as they ventured out into the courtyard and then through to Aegon’s Garden.

Past the statues of dragons, pine trees, hedges and thorny briar of wild roses a weirwood grew tucked away in a corner. Dragonstone did not originally possess a weirwood tree, the Valyrians paid only the slightest mind to the Faith of the Seven, let alone the worship of the Old Gods, but somehow Rhaegar arranged for one to be grown just before he brought Lady Lyanna to live with him. In the decade since its seed had been planted, the tree grew into a thin and rather small and sad looking thing, overshadowed by the pines and hedges around it.

“Oh, there’s even a face,” Ashara breathed, reaching out to trace its solemn expression. “Who...?”

“My father,” Aemon replied quietly, “when I was little, he told me that I ought to pray here as well as in the Sept, so that my mother’s gods could know me.”

Ashara spotted a stone bench, not unlike the one Ned sat upon back home. She took a seat and gestured for the boy to join her. “Your uncle prays before the tree back at Moat Cailin,” she told him, smiling a little, “nearly every day he comes, along with your cousins. He says that the Old Gods look after their own.”

“I like it here,” he admitted. “No one complains if I’m here.”

She frowned down at him. “Do people complain about you otherwise?”

“Sometimes,” the boy sighed, “Princess Elia’s ladies whisper things whenever me and Aegon train together in the yard, or whenever I sit next to Rhaenys at the Sept. But that’s only sometimes,” he hastened to add, “mostly they just give me looks, or try to pretend I’m not there.”

Ashara felt her lips press together. Her countrymen would see Aemon as an insult, and the Crownlanders an oddity born out of a throwback to an ancient and rare Valyrian tradition that was at odds with the norms of their faith. Rhaegar ought to have put a stop to it long ago, she thought bitterly. But the Prince of Dragonstone was not one who ever concerned himself such things, not when there was another scroll to read or prophecy to decipher.

“That’s ill done of them,” she said after a moment. “You are a prince of the blood, son of Targaryen and Stark.”

Aemon chewed on his bottom lip, and looked away suddenly so that she might not see his tears. “I suppose...”

He’s such a sad little thing. She could not look at him without seeing her own Robb and her heart ached. Rhaegar, how could you fail your child like this?

“Never mind what people might say here,” she told him, a thought coming to her and taking root, “I happen to know that there are plenty who would love to meet you, back at Moat Cailin. Your uncle Eddard, your cousins Arya and Robb. Perhaps...would you... be interested in coming to visit?”

“Leave Dragonstone?” the boy sounded dubious. “What would my father and Princess Elia say?”

They’d probably be happy to see you off, Ashara thought sadly. She forced a smile. “I’ll speak to them about it, but only if it’s something you really want.”

“What about my training?” he asked uncertainly. “I need to learn to wield a sword and lance if I’m to be a knight.”

Ashara smiled softly. “We have a master-at-arms at Moat Cailin,” she replied. “And your uncle would be more than happy to help instruct you on occasion.”

“Could Ghost come too?”

“Ghost?”

“My dragon,” he explained. “He’s not big enough to ride yet, but he’s good. He listens when I give him commands and he’s mostly fine around people.”

Ashara opened her mouth to answer, but then a shadow moved over them. An inhuman screech cut through the air with a ferociousness that made her startle in her seat. Aemon did not flinch at the sound, merely inclined his head and listened carefully as the flying beast roared out again. “Urraxes,” he said, getting up from the bench, “my father has returned.”

The castle was bustling with renewed life now that it’s prince had returned. Ashara pushed through the fretting servants and rolling chaos of the household looking for Elia. One of the ladies directed her to the chamber of the painted table and when she finally made her way up to the Stone Drum and entered the grand room she found not only Elia, but others gathered around Aegon’s table.

Oberyn stood close to his sister; his posture almost defensive. Across from the siblings, standing at the head of the table was Rhaegar, still adorned in the riding leathers and armour that the Targaryens wore every time they took flight with one of their beasts. His silver-gold hair hung loose over one of his shoulders, beautiful as spun moonlight. His violet eyes were alert and watchful in a way that she hadn’t seen on him in all the years of knowing him, their dreamy, distant quality forgotten. At his side stood a woman almost as tall as he, dressed in crimson silk that went with her crimson hair, her crimson eyes and crimson jewellery. Her skin was milk pale, her features finely crafted, her bosom shapely. She was beautiful and striking, but Ashara felt startled by the sight of her, some part in the back of her mind warning her of unseen danger.

“Ashara,” the Prince of Dragonstone greeted, “A pleasure to see you again. Arthur will be here in a few hours once the ships arrive, he’ll be gladdened to know you are here.”

“My prince...” Ashara felt uncertain and went over to the Martells, “I hear you were at war.”

Rhaegar rolled his eyes. “If one can call such a thing war.”

“And who,” Ashara gestured to the red woman, “is this?”

The prince smiled fondly at his companion, ushering her forth. “This is the Lady Melisandre of Asshai, a priestess of R’hllor,” his eyes went to Elia and Oberyn, “she saved my life, out on those wretched islands and I offered her a place here in my household.”

“Well met,” Melisandre said to them all, giving a curtsey. “It gladdens me to know the friends and family of Azor Ahai.”

Ashara was unfamiliar with the phrase and wondered if it was an affectation. Rhaegar seems awfully close with this woman, beautiful as she is...

“I’m sure we can arrange a place for the lady,” Elia replied cautiously, glancing at the foreign woman before flicking her gaze back to Rhaegar. “But I fear we have more pressing matters to discuss, husband. While you were away an attempt was made on Ashara’s life within these very walls.”

Rhaegar looked at Ashara for half a heartbeat, the smallest trace of concern in his eyes. He turned back to Elia, “The same culprits as those who killed Richard?”

“Oberyn has questioned the villains,” she replied. “Pentoshi, hired by some unknown agent to drive us to recklessness. They have been dealt with, but there is still danger.”

The Prince of Dragonstone regarded his good-brother and nodded. “You have my thanks, for taking charge of the situation.”

“Someone had to do it,” Oberyn answered, a grin on his lips. “You were off fighting pirates.”

The tension grew thick in the chamber. Outside the tall windows the sun had disappeared behind grey clouds and the shadows shifted across the carved table. Rhaegar observed his good brother and then turned to Melisandre, something unspoken passed between prince and priestess. “I see much has happened while I was gone,” he said after a time. “But things will soon change.”

“What things?” Elia asked, frowning. “Was your quest successful?”

“The traitor Maegor Brightflame is dead,” Rhaegar answered, “and I intend to leave for King’s Landing once the men have returned and things settled. We will have a long talk, my father and I.”

“Your father is off at war, Rhaegar,” Elia told him, pointing to the western side of the carved table. “The Iron Islands have risen in rebellion, and they’ve attacked Lannisport and Seagard. Your father has taken his dragon to put Pyke to the flames.”

“Yes, Lady Melisandre told me as much.”

Elia looked at the other woman. “Has word already reached the Free Cities?”

“Perhaps,” the red woman shrugged, “but I saw these Ironborn in my flames, just I have seen the glory that awaits Prince Rhaegar as he leads us through the darkness that is to come.”

Ashara and Oberyn exchanged a glance, but Elia’s focus remained on her husband and the newcomer. Something was brewing within her dark eyes, but she kept it hidden behind a cool mask of indifference. “Oberyn,” she said mildly, “mayhaps you could escort Lady Melisandre to one of the guest chambers? I’m sure after her journey she is eager to rest.”

If the red woman had any complaints about being dismissed, she said nothing, merely bowed her head and allowed Oberyn to escort her from the chambers. Ashara made to follow them, only for Elia to tug at her hand and plead silently for support.

“Who is that woman, Rhaegar?” Elia asked. ‘No lies now.”

He looked at his wife as though she had gone mad. “I said, didn’t I? She’s a priestess who saved my life on the Stepstones.”

“But why is she here?”

“I find myself in need of her counsel.”

Elia laughed, a sudden and bitter thing. “Her counsel, or her body?”

“It’s not like that,” Rhaegar’s face creased in distaste. “And you lessen yourself by suggesting it.”

“How can I not think that?” her voice wobbled with hurt, “you have brought someone into our household before, and you ended up shaming me before the entire realm. I suppose at least this one is a woman grown and not half a child.”

He ignored the attack and looked instead at the painted table, his shadow falling over King’s Landing. “Lady Melisandre has power,” he said quietly, “I learned that lesson well in the Stepstones, dying of fever in my tent. I would surely have met the Stranger were it not for her magic. She has seen much in her flames, things that have come true and things that might yet come to pass...I’d like to have that power on my side, used to defend us from our enemies.”

“And who are our enemies, Rhaegar?” she asked him. “You killed that man on the Stepstones, was he behind our woes?”

“No,” he replied without hesitation. “But I can use his death to my advantage.”

Elia rolled her eyes and turned to Ashara. “Plans within plans, wheels within wheels, do you see what I must endure?”

Ashara squeezed her friend’s hand and looked to the prince, “What does Arthur think of this?”

‘Your brother trusts me,” Rhaegar seemed annoyed that she was still there. “Ask him yourself, when he arrives.”

Oh, I will, she thought, I’ll ask him a thousand questions about what’s been going on with you...

