The Lion and the Rose: South

[badgate]

Part 1 of 2

Yohn Royce

The Riverlands stink of war. On the ground his destrier trotted was only the faintest hint that grass had once grown there. The air was humid, with salt hanging in the mists that floated from the mouth of the Trident. The sky above was grey slate, billowing with smoky clouds. Before and behind him, the Runestone army marched past the small port city of Saltpans. From his vantage point, Yohn Royce could see burn marks on the walls, and rubbles of stone strewn across the field.

All around the Lord Regent were the banners and chivalry of the Vale. Ahead where Ser Lyn Corbray led the van, Stannis' fiery heart banner rode above the three black crows clutching red hearts in their claws. Ser Lyn made for lousy company most times, so Yohn had taken to riding with a different group each day. Today he had chosen to ride at the head of the foot, so to his left rode Ser Mychel Redfort, and to his left was his standard bearer, bearing the great red castle of his House Redfort on its white field and bright red borders. Before Yohn rode his own bannerman, the Tollets who swore fealty to Runestone. It was Lord Uther's heir who bore the bronze banner stitched with runes in black velvet thread, below another fiery heart of House Baratheon. The young knight's helm bore a sash checkered in the Tollard colors of black and grey, though it was indistinguishable in the grey light of the day.

Lord Gilwood Hunter was farther ahead, with the left cavalry of horse. The middle-aged lord had grown much more personable once separated from his two brothers. He shared a jest with his squire as his horse trotted along the edge of the River Road. There were the banners of every house over there, mostly knights. Since Yohn had given Gilwood the command, his house's crest flew above the rest. The Hunters of Longbow Hall bore a brown coat of arms, where in the center five white arrows crossed. Perhaps I should have put him in charge of the archers, Yohn mused. Streaming from Lord Hunter's helm was a brown scarf of silk.

Yohn's squire rode to his right. Harrold Hardyng was tall and hardy, with butter-blonde hair and dark blue eyes. His mount snorted, and Harrold said, "this is not what I thought the Riverlands would be like."

"You've never been to war, good-son." The lad seemed to be taking a liking to Yohn since the army's departure from the Vale. He sat in on his councils and his eyes shone with envy when he polished the lord's bronze armor etched with runes. We remember. "The Trident was near worse than this after old King Robert crushed him. Aye, that was a feast for crows." He grunted. Harrold had been no more than five during Robert's Rebellion, Yohn knew.

"I asked Lyn Corbray to tell me the story of his part in that battle." His face was sullen. "He looked ready to pull his dirk to my throat, but in the end he just said 'f*** off.'" Yohn grunted again. "Ser Lyn is not one for stories. All the man cares for is killing. Aye, and when his lord father fell, the Dornish flank was more than obliged to give him the vengeance he desired." He paused. "Why do you think he leads the vanguard?"

His squire's brow creased a bit and he chewed the side of his tongue as he thought. "Is this another riddle?"

"Puzzle, more like. One a lord and commander must learn to solve." The teenager knew he might ascend from lowliness to lordliness, but he didn't seem to enjoy talking about it. "There is a tool for every task, and a task for every tool. So what do you think?"

Harrold mulled the question for a minute. Then, slowly, "The vanguard attacks without question. And I'm guessing so does Ser Lyn."

"You guess correct. A commander should know his men, know why they fight and why they'll die. A commander should not be afraid to ask his men to die. Some will and some won't, others will for reasons that have naught to do with you. It makes no difference. The vanguard attacks without question. Those who would hesitate when asked to die come next, in the foot." Harrold squinted at that. "No, not all men in the foot are craven. But they're more likely to keep face when they see the van smash the enemy's lines. Then comes those who die for honor." He pointed left to Lord Gilwood, and right to the other cavalry train that he himself would lead. "And finally the reserve."

"What does the reserve die for?"

"You grew up at Ironoak. You know Ser Morton more well than I. What do you believe he will die for?"