“All of this can wait.We must ready the children for travel,” Rhaegar told them, going over to stare out the western window. “When I return to the capitol to present Brightflame’s head to the throne I will be seen as a hero, and I mean to have my heirs with me. The realm ought to know that our line is secure.”

Elia stared at her husband with large, disbelieving eyes. “Absolutely not!”

The Prince of Dragonstone did not move from his spot, eyes still fixed west. “They have been tucked away on this island for years, it’s not appropriate for the future rulers of Westeros. The people must see them, it’s long past time that we reestablished ourselves as the rightful heirs.”

“You would take our children to that rat’s nest?” She sounded more incredulous than angry. “In the court where your mad father and his lickspittles indulge in their vices and their cruelties? Have you so little concern for their wellbeing?” She shook her head.“No, I won’t have it.”

“Elia,” he warned in a low voice, his hands clenched behind his back. “I will not debate this.”

“And neither will I,” she growled. “They aren’t going, and that’s final. If you want to go meet your lunatic father, you can do so on your own. The last thing the children need is more exposure to the madness of House Targaryen.”

Rhaegar rounded on her in a cold fury. “You forget yourself, wife. I am their father, and it is my duty to prepare them for their future rule. You think coddling them will keep them safe? You think the people will accept Aegon as their king when he doesn’t even know the lands he is meant to rule?” His face twisted into something hard and fierce. “You will not stand in my way...”

He is changed, Ashara realised. There was never this much venom in the man before, never this much danger. She inched closer to Elia, ready to put herself between husband and wife even as his violet eyes made her squirm.

“If we’re to forgo civility,” Elia replied, undaunted by her husband’s words, “then I might remind you that there are Dornish spears in this castle. Men loyal to me, men brought to the castle by Oberyn, and my brother himself will cut down any man who tries to take my children,” her eyes narrowed, and she glared back him hatefully, “I promise you that one half of Dragonstone will slay the other if you pursue this.”

Somewhere, a dragon roared.

It felt like an eternity as Rhaegar stared into Elia’s eyes, something utterly inhuman in the stillness of him. He was beautiful and horrible as any man Ashara had ever seen and she wanted nothing more than for her brother to come through those doors, to bring sanity back to the world.

“My mistake,” Rhaegar said, his voice deathly quiet, “was to think you a woman. I see now you are as much a snake as your brother.” He looked at Ashara and it was all she could do not to flinch. “I wonder if you would be half so fierce if you didn’t have your old bedmate here to prop you up.”

“You will not take my children,” Elia said in answer, her voice like iron even as her body trembled.

Rhaegar’s hands clenched at his sides, white-knuckle in their tension. The muscles in the prince’s neck stood out like thick cords. For one horrific moment it seemed as if he might strike them both, but then the moment passed and something shifted behind the prince’s eyes. “Fine,” he hissed, “but don’t think I will forget this. Or forgive it.”

He turned suddenly and made for the doors, his entire body tense with rage.

“Where are you going?” Elia demanded.

“You forget,” he answered, not looking back, “that I have another son.”

Chapter 19: RODRIK III

Chapter Text

He woke to the creak of a wooden door. “Whaa?” he groaned, a sudden and horrible sound that bubbled from his throat. The world was dark and spinning, all was pain and foulness. It hurt to open his eyes, but he lifted a single lid to peer out into the hell he had found himself. Something moved in the foggy, blurry darkness around him. “Where?” he asked, his mouth tasted of salt, blood, and acrid vomit. A candle was lit near him, the light a wretched awful thing that made him recoil. His left shoulder through to his collarbone ached with every movement and he croaked out a weepy groan.

After several thousand heartbeats, Rodrik forced his eyes open and looked at the figure moving about in the tiny world he existed in. Things began to take shape around him. He lay in a bunk, the floor beneath was wooden, there were no windows. There was a sway beneath that told him he was in the cabin of a ship. Then the man stepped into the candlelight and peered down at him with an expression full of pity.

“You return to us at last,” the familiar voice noted, “the crew thought you would never wake and that it might have been better to slit your throat as a mercy.”

Rodrik lifted his right hand and pressed it to his forehead, the clammy coolness of his palm doing wonders for the throbbing in his skull. “I died.”

A faint smile touched Baelor Blacktyde’s handsome face. “Almost,” he said, “you swallowed enough sea water that you might as well have drowned, bits and pieces of your hide were burnt raw and peeling off, and that collarbone will take some time in the mending.”

“My chainmail,” Rodrik croaked, “I had to wriggle myself loose from it when I went overboard.”

“Well, you made a right mess of yourself,” Blacktyde wrinkled his nose, “you’ve been abed for near enough a week, stinking up the place with fever sweat. There were some uncertain moments, but life clings to you like a pox, it would seem.”

“Life is pain,” he croaked, “so I suppose that is true enough.”

Blacktyde nodded, though something plainly troubled him. “What happened out there?”

Flashes of fire filled his mind; echoes of screaming men filled his ears, and the ghost of pain and grief rubbed over his heart. “Dragon,” he said. “The dragon was there, the ships burned....my men burned,” he recalled the green flames and it was enough to make him startle in his tiny bunk and reach out for Blacktyde’s sleeve, “The Crow’s Eye betrayed us! He had my ships cart around wildfire while we were unawares!”

“Aye,” Lord Blacktyde agreed, “and abandoned us too. Left-Hand Lucas Codd spotted the Silence sailing east the day after Lannisport burned, and no one has seen him since.”

Rodrik gnashed his teeth together. “That craven...that...traitor. He goaded my father into starting this war, he led us to our deaths and now he runs off to the Free Cities!”

“It’s worse than that,” Blacktyde told him, grimly. “Your Uncle Victarion is dead, so is your brother Maron. The Iron Fleet was largely sunk when the king brought his dragon upon us,” his mouth twisted, “it was only by bloody chance that we were waylaid and missed the dragonfire, and came upon you.”

“We must warn my father,” he tried to sit up, only for his shoulder and collarbone to shoot agony through his entire being. “Damn it all!”

Blacktyde steadied him, easing him back down with a single hand. “We are on our way, and if the winds are with us then mayhaps we’ll be at Pyke the day after the morrow,” he observed Rodrik with a frown. “Until then, you ought to rest. There’s little else that you can do. I’ll send for the Maester to give you milk of the poppy.”

Rodrik misliked that, though he was powerless to argue. Laying abed, trying to remain still to not disturb his injuries, his mind began to wander. Harras Harlaw was dead, his closest friend since boyhood. Every single man who crewed his ship, who swore to sail by his side through years of blood and adventure. His Nuncle Victarion, crude and dim-witted that he was, loyal as a hound. Even that smiling fool Maron had once been a babe following him around everywhere when they were little. And they all died screaming in the flames, he thought bitterly, falling into the familiar comfort of rage to drown the grief. This was as much Euron’s work as it was the Targaryen...

He clenched and unclenched his left hand, hoping to work whatever strength he could into the wounded limb. I will strangle Euron with this hand...

Even when the simpering maester came creeping into the cabin with his milk of the poppy it did little to ease Rodrik’s fury. His dreams were murky, but they were full of smiling men with blue lips, green flames and wretched demons with horrible wings. Through the oceans of grotesques and monstrosities he would glimpse at Victarion’s face, or Maron’s, but they would be swallowed up and devoured by horrors. He saw his mother with them, and Asha, and Theon. Even Doreah was pulled into the depths while Euron’s damned laugh echoed through the sky. He sat upright in his cot, heedless of the pain in his shoulder and crawled across the cabin to wretch into his chamber pot.

The maester found him on the floor of the cabin, naked and shivering as the last contents of his stomach drooled from his mouth. “My lord,” the man squawked, rushing to help him up and back to his cot, “you mustn’t strain yourself.”

“Can’t sleep all the time,” he groaned. “I’ve slept enough.

“Your body needs time to mend itself,” the maester chided, “you are wounded inside and out. Let me give you something to slow yourself down for the recovery to happen.”

Rodrik shook his head furiously, though the effort pained him. “I’ll go mad if you keep my mind clouded like that.” He thought of Doreah and her reading, the peace it often brought her. “Bring me books.”

“Books?” there was something almost kindly about the way the old man looked at him. “What sort of books would you like to read?”

“Something about the Free Cities,” he hissed, “something about Lys.”

The maester nodded and left him in his bunk, only to return a few moments later with a leatherbound tome. Across the cover of he made out Ten Thousand Ships. The old man handed the book to him reverently, as though he were giving away his firstborn babe. “I did not have anything with me that was specifically about Lys, but the history of Nymeria’s exploits goes into detail about the Free Cities, and I thought perhaps the seafaring nature of it might interest you...”

Rodrik grumbled under his breath but took the book and began to squint at the pages in the candlelight, dismissing the maester with a gesture. At first, he felt a twist in his stomach when he read through the history of the Rhoynar, their wars with Old Valyria and the hundreds of dragons unleashed. But as he read through, Rodrik found himself agreeing with the old man about the book.

Sailed across the world, he thought,flipping through the pages with admiration. Storms, slavers, and all manner of foul creature tried to destroy them, but Nymeria steered through it. A true captain, almost Ironborn...

He read through much of the night and into the next day as his mind began to drink in the history of the Rhoynar, and his thoughts turned to his own people. The Iron Fleet was gone, their greatest weapon and greatest shield torn asunder. It was more than likely that Paxter Redwyne would bring the royal fleet upon them, and that was without considering the dragons that would rain hellfire on what little force Balon could muster up.

There is no place for us in Westeros, he realised with a sudden horror. So long as the Targaryens rule the skies, we shall never be safe...

Looking down at the book in his hands, Rodrik considered his options. The Stepstones were a place for corsairs and many a Greyjoy had proven themselves plundering through those disputed rocks, perhaps they might find shelter amongst the gathered rats and criminals. At the very least they could use the place as a staging ground for another attack.... No, he dismissed the notion as soon as it came. Pyke or Bloodstone makes no difference, we haven’t the strength to match the dragons. We must leave the Seven Kingdoms behind us and go east...

That was a daunting prospect. His father would never agree to it, would likely try to have Rodrik’s head just for suggesting it, but there might be those at Pyke would see the folly in staying behind to face dragon fire. The Reader would come, and with him a spatter of other lords and captains. Enough people that the Ironborn would not have to die with Balon.

Nymeria took ten thousand ships around the world, he mused, the Ironborn have less than a hundred. Surely there is a place for us?

Braavos would likely scorn them, soft hearted as they were when it came to blood and plunder and the taking of thralls. Pentos lived in fear of the Titan and would not take them in for similar reasons, but perhaps Tyrosh or Lys would welcome them in. The Ironborn were warriors unlike any other in the world, the hungry cities of the disputed lands would welcome a fleet of sell sails.

It would be a way of paying the Iron Price, he told himself. We would still be killing men to take what is ours. Surely the other captains would see that...

The more he thought about it, the more Rodrik felt himself relax. It would not be an easy thing, but there was a way out for House Greyjoy to live, a way to return from defeat. What is dead may never die...

For the first time in a while his sleep was undisturbed by nightmare or sickness, and when he woke on the third day, he felt something of his old strength return. Tired of his bed, Rodrik decided that he would go above deck and smell the sea air. Though it took him an age to do it with only one working arm, Rodrik managed to dress himself in breeches and a thin tunic.

He had just finished putting his boots on when the first screams started. Alarm shot through him and without thinking or taking heed of the pain that lanced through his collarbone, Rodrik raced from the cabin and stumbled his way above deck.

The first thing he noticed was the horrible thick fog that obscured his vision and brought tears to his eyes. It was only when he tried to breathe in that he realised it was smoke that surrounded the ship, so thick and terrible that it could choke from leagues away. But once his eyes adjusted and he began to wave at the air, something wretched became clear to him as figures emerged ahead.

Land lay ahead of them, along with what had once been castles. Ash fell upon the deck of Blacktyde’s ship, coming down like snow and staining the deck black and grey. The nearby islands were blasted wastelands, with every rock and piece of soil blackened and distorted by flame. Not a single structure remained, save for what had once been a keep, now reduced to a malformed thing barely recognisable.

He spotted Baelor Blacktyde near the prow of the ship and rushed over to him. “Where the hell are we?”

But Blacktyde did not answer, and tears streamed down his dirty, ashen face.

Rodrik looked about again, trying to look through the horrid, stinking, mist of death that surrounded them. There mountainous islands rose ahead them, in a specific shape...No.

Once, there had been a grand castle and half a dozen keeps and towers connected by rope bridges that would sway and dance in the wind. It was proud and tall and fearsome, the home of Iron Kings for hundreds of years. Now all that was left was blackened rock, melted and collapsed. The land surrounding the ancient castle was utterly bereft of life, riddled with charred corpses and all was silent. Pyke was dead, the Iron Islands were dead.

Rodrik fell to his knees and screamed.

Chapter 20: QARLTON

Chapter Text

It was still dark when the inhuman roar of a dragon woke Qarlton from his fitful and useless sleep. He felt wretched all over, from his eyelids down his throat to deep in his stomach and through to his every bone. It was often the case when he slept so poorly, there was no respite, no rejuvenation, and he wondered if it would not have been better if simply stayed awake through the night.

Looking out his window, he saw the pink wings of Maiden move through the pre-dawn sky, looking like some monstrous bat as she circled and came to land within the semi-oval of the Dragonpit. It was not common for the queen and her dragon to be flying so early and something twitched in Qarlton’s mind.

It is time.

He dressed quickly, his hands moving with a steadiness that he did not know they possessed. Though he decided to forego a meal, he did take a single cup of wine from a nearby decanter to warm his body and brace himself for what was to come. The taste of it was sweet and sent tingles down through his arms all the way to his fingers.

It was not long before a messenger came to Qarlton’s solar, his face pale, and shoulders slumped, as if he had been carrying the news about his shoulders like a sack of wheat. “My lord,” he said, “The Queen has asked for your presence in her solar.”

“Yes,” Qarlton agreed. “I shall speak with Her Grace at once.”

The silver necklace of linked hands bounced and danced around Qarlton’s neck as he walked down the many steps from the Tower of the Hand. The Red Keep was quiet so early in the morning, and the clinking of his necklace seemed to echo through the entire castle. He might have normally cringed at the attention he was bringing onto himself, but the wine had emboldened him.

His mind drifted to the many others who had held his title since the Conquest. Some of them were warriors like Orys Baratheon, some were lowborn like Septon Barth, while others were crippled like Tyland Lannister. Qarlton no longer had any delusions about living up to his predecessors’ greatness, he merely hoped that he might leave the realm a little better off than how he had found it.

Cregan Stark is to be the one I shall aspire to, he thought to himself as he walked the many steps towards Maegor’s holdfast. I shall help set things right, aid Rhaella in placing her son on the throne, and then resign once things have settled...

It had been years since Qarlton had returned to his birthplace, to the modest keep that his family had held for generations. It was perhaps two days ride from King’s Landing, yet since taking his position he had never once made the time to visit, to inspect things, to speak with his cousin who was serving as castellan. It shamed him to think of such things now, but he was determined to see it again before the year was out.

How splendid it would be, he thought, to find my little corner of the world, listen to my people, my kin, and forget everything else...

Things were still and quiet when Qarlton entered the queens solar. Servants were utterly absent, as were the few members of the Kingsguard who had been left in the city. Qarlton felt it somehow improper that he should be within the woman’s domain alone, as though he were a fiend sneaking in to ransack her home.

Rhaella had her back turned to him, peering out the window off to the west as the first glimpse of the sun peaked from the horizon. She was still dressed in riding leathers, a tough armour fashioned in the likeness of scales that seemed utterly out of place on a woman so dainty as her. “There’s been news from the westerlands.”

“Good news or bad?”

She turned to regard him with narrowed eyes. “Aerys is on his way.”

“What of the war?” Qarlton asked, though he knew it made no difference. ‘What of the Ironborn?”

Rhaella grimace with the expression of someone forced to fish a precious gem from a latrine. “According to the many differing reports, Aerys had a grand time putting them all to the flame,” she shook her head, “they tell me that Pyke, Lordsport, Ten Towers, Hammerhorn, and Blacktyde can now be included with the likes of Harrenhal. Aerys burned everything, homes, cattle, ships...and most of the people. Hardened warriors, but also peasants...women and children. The Iron Islands are a blasted ruin,” she concluded, “the Wroth of the Dragon come again, inflicted on small islands.”

A spike of fear shot through his stomach. “Are the lords of the Westerlands, the North...” he searched about for the word, “agreeable to that?”

“People hate the Ironborn,” she replied with a wave of her hand, “they will not weep for the reavers, but that’s beside the point, my lord. People will fear Aerys in a way they haven’t feared a king since the days of Maegor. He’s displayed for all to see the power of House Targaryen.”

“Then what hope do we have?”

Rhaella’s eyes narrowed, her mouth tightened, and Qarlton felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. “The man and dragon can be separated. The dragon and the crown atop his head are the only things that give Aerys any more power than any other skinny old man.”

He swallowed. “I see.”

“Oh, harden up, Qarlton,” Rhaella complained. “The maester from Seagard wrote that when he left them Aerys was all but crippled in one hand, that he eats but little and is rake thin, that his body is prone to sudden and random trembles from sheer exhaustion. Even his dragon has taken a wound it seems,” her mouth twisted into a smirk at that last bit, “a wretched beast for a wretched man.”

Qarlton glanced out the window. “How long will it be until he gets here?”

“He left Seagard days ago,” The queen huffed. “And I had word from scouts that he’s within the Crownlands. He’ll be here today...shortly.”

Silence hung between them, and they both understand that things had progressed to a point of no return. Qarlton knew in his heart that life in the Red Keep could not continue as it had, not when Aerys had declined even worse while at war. There was the realm to consider, the fates of millions who might be tormented by dragon flames and injustice, but in that moment Qarlton cared for nothing save for the burden he’d been carrying inside his heart for years. I’ve spent my whole bloody life afraid of this thing or that, and Aerys is all my terrors rolled into one being. One being that has ruled my days for the last seven f*cking years. I can't endure it anymore, I won't!...

“f*ck Aerys,” he said, suddenly and with a venom he didn’t know he possessed the words began to spew out of him. “I won't suffer that stupid mad bastard with his foolish f*cking ideas and the temperament of a bloody child beggering the realm because he couldn’t hold a rational f*cking thought. Every day, every f*cking day for the last seven years was a challenge to not throw myself out of that tower and take him with me!”Qarlton flung his words with cruel abandon. “I wish he had died every single day of coming to this sh*t hole we call a city, that a bolt of lightning would fall from the heavens and strike him dead for everyone to see. And I curse the idiocy of your forebears for not smothering him in his cradle!”

Rhaella’s purple eyes were large with shock and for a moment Qarlton thought he had crossed some terrible line. But then she blinked, and a pearl of uproarious laughter escaped her lips that echoed through the solar and down the hall. “Oh, Qarlton,” she laughed, wiping away a tear, “oh, and here I had thought you were so dreadfully boring! There is a bit of life in you after all!”

He felt his face redden and his own body tremble as the rage left him. He suddenly felt very embarrassed and looked anywhere but the queen’s mirthful eyes as he tried to recapture his composure. “Anyway,” he said uncomfortably, “I have the Gold Cloaks ready.”

“How many swords?” The queen asked, caution swiftly replacing the joy in her voice. “We’ll need enough to overcome the men Staunton keeps about, and Aerys will have a small collection of knights, not counting Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan.”

“Ser Manly promised me at least forty,” he said.

“At least forty,” Rhaella echoed. “That wording does not fill me with confidence.”

“There are men loyal to their commander,” Qarlton argued, “but not everyone in the city watch is like that. Some will not take up arms against their king, no matter who he might be or how he behaves. Stokeworth will have to filter out the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”

In a harsh whisper, Rhaella said, “We will need every man we can get for this. Once Aerys has returned to the city and put his mount down to be fed and rested Ser Bonifer and his holy hundred will take charge of the Dragonpit. I expect that shall not be an easy task since the Dragonkeepers installed by my father are fiercer and more numerous than the ones during Rhaenrya’s day. We must hope that the bloodshed does not upset the dragons...” the queen grew pensive, “while that is going on and Aerys is back here at the Red Keep, we must strike as quickly and cleanly as we can. The Gold Cloaks must first take care to disarm his protection, then once we have Aerys in our captivity we can force Staunton into submission.”

“It can be done,” he said, rubbed at his hands, frowning at the pins and needles that he felt in his fingers. “Though trying to hold Aerys won’t be feasible long term. We’ll need to bring Rhaegar and his people here in the Red Keep as quickly as possible.”

“That is no concern,” Rhaella said, waving the notion away with a dainty hand. “It is not so long a flight from Dragonstone. Once he arrives, we can begin preparations for a Great Council to decide how to proceed. I imagine some sort of regency will have to apply, with Rhaegar ruling in action if not in name for as long as Aerys lives in his confinement.” She ran one of her hands through her long silver-gold hair and released a sigh, “Concessions will have to be made to the different lords for them to swallow this. Betrothals for Viserys and Daenerys, perhaps even Rhaegar’s children, and council seats for other lords less deserving of a royal match.”

Qarlton shifted uneasily. “Whatever he should do today, I would hope you’ll not allow Staunton to keep his position. The man has hated Rhaegar for years...you’d never be able to trust him.”

“Staunton will lose his power this day,” she replied. “His life too, if he tries anything.”

“Good.”

Rhaella looked at him carefully, her eyes almost defensive. “And what of you, my Lord Hand. What shall you do once the throne receives a new occupant?”

He bared his palms. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Your Grace. Once this is all done and there’s no longer any fear of my being eaten by a dragon, I shall retire in peace.”

“You’d be so quick to walk away?” There was more than a bit of scepticism in Rhaella’s voice. “You won’t try to bargain a way into keeping your title and status?”

“I say this with all the respect in the world,” he began. “But...after all of this madness, it would be my greatest pleasure to never see anyone from House Targaryen for the rest of my life.”

Queen Rhaella smiled thinly. “That’s wise of you,” she looked out the window and stiffened, “but I think we’ve spent long enough discussing things. Aerys will be here in a matter of hours; I shall go and speak to Ser Bonifer, and I suggest you do the same for Ser Manly,” her eyes locked onto his own and held him in place with their intensity, “do not fail me, my lord.”

“Have no fear,” he assured, “I have no wish to be die.”

Qarlton bowed and then retreated from the solar. With the coming of the dawn a little more life had begun to show itself about the castle as servants scurried about to see to their tasks. He stopped a squire and sent him to fetch Ser Manly and have the commander wait for him in the Tower of the Hand. With that chore seen to, he decided to walk about the castle and drink in the sight of it all. He walked the halls, traced his steps through the courtyard, peeked in at the kitchens and then, eventually, found his way to the throne room.

So early in the day, it was empty and silent as a tomb. Every step he made seemed to echo and distort into the purring of a stone monster. Above him hung the skulls of all the ancient dragons ridden by House Targaryen, haunting and powerful even hundreds of years in death. When he first arrived at the capitol, so many years ago, he had taken the time to learn the names of them to impress Aerys. It was a silly thing, though it had endeared him to the young king.

Were we ever truly friends? He pondered the question often when he thought of those early days, before he was Hand and just a member of court. More than likely Aerys isn’t capable of having friends, even before he lost his mind...

He looked up at the iron monstrosity that was the throne. In the morning light shining in from the windows the thousand blades that made up the ugly chair glimmered, the points and edges of the swords looking like talons. Qarlton had never sat the throne, even when he was entitled to during the king’s absence, instead sitting on a wooden bench on the dais. There was the briefest of moments when temptation grasped his heart and he considered climbing the steps and sitting upon Aegon’s chair, but he smothered the notion. He was done with power. Giving one final, lingering look at the Iron Throne, he turned and made for the Tower of the Hand.

His fingers continued to bother him with the pins and needles he felt running through them and he cursed his nerves. Another cup of wine would settle him and then perhaps a small meal of bread to give him some fodder for what was to come.

When he entered his solar, he cursed under his breath at how clammy it felt and immediately moved to open a window. He smiled as the breeze drifted in, caressing his face like a mother to her sickly babe. There was no sign of Ser Manly and for that he felt a twist of frustration in his stomach for the old man’s tardiness, but soothed himself when he recalled how far off the commander’s quarters were and the time it would take him to arrive.

Qarlton went to the decanter of Dornish red he had on his desk, poured himself a cup, and sat down to wait for his cohort’s arrival. The wine was lovely going down and he savoured it for a moment before eventually busying himself with the letters he had stacked on his desk. It was more likely than not that such matters would be irrelevant soon enough, but he decided to read through the reports.

Letters from the Iron Bank of Braavos wanting to inquire about further meetings that would no longer matter once Aerys was removed. Complaints from lords whose faces he could no longer recall. It was drudgery and Qarlton helped himself to another cup to work his way through the pile, drinking as he scratched away this note or that. By the time he finished his second cup the sun had shifted in the sky outside his window, and he found himself frowning at the door of his solar.

Where the hell is that old man?

A spasm shot through his hand, a burst of tingling that had him dropping his quill and knocking over the inkpot. A curse was on his lips, but somehow it never quite made it that far. His throat felt strange, and the tingling sensation danced up his arm and into his chest, his heart beating wildly like an animal in a cage.

Qarlton blinked, clutched at his tunic, and found that there was no strength in his legs, or even much sensation at all. Gods be good, what is happening to me?

“Try to calm yourself,” a familiar voice told him.

From the shadows he emerged, plump, round, powdered and smiling in his fine robes. His hands were laced together, hidden in long sleeves. The stink of lavender filled the solar as he approached, his slippers soundless with every step on Qarlton’s myrish carpet.

“Varys...”

The eunuch stared down at him with something like pity. “Lord Chelsted. I would advise you to not try anything, the muscles across your body are very soon about to spasm and stiffen in place. Just sit in your chair and let it all happen and you won’t suffer any more than you currently are.”

Qarlton licked his numb lips, desperate to get the words out. “How?”

“The wine,” Varys glanced at the decanter. “The poison is slow to activate, starting with a ticklish sensation here and there, but it’s quite uncurable. And the gods were kind enough that you drank three full cups this morning to speed things along.”

His hands clenched and unclenched on their own, the horror of it enough to make Qarlton gasp. He lifted his eyes up at the eunuch, fought through the thousand questions racing through his mind and settled on the easiest to say. “Why?” his voice shook, “was this for Aerys?”

A titter of laughter escaped Varys. “Oh, heavens no. Aerys Targaryen is a monster, perhaps the worst to sit the throne in over a hundred years. He is mad and he is cruel, and the seven kingdoms will be a far better place once the last few breaths leave his body. But unfortunately for you, I need that beastly man to live for a few more years yet, to befoul the realm a little more. To clash with his firstborn son so that they might bleed and maim each other and make themselves weak enough for what comes next.”

“What,” Qarlton struggled with the words, and felt that his chest was having trouble expanding to let the air in, “comes next?”

“You don’t need to know,” Varys said a voice little more than a whisper. “Very soon the guards will find your body at the base of this tower,” a smile formed behind that powdered visage, “after all, didn’t you tell the queen that you’d often thought of throwing yourself out that window? Taking your own life is such a horrid thing, oh how it will be the most scandalous piece of gossip for weeks to come.”

Qarlton glanced at the chamber door, wondered if he could scream for help, though when he tried to speak only a gurgle came out.

“In case you were wondering,” Varys continued, “Ser Manly is dead. Poison for him too, though no one will question it, he’s an old man who was well known for drinking too much ale and living poorly. I’ve also taken the liberty of alterting the dragonkeepers about a possible attack and I’m told they’ve doubled their guard,” he sighed dramatically, “I am afraid this will put an end to the queen’s ambitions for a good while, but perhaps she’ll take a lesson from it and not meddle above her means.”

A whistling sound came from Qarlton as he struggled for each breath, he slumped in his seat and almost fell, his body twitching on its own and growing stiff. As the room grew dark, his vision began to shrink, and the voice of Varys sounded far away.

“Take heart, my lord,” the voice called, “with this sacrifice on your part, we have together saved the realm...”

Chapter 21: AEMON II

Chapter Text

“Get your things, we’re leaving.”

Aemon startled at his father’s sudden appearance in his chambers, almost dropping the book in his hands. The Prince of Dragonstone walked about the room, his eyes scanning for something unknown amongst Aemon’s possessions, his body armoured in his riding leathers, a bundle under one of his arms.

“Leaving?” Aemon asked, once his mind had caught up with his ears. “Leaving to go where?”

“King’s Landing,” his father said, distantly. He brought his attention back to Aemon and dropped the bundle next to him on the bed. “Put these on, we’ll be flying today.”

Aemon glanced at the bundle and cautiously unwrapped it. Another set of riding leathers, near identical to the ones his father wore, only writ small. A sudden pang of anxiety shot through him. “Father,” he said, voice wobbly, “Ghost isn’t big enough for me to fly yet.”

“You’ll be coming with me and Urraxes,” Rhaegar told him in a voice that was a touch softer. “Now, don’t dally about. Get dressed, pack whatever you need from here and then we’ll be on our way.”

Aemon did so, hastily reaching for the riding leathers.

They were down in the caverns beneath the castle when Aemon realised something was wrong. “Where are Rhaenys and Aegon?”

“It’s just going to be us,” his father replied tersely.

That brought about a strange storm inside Aemon’s heart. On the one hand, he felt a swell of pride at his father choosing him over his siblings, but on the other, he hadn’t ever spent any real amount of time alone with the man. He wasn’t sure what to say or how to act and there was a deep worry that he might do something that would disappoint.

Urraxes was waiting for them, bristling with annoyance as the dragonkeepers loaded two small trunks up onto the beast’s saddle. Rhaenys had once told him that Urraxes was the sire to their three dragons, but to look at the creature he wasn’t so sure. The silver dragon had a long, almost serpentine neck like the three drakes, but otherwise seemed a world apart from Ghost. Urraxes was muscular and practically shone in any light on account of the perfect silver of his scales, while a beard of spikes grew about the beast’s jaw. The end of his tail was barbed like a mace of spiked bone and rattled threateningly like a viper’s.

“Careful,” his father told him, taking him by hand and leading him over to the beast’s lowered snout. A large blue eye observed them curiously, softening a little when his father pressed a hand against the silvery scales. He took Aemon’s own hand and together they rubbed at the warm hide of the beast.

“It will be windy, and you might shake about,” his father told him, kneeling so that their eyes met, “But you must remember that you and I will be chained to the saddle. We will not fall. No harm will come to you while you are by my side, I promise.”

Aemon looked at Urraxes, swallowed uneasily, and then looked back at his father and gave a shaky nod. I must be brave,he told himself. Someday I will ride Ghost like this and we will soar through the skies whenever I want…

Urraxes lowered himself enough that his father could reach up, grasp onto part of the saddle, and lift himself up. He reached down and heaved Aemon up with one arm as the boy scrabbled to grab hold of a notch. Atop the saddle they sat together, his father buckling him in first and then seeing to his own. A word was spoken in High Valyrian, but Aemon barely heard it, clutching tightly onto one of the handles of the massive saddle as the dragon began to move.

It’s nothing like riding a horse, Aemon noted, looking about the massive cavern as Urraxes crawled forward to an opening at the side of the Dragonmont. Daylight shone upon them as they cameto the steep cliff, and his father whispered an assurance to him. Urraxes gripped the edge of the cliff, Aemon felt his stomach rise into his throat, his body tensed...and then they fell.

Terror gripped Aemon’s heart like a taloned claw, his eyes watering, his ears full of whistling air that deafened everything else. The sea rose up to meet them, closer and closer, rocky shoals breaking the surface with jagged points...and then they flew.

Urraxes rose upwards, his mighty wings defying the currents of the winds and pushing them forwards like a shooting star. The great serpent’s body undulated through the air, swaying this way and that until finally it began to coast through the sky, his silvery wings moving with an occasional, but consistent rhythm.

Aemon allowed himself to breathe, looked about wide-eyed as clouds surrounded them, an ocean of fluffy white that blanked the world. The wind might have chilled him, but between the sun beating down and the pure warmth of Urraxes’ body, he felt strangely content. As the winds quietened for a beat, Aemon thought he heard his father chuckling quietly, his arms either side of the boy as he held onto the handle leisurely.

They moved through the sky, sometimes diving beneath the clouds so that Aemon could see the shape of the Crownlands beneath them, the little villages and keeps dotting the ground here and there along the coast. He could not say how long they had been flying. It was likely hours but to Aemon one moment bled into the next, a continuous flow of discoveries.

Eventually the Blackwater met at a large stain on the land that Aemon recognised as a city, and the closer they flew the more detail began to emerge. Thousands of rooftops filled the ground, streets running between them like ant trails, rising hills with a splendid crystalline sept, a massive semi oval shape of gigantic brickwork and a large red castle that stood a ways off from the rest that Aemon recognised from his books as the Red Keep, the seat of his family’s power.

Urraxes began to circle and lower himself towards the semi oval, moving to some unspoken command by Rhaegar. The dragon was impossibly graceful as he touched down in the exposed part of what had once been a dome. Dragonkeepers rushed out to greet them, calling to the beast in High Valyrian as he lowered himself for Rhaegar to dismount. Aemon found that he could not let go of his handle until his father gently pried his fingers away and helped lower the boy down to one of the keepers.

Standing on solid ground felt strange and Aemon’s legs almost buckled beneath him until one of the keepers caught his arm with a laugh and steadied him. They moved with practiced care, moving the luggage down from Urraxes while the dragon groaned in complaint, bothered by their fiddling. Another man came out with a staff and some form of musical instrument, and the dragon slowly followed him to one of the pens.

A horse had been prepared for Rhaegar, and when Aemon made to complain his father lifted him up and they rode together yet again. “You’re not to leave my sight,” he told Aemon as they trotted down through the streets with a collection of armed men.

The city had been a wonder from the skies, down in the guts of its streets was another matter. People were gathered, jostling one another for a glimpse at the newcomers, their clothes filthy and torn, looking skinny and sickly. Some of them called out prayers to his father, while others called out Urraxes’ name. No one said anything to Aemon, and for that he was glad.So many eyes,he thought nervously, so many different voices…

When they came up the hill and through the gates to the Red Keep, they dismounted, and as the servants came to take their luggage off into the castle Rhaegar took care to hold onto a large sack that smelt awful. When he caught Aemon looking at it and swapped hands so that it was on the other side.

They were met by an old man wearing brilliant white armour and ivory white cloak. Aemon knew he was a Kingsguard, though he wasn’t sure if it was Ser Barristan Selmy or Ser Gerold Hightower. His father answered that unspoken question with his greeting. “Ser Barristan,” he called. “Where is the king?”

“On the throne,” the knight answered, “holding court, my prince.”

“I shall see him at once.”

The knight bowed and led the way. As father and son followed him, Rhaegar leaned down to whisper in Aemon’s ear. “You must be very brave for me when we enter the throne room,” he said in a low voice. “The king can be...scary. He will most likely say things that are cruel, but you must put them from your mind. Remain quiet, and defer to me always, is that understood, Aemon?”

The boy trembled uneasily but gave a solemn nod.

Ser Barristan Selmy strode ahead of them, shining in his armour like a hero from one of Aemon’s books come to life. Aemon watched after him a little bit in awe, having devoured tales of Ser Raymun Redwyne, Duncan the Tall, and his own namesake the Dragonknight.

That sense of wonder was swiftly replaced by anxiety as the great doors of the throne room opened and they were ushered inside.

Aemon might have stared in amazement at the dragon skulls that hung from the ceiling, or the crowds of finely dressed lords and ladies that stood either side of the chamber, but his eyes were immediately drawn to the famed steel monstrosity that lay directly ahead of him. It looked like a mountain of swords, roughly shaped together as a crude seat that looked ready to shred any who got close. A lone figure sat atop the mess of blades, an old man wrapped in crimson and black robes with long silver-gold hair and a bird’s nest beard of the same colour.

The butt of a spear slammed into the floor and silenced any whispers as they approached, the heralds announcing their arrival. “THE PRINCE OF DRAGONSTONE, RHAEGAR OF HOUSE TARGARYEN!”

Aemon almost jumped at how loud the man’s voice was, but he was anchored by his father’s firm hand on his shoulder. They came to the dais, then knelt together. Aemon kept his eyes low, hoping that if he didn’t look at anyone, they wouldn’t look at him.

“You’re back,” a harsh voice rung out that could only be the king. “My wayward son, have you done what I asked of you?”

“I have, Your Grace,” Rhaegar answered. “I have brought the King’s Justice to the Stepstones.”

There was a wheezing cackle-cough. “I asked you to bring me the traitor who tried to usurp my throne,” he grumbled a little, “and yet all I see is a little black-haired boy.”

Aemon shrank a little, keeping his eyes fixed on the stone floor. His ears had gone red, he felt the flush of heat and horrible sweat above his brows. His hands shook terribly, so he clenched them to his body.

“This is my son,” Rhaegar answered, “Aemon.”

A tense silence lingered, and Aemon could feel the king’s eyes burning into him. “Boy, come here!”

He started at the shriek of the old man’s voice and looked at his father for guidance. Rhaegar’s face was impassive, and he nodded but once. On reluctant, trembling legs he rose and approached the dais, trying to find the courage to be as a prince would.

“Closer,” the old man growled, “let me see you, idiot boy!”

Aemon approached as close he dared, and slowly lifted his eyes to regard the king. Large purple eyes looked down at him from within a drawn, thin face that was stretched into a scowl of disapproval. One of his hands was hidden within the heavy crimson robes he wore, while the other was skeletal with sharp nails resting on the arm of the throne. A large crown rested atop his head; the only thing kingly about him.

“This one looks like a wolf pup, not a dragon,” the old man declared, “are you sure he’s even yours, Rhaegar?”

The king began to cackle as if he had said the greatest joke known to man, and a chorus of nervous laughter joined him from the courtiers. It seemed to bounce off the walls, the floor, and strike at Aemon from every angle. His shoulders hung and he recoiled as if struck.

"I have a dragon!” he said, before he could stop himself.

All mirth left the king’s face then and he stared down at the boy from his barbed perch. His eyes seemed almost too large for his skull as they burrowed into Aemon with feverish intensity. “And what,” he asked in growled High Valyrian, “is the name of your dragon?”

“H-his name is Ghost,” Aemon replied in the same tongue, so scared that he almost stumbled over his words, “he has...white scales and red eyes.”

King Aerys looked over at Rhaegar, almost accusatory. “Is the whelp telling the truth?”

“He is,” Rhaegar answered in a loud, clear voice. “It hatched from an egg placed in his cradle.”

A grunt escaped the king’s mouth, his lips twisted in a frown. “Ugly black hair,” he said in the common tongue, glancing down at Aemon, “just as my Uncle Duncan had. At least you do not shame us by carrying a common name, though my son is arrogant in naming you after the Dragonknight.”

“I named him for our great-uncle at the Wall,” father corrected.

“As you say,” Aerys waved a dissmissive hand, “I tire of looking at the boy.”

Aemon backed away uncertainly and fell in beside his father, his whole body shaking with nerves. He hoped he would not have to speak again and kept his eyes back to facing the ground, doing his best to ignore the stares of the courtiers looking his way.

“Getting back to the matter at hand,” the king croaked, “I commanded you to rid the Stepstones of criminals and traitors.... where are they?”

“Mostly dead, Your Grace.” Rhaegar answered, “the few I took prisoner are most like rotting in the dungeons of Dragonstone.”

Aerys scoffed. “I’m to take your word for it, then?”

The Prince of Dragonstone reached into the sack he had been carrying and produced something that immediately made Aemon’s eyes water and his nose scrunch in disgust. A man’s head was in his father’s hand, with a yellow, rotting face, swollen tongue that protruded from its mouth, thin silver-gold hair, and two purple eyes that stared off into nothing. There was a burst of gasps and mutterings from the courtiers as Rhaegar held the head high for all to see.

“The head of the traitor Maegor Brightflame,” he announced, before tossing the rotting thing to one of the guardsmen near the throne. “With him dead, the Stepstones are under the throne’s domain now, and the threat to our House ended.”

The mutterings of shocked voices rose high before the herald slammed the butt of his spear into the floor to silence them all.

Aerys stared at the rotting head in a moment of disbelief but recovered quickly enough and scowled down at his son. “You think this impresses me?” he snapped, veins surging up his neck and across his skull-like face. “I’ve won victories of my own! I saved the Westerlands! I tamed the Ironborn with fire and blood as Aegon the Conqueror did!”

The screeching rage of the king gave way to a coughing fit, so sudden and fierce that his whole body convulsed with the effort. In his flailing he slipped and cut himself on one of the jagged edges of the throne, a feral scream escaping his lips as it happened. Kingsguard rushed to attend him and helped the old man down the treacherous steps and ushered him from the throne room, a chorus of murmuring voices being left in their wake.

Aemon looked to his father and was surprised to see neither shock nor concern for his own sire’s condition. The Prince of Dragonstone merely looked about as the courtiers began to gossip among each other.

“Come,” he said, guiding Aemon by the shoulder and directing him towards the great doors. They were soon swamped by lords and ladies, all of them dressed in fine garb and wearing empty smiles as they offered compliments to Rhaegar and inquired about potential meetings. The prince nodded faintly to most of them and gave vague answers before taking Aemon out of the throne room.

“Those people are leeches,” he told Aemon, “You must be careful, because whatever you give them, they will always want more.”

“Rhaegar!”

They stopped at once and when they turned, they were greeted by a woman in a black and red gown that was at odds with her pale skin and silver-gold hair. As she rushed to embrace his father, Aemon was struck by how similar the two adults looked, both the embodiment of Valyrian blood.

“Mother,” Rhaegar smiled, “it has been too long.”

My grandmother, Aemon realised, looking at the woman in a new light. She did not seem so old as he might have thought, with only a few lines about her eyes to mark her as older than her grown son.

“Far too long,” she agreed, her eyes large and searching. “We’ve much to speak about,” she whispered, “things are treacherous here at the Red Keep, the hand of the king is dead...”

“Lord Chelsted?” Rhaegar frowned for half a heartbeat before shrugging. “A lickspittle from what I recall. Father gave him the position after souring on Tywin and desiring someone less forceful as hand.”

Queen Rhaella leaned in close. “He proved a useful ally until...” she looked down and seemed to notice Aemon for the first time. Her mouth closed, then quirked upwards in a delighted smile as she moved from son to grandson. “Aemon?”

“Yes,” he bowed a little, “Your Grace.”

“Look how you’ve grown!”He was pulled into a tight and warm embrace, the queen peppering his head with kisses. “Gods, I haven’t seen you since you were a newborn!”

Aemon had no idea how to respond to the sudden affection, but he couldn’t supress the smile he felt forming on his face. The queen was warm and sweet smelling, and he felt himself melt into her embrace. Is this what having a mother feels like?

Her hands still cupping Aemon’s face, the queen turned to Rhaegar and said, “We must dine together, all of us. You needn’t worry about your father; he’ll be holed up in his chambers till the morrow.”

After they had been taken to guest chambers Rhaegar had commanded that the servants draw a bath for Aemon, ignoring his protestations and having the women scrub him clean. “You stink of dragon,” Rhaegar said, “perhaps that might serve on Dragonstone, but not at court.” Once he had been scrubbed pink, he had been presented with tunic, breeches, and boots in the colours of his house. It was all uncomfortable, but his father gave an approving nod seeing him dressed as a proper princeling.

“You did well today,” Father told him. “I did not know what to expect when I brought you with me, but....”

Aemon found that he could not meet his father’s gaze. “His Grace would have been happier to see Aegon. He looks more like a Targaryen more than I do.”

“His Grace would never have been happy,” Father replied, distantly. “His Grace isn’t capable of being happy and never was.”

He nodded a little but found that he had no words.

“Aemon,” his father’s voice was soft, and when the boy lifted his gaze, he saw sadness in those violet eyes. “You’re....a good son.”

There was a moment when father and son looked at each other uncertainly. Aemon wanted for his father to pull him into an embrace, to hug him as he had seen Rhaegar do with Aegon and Rhaenys. But none came, the Prince of Dragonstone merely nodded once and ushered them from the chambers.

Ever his father’s shadow, Aemon moved down one of the winding hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast until they came upon the Queen’s Ballroom. It was not so grand as the great hall at Dragonstone, yet there was a decorative aspect about the chamber that impressed him. In the centre of the splendidly furnished chamber, at a trestle table, joined by a boy and girl with silver hair, the Queen of Westeros awaited.

“Viserys, Daenerys,” the queen said to the boy and girl, “this is your brother Rhaegar, and your nephew Aemon. Show them every courtesy.”

The boy reminded Aemon of his brother, though he was older and thinner than Aegon was. He eyed Aemon cautiously but brightened some when he looked to Rhaegar. Daenerys smiled at them both shyly, her purple eyes big and full of curiosity.

“Brother,” Rhaegar greeted, “Sister, it’s good to see you both after such a long time away.” There was a stiffness to his father’s words, and when Aemon glanced up, he saw that the man’s smile did not reach his eyes. “And to see that you have both grown into the perfect scions of our house.”

Aemon forced himself to speak. “Yes, it is a pleasure to meet you both, uncle,” he nodded at Viserys, and then Daenerys, “Aunt.”

“Well met, nephew,” the princess chirped, her voice soft and pretty.

Viserys nodded but said nothing.

Queen Rhaella’s eyes were large and observant, and her voice was silky soft. “Let’s not stand on ceremony,” she gestured at the spread of cheese, bread, roast pork, and mash. “It’s well past time we had a meal together, as family should.”

Aemon slid into the seat next to his father, across from Daenerys, and went to work on a hunk of bread and a slice of pork. The meat was good, a welcome change from the fish that was often served at Dragonstone, and he soon settled into a comfortable semi-silence as his father and grandmother discussed things amongst each other. Viserys tried to give the impression that he was invested in his meal, but Aemon did not fail to notice how the older prince would watch the queen and heir from over his wine cup, trying to eavesdrop.

“Do you really have a dragon?”

The soft voice dragged Aemon from his musings and Princess Daenerys was looking at him intently, her purple eyes shining like amethysts.

“I do,” Aemon said, “Though he’s not big enough to fly yet.”

“My egg hasn’t hatched yet,” the princess complained. “It’s warm and sometimes when I touch it, I can feel something moving, but that’s all. Mother says it will hatch when it’s ready, but I think it's just being lazy hiding in there.”

Aemon couldn’t help his smile. “What colour is it?”

“Red, but also with black whorls on it,” she seemed to consider it, “mayhaps my dragon will grow to be black like Balerion. That would be splendid.”

The talk of dragons had drawn Viserys attention away from Rhaegar and his mother. “Black would be such an ugly colour for your dragon, sweet sister,” he puffed out his chest proudly as he turned to Aemon, “my own Brightwing is so golden that he glows in the sunlight. Grand Maester Pycelle called him the most magnificent dragon alive.”

“Viserys,” the queen tsked, “it does not do to brag.”

“I was just telling him what the maester said,” Viserys complained. “Brightwing is going to be the greatest of dragons.”

Rhaegar hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said, over his wine cup, “but it is said that dragons hatched from magic grow quicker than regular hatchlings. Our parents' dragons, and my Urraxes were born from the clutch that Aegon woke at Summerhall, and will probably grow to the size of Balerion.”

“They might be bigger,” Viserys said tartly, “but they’ll be slower. The Rogue Prince proved that size isn’t everything when he and the Blood Wyrm slew Vhagar.”

The elder brother simply smiled at the younger, something swirling behind his violet eyes. “As you say.”

“Why isn’t your heir with us?” Viserys asked suddenly. “It seems strange to me that you would only come here with your second son. Aren’t you worried people will think you favour him over your firstborn?”

Aemon winced at that and glanced up at his father hesitantly. Rhaegar had foregone any illusion of patience, his stare hard and cold as it fixed on Viserys. “You would do well, little brother, to focus on your own problems, lest they multiply.”

“Boys,” Rhaella looked between her sons desperately, “I’ll have no quarrels at this table.”

The two settled into a stony silence, the tension lingering. Rhaella used the opportunity to redirect attention and fondly interrogated Aemon about his favourite foods, his lessons, the things he did when at play, his brother and sister, and how his dragon was growing. It felt strange to have so much attention thrown his way, but he couldn’t help but secretly love it and his grandmother for how kind she was.

His father did not seem to share his enthusiasm, and much later when they returned to their chambers, he lingered for a moment at the door that adjoined their rooms. “You must be careful while we’re here,” he warned. “The queen has told me that we have come at a dangerous time and there are enemies at every corner, including within our own house. You will trust only me, is that clear? Do not listen to anyone we might speak to at court on the morrow.”

“The Hand of the king died,” Aemon remembered. “Was he murdered, like Ser Richard?”

Rhaegar stared at him for an icy eternity. “Yes.”

The next morning, they broke their fast on boiled eggs, melted cheese and freshly cooked bread. Aemon couldn’t quite bring himself to eat bacon, his dreams having been filled with dragonfire and screaming men and shadowy knives waiting to plunge into him. They can’t get me, he told himself, not when father and Urraxes are around...

It was around noon when father and son went to the throne room again, this time greeted with greater warmth by the various lords and ladies. “Prince Rhaegar,” one lady from the Riverlands greeted, looking at him with a strange interest, “might we be so lucky to hear another of your famous songs?”

“Mayhaps,” he mused, “though I’ve heard His Grace has not been so fond of feasts and balls of late.”

Some of them even took the time to speak with Aemon, but remembering his father’s words he was never more than courteous. He found that he did not care for the way they looked at his hair and recalled the king’s barbed words and dismissal.

The king came into the throne room flanked by three kingsguard, his whole body wrapped in a long cloak of the finest crimson silk, his eyes watchful and wary as he ascended the massive pile of swords to his throne. He leaned forward at a strange angle; a single skeletal hand resting on what might have once been the pommel of an ancient sword, grasping it desperately.

His eyes narrowed on Rhaegar. “Why are you still here?”

“Father,” he said, keeping his voice clear, “the last time I visited, you made promises to me if I helped with this matter in the Stepstones. I have slain the man who tried to kill Viserys, and I have conquered the Stepstones in your name. I would ask that you honour our agreement.”

The King rolled his eyes. “I said some things, didn’t I?”

“My confinement on Dragonstone,” Rhaegar insisted. “I would have that revoked, so that I might have the freedom to walk amongst the kingdoms like any other man.”

“And so that you can whisper your complaints about me to your Dornish friends, eh?” Aerys coughed a dry laugh. “But fine, do as you wish. I have more important things to worry about than my disappointment of a son.”

Rhaegar took a step forward. “I have heard about Lord Qarlton’s death, and I would offer my services to you, Father. As Baelor Breakspear was to Daeron, allow me to be your Hand and to assist in the governance of the realm. In these troublesome times we must stand united.”

That was the wrong thing to say, Aemon knew. The King recoiled as if he had been struck, his lips twisted downwards in an ugly frown while his eyes bulged wildly in his skull. “Are you a vulture to be picking at my servant’s corpse before it is even cool?”

“I have already proven myself,” Rhaegar insisted, his hands open. “I slew the Brightflame pretender and expanded the lands that you control.”

“You did what was commanded of you and nothing more!” Aerys spat. “And you think you deserve more rewards!?”

Rhaegar did not flinch. “I have done what no one else could have, what no one else has done in over two hundred years.”

“You deserve nothing more than what you already have.” Aerys looked about and then smiled devilishly at Aemon. “Little Duncan come-again,” he laughed, “Your fool father thinks he’s entitled to half of my kingdom. What do you think?”

Aemon did not know what to say and in that moment, he felt hundreds of eyes fall upon him, each pair piercing through his being and into his soul. His legs began to tremble, and it was all he could do to keep himself standing in place.

The king did not wait for him to answer before turning back to Rhaegar. “I am a generous king and a considerate grandfather, so I shall I grant you a boon. Your little Prince of Dragonflies will need lands of his own, yes? A keep, of some sort?” his mouth split into a yellow smile, “I can think of no better place than Summerhall.”

“Summerhall is a ruin,” Rhaegar replied, his voice cold.

“Then you’ll have to repair it,” Aerys laughed, “I’m sure you can find the coin if you look hard enough, lest you want the boy to sleep in the cold!”

Aemon felt his face burn.My own castle?Part of him felt excited, but there was something else in the mix of emotions. He knew of Summerhall, the old home of King Maekar before his ascension, and of the fire that had killed much of his kin and woke the dragons from stone. A haunted and sad place…

“And what of my own place at court?” Rhaegar asked, “and the place of my heir, Aegon...will you welcome us back?”

“I don’t care where you go,” Aerys stretched out and pointed with a burnt, clawed hand. “But know this, I will not have your grasping nature here in my court. I will not have your mongrel whelps at my court.” He rose from his throne and in a monstrous voice, hissed, “Begone before I have you hanged!”

A hushed murmur came over the throne room. Rhaegar did not wait, merely grabbed Aemon’s hand and took him from the chamber, even as the whispers followed them outside.

Chapter 22: MYA V

Chapter Text

“Is the heron to your liking, my lady?”

My lady, my lady, my lady...

The words never failed to sound wrong to Mya, but it had been five days past when the king’s decree had reached Storm’s End and all within the castle came to know that she had been legitimised. Mya Stone no longer existed, in the eyes of gods and men she would forever be known as Mya of House Baratheon.

“The heron is good,” she said, smiling weakly at the girl who had been assigned as her lady in waiting. “It’s a lovely spread they’ve made for us.”

Mya’s father had felt the need to celebrate his daughter and gathered as much of the immediate family as he could. Despite the barrage of rain and wind that laid assault outside, the almost empty great hall of Storm’s End was wonderfully warm. The table groaned under the weight of the dishes served; the finest fruits from the Reach, flagons of Arbor Gold and Dornish Red, venison and beef and mutton, all roasted with various spices and peppers shipped over from across the Narrow Sea.

Lord Robert grunted irritably from his place at the table, tossing the letter he was reading across to Maester Cressen. “Damn it all, why must my life always be complicated by those f*cking Targaryens!”

“What’s happened?” Mya asked her father, anxiety prickling up her spine. “Is it...about my...my name?”

Lord Robert spared her a glance and reached for a wine cup. “It’s nothing to do with you,” he grumbled into his cup, “that mad bastard has given one of grandsons a place in our lands! We’ll never be rid of these bloody dragonspawn!”

“Summerhall,” Maester Cressen pointed out, “is a ruin. And from what has been said at court, Prince Rhaegar will have to see to its restoration himself, out of his own coffers and using his own workers and whatever stone and he could procure for himself. It will take years to complete, so we might assume that His Grace the king meant it as an insult to his son.”

“Even when they mock and belittle each other it splashes back onto us,” Robert shook his head in distaste, “and that one...Lyanna’s whelp. The wretchedness of it all.”

The chamber grew silent as Mya’s father lost himself in reverie. She never asked him about Lyanna Stark, never probed at the spots in his heart that were raw and aching, but there were moments when she wanted nothing more than to do so. It seemed to her that the wound Lyanna Stark inflicted upon him was one of the most grievous.

What she like, Mya wondered, to have dragon and stag fight over her so fiercely?

“There has been another raven,” Cressen informed them, breaking the silence. “Highgarden.”

That boded ill. Lady Janna had been back at Storm’s End for less than a week before departing to her ancestral home to mourn with the rest of the Tyrells over the death of Loras. Renly had ignored all pleas from Cressen and left with Janna to grieve, and it was there that they remained, holed up and quiet in their rage.

Her father took the proffered letter from Cressen and eyed off its contents, his face sinking further and further into a deep frown. Having enough, he scrunched the letter into a ball and tossed it into the nearby hearth. “That idiot woman,” he muttered, taking another gulp of wine.

“What did she say?” Mya asked.

“She’s not happy about your legitimisation,” he replied, aggressively cutting up a piece of meat and stuffing it into his mouth, then swallowing. “She says that she won’t be having a hand in your education...and a lot of other useless squawking and empty threats.”

Mya felt a flush of shame and guilt. She knew such a thing would happen, that House Tyrell would take offence to her becoming a Baratheon, but to hear it said aloud only made her feel worse. Is my first act as a Baratheon to drive them away from powerful allies?

“Never you mind Janna’s nonsense,” her father said, giving her a half-smile. “I’ll write to one of my Estermont cousins to come and help you along with all the things you need to know,” he frowned down the table at his brother, “Stannis, how old is Cousin Larissa?”

From his place beside Cressen, Stannis stirred himself. “Of an age with me,” he grunted, the sour expression on his face made sourer by the lemon water he drank. “Though that slattern is hardly the sort you would want overseeing Mya’s education.”

The boys giggled in their seats, only to fall silent when their uncle sent them a withering glare. Robert merely shook his head and turned back to Mya. “Pay no heed, girl. Larissa’s a kind woman, she’ll teach you to play the high harp, to dance and all the rest. Cressen and I can see to showing you how to manage a keep.”

Mya nodded along, a little overwhelmed by the influx of responsibilities and tasks that lay ahead of her. She tried to put those worries down. This is what it is to be a lady, she reminded herself, I must do this as best I can, for my house.

“The matters of women can wait,” Stannis grumbled, “what did your wife say of the other Tyrells? I’ve heard the fat flower is at odds with the king and resigned his position in the Small Council.”

“Aye,” Robert replied, “they’re all gathered, seething over Loras. Janna said the Hightowers paid visit to them, as did Tarly. It might finally get those arrogant fops in the Reach to see the truth about the bloody dragons. Might be time for a few of us to take matters into our own hands and remind the Targaryens that they aren’t gods.”

Stannis clenched his jaw. “Careful brother,” he warned, “we have a duty to obey the king, whether we like it or not.”

“You and your duty!” Lord Robert’s face darkened. “What of the king’s duty to us, eh? You didn’t see how what happened at Lannisport, you didn’t see the bodies, or choke on the ash. Aerys and that wretched son of his will be the end of us if we aren’t careful!”

“And what could you do?” Stannis challenged. “You, and Tyrell, and Tarly and all the rest of the Reach....”

“More would join that fight!”

Stannis shook his head disdainfully. “Who? The Starks? Do you really think your beloved friend Ned Stark would take up arms against his own nephew? Even if he did, you’re just men. Doesn’t matter how big your armies are. You’ll burn like every other fool who thought he might try steel against dragonfire!”

A meaty fist came down on the table, rattling the food, the wine and almost making a mess of things. “Damn you Stannis, men have slain dragons before! It can be done again!”

“It’s madness,” Stannis countered. “And treason.”

Robert’s face flushed red with rage. “Treason? For once in your miserable life stop thinking of the gods damned laws! Look at what happened to Renly! Aerys Targaryen has made our brother a cripple!”

“Renly still has a life he can live,” Stannis grit out through clenched teeth, “he might be a cripple, but better that than a charred corpse!” his stormy blue eyes moved across the table, and he gestured to Mya. “And you’re talking of taking up arms against your rightful king, after he has just given your daughter a boon!”

Mya felt her face redden. She had been in the middle of all that horrible destruction, she felt death around her and seen things that had turned her stomach into mush. The thought of Storm’s End becoming another ashen pile of corpses sent a wave of terror dancing up her spine.

Her father’s eyes went to her, momentarily, before throwing themselves off into a distant corner. The fight had not left him, but it was plain that Mya was a tonic to the venom building up inside him. His eyes moved to his three sons, all of them watching the adults argue with tense curiosity. Don’t drag them into this, Mya thought, just finish this thrice damned meal in peace...

Cressen raised his hand, trying to sooth the brothers. “Whatever happens in the Reach or at King’s Landing is a matter for another time, perhaps it is instead better to focus on our own affairs for now.” The old man leaned forward. “My lord, there are several matters that sprung up while you were away that need your attention. There are reports of banditry in the Marches, and Lord Tarth is complaining of smugglers near his isle...”

The distraction proved to be exactly what the two brothers needed and soon they were caught up in the management of their own lands, rather than talking of treason or rebellion. Though Mya was achingly tired and ready for bed, she forced herself to listen as her father and uncle discussed different ideas of how to solve the problems that plagued the Stormlands. She didn’t like to think of it, but there was always the possibility that both men might fall sick or be called away and it might come to Mya to advise her young brothers on the path ahead.

She glanced at the boys and felt herself ache a little. They were not so loud anymore, not so keen to run and play and explore as they had been before Lannisport and on more than a few nights Mya had been woken by the three of them climbing in bed to sleep with her. She had spoken to Cressen about it, and he had sat with each of her brothers, talking in that kind and grandfatherly way of his to help ease the terror they carried. But the joy and light had not fully returned to them.

Their mother should be here, she thought bitterly. It was not often that Mya allowed herself to even think in opposition of her father’s wife, but she found in the last few days that the woman had allowed her own grief to blot out everyone else’s in a way that she found to be selfish.

“I will visit Tarth and see about these smugglers,” Stannis said, drawing Mya’s attention back to the present. “Lord Selwyn is old and soft; he’ll benefit from my assistance.”

Her father huffed in his seat. “I’ll write to Dondarrion, he can have men patrol the marches for these damnable bandits,” he reached for his cup, drained it, and then stood from his seat. “That’s enough f*cking lordliness for the day. I’m to bed.”

Mya and Cressen exchanged a look. “I think it’s time the boys went to bed too,” she said, gesturing to them. “Steffy, Ly, Ormy, no grizzling now.”

The boys were blessedly compliant as they rose from their seats and followed Mya out of the hall and off to their rooms. She and Cressen took the time to sit with each of them, talk gently and soothing them into sleep. It was only after they had all nodded off that Mya allowed herself to retreat to her own chambers.

Her maid Cassie was on hand to help her change into her nightclothes, something that made Mya extremely uncomfortable. Life was simpler as a bastard and now she was being attended in every which way and watched carefully by those around the castle as though she had suddenly become fragile as a piece of glass.

“Anything else, my lady?”

“That will be all, Cassie,” Mya replied, smiling sheepishly. “You needn’t fuss too much over me.”

The girl laughed a little. “Oh, but it’s expected. It’s why your lord father took me from Lady Janna’s service and had me help here. Right now, you only have me, but one day you’ll have dozens of attendants and ladies in waiting.”

“Gods,” Mya laughed, “I won’t know what to do with them all!”

“You might find them helpful,” Cassie said. “Having the likes of us about can be a comfort, especially when you move to your lord husband’s keep.”

Mya stilled. “Husband?”

“Oh,” the girl waved the thought away, “I just meant some day in the future, when Lord Baratheon marries you off to a worthy young lordling.” she frowned at Mya’s expression, “are you alright, my lady?”

“Fine,” she replied, distantly. Her head spun with a jumble of thoughts as realisation dawned upon her. She knew that she would have a plethora of responsibilities by becoming a lady, but her mind had only focused on helping about Storm’s End and advising her brothers when the time came. The concept of marriage, political alliances, going off and having children in some strange castle, the reality of it had finally crashed upon her.

This is what it means to be a lady, she thought as the words came back to her.

My lady, my lady, my lady...