A minute creeped by as the lad thought on that. Finally, he said, "at Ironoak we take pride in our harvest. We cultivate the hunting trails that have stood the test of a hundred winters. When the time came to learn sword and lance and spear, I woke at the crack of dawn grinning in my bed and went to sleep sore and bruised, with the grin still in place. Ser Morton crossed wooden swords with me that first day. He went awfully easy, of course, but I'll never forget it. 'At Ironoak, we fight for family. We fight for love.' Does the reserve die for love?"

Yohn smiled at the boy and nodded his head. "The reserve holds back and dives where the fighting's thickest and our defenses weakest. They are as unafraid as the van with more caution than the foot. But they die for their countrymen. They'll die to save the valiant knights on horse, the bloody vanguard, and the fighting footmen. When it comes to it, they die that we may live."

[badgate]

Part 2 of 2

Yohn Royce

By the end of the day they had reached the Kingsroad. Yohn's son Ser Andar had met two riders from the Eyrie Army that afternoon, and brought word that they had made camp in Lord Harroway's Town, where they seemed to have been well received. While camp fires sprung up across the vast dirt field, a well-trodden and well-blooded land, Yohn summoned his commanders to his tent.

Inside, Harrold poured him a bright and buttery ale into a bronze crested horn. He took a swig and let the men talk. Before him was a large wooden table bearing a map that stretched from Moat Cailin to Dorne. It had been repainted before their march. Upon it were figurines of various sizes. Nobody had been able to find any dragon figurines for Aegon the Pretender's forces, so they were making due with hardened horse dung from the field, so old it had lost its smell. A round piece of hard sh**t sat where King's Landing was. Their intelligence sources reported that Aegon the Pretender had near ten thousand men near Blackwater Bay. Roses representing the force led by Ser Garlan Tyrell were positioned on top of Bitterbridge, and another piece of sh**t resided over Felwood. A figurine of a knight was stationed over Riverrun, where Lord Randyll Tarly still held court.

His commanders filed in after their suppers. Harrold served Yohn a plate of roast foal with melted goat's cheese on top and steamed turnips on the side. Yohn bid his quire to go feed himself before the meeting. By the time they began, the ceiling of the tent bore a cloud of smoke and the Lord Regent's stomach was full. Ser Lyn Corbray sat to his left and Harrold to his right. Across the table were Lord Hunter and Morton Waynwood. On the left side were the two riders they'd received from the Eyrie Army: Ser Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, and his squire, a young grand-cousin of jowly Lord Belmore. On the right side of the table, Yohn's son Andar was sharing a jest with Mychel Redfort. "How many Dornishmen does it take to shoe a horse?" Yohn pounded the table once with a clenched fist, and their conversations halted. Mychel would have to wait to find out how many Dornishmen it takes.

Standing, he said "the time has come to make use of our swords. We have enemies all about us." He swept his arm over the map as his commanders studied it. He sat and bid them to voice their counsel.

The young and brave Mychel Redfort spoke first. "We should take the fight to this false king. We far outnumber him and his forces at Blackwater. I say march in full force south on the kingsroad and end his insurrection in one fell swoop." Lyn Corbray laughed at that. "The boy knight speaks valiantly, with all the foolishness of youth. I say we move swiftly and pluck the easy fruits before they can swell the little rebel's own numbers." He pointed at Harrenhall, then Antlers, then Bitterbridge. "That is the course I'd take, my lords and knights."

Lord Hunter was not known to be a strong strategist, and he lived up to his reputation just then. With a grunt he voiced agreement with Ser Lyn. Then spoke Yohn's son. "My lords, the scouts report weak garrisons all abouts the Riverlands. We should move swiftly to overwhelm Randyll Tarly. Riverrun will rise for us, and ther other river lords with it. Jason Mallister has already broke that dam."

Ser Symond cleared his throat. "My lord, your cousin Lord Nestor would have your commands as well. We are ten thousand strong, enough alone to take on Lord Tarly in the field but likely not enough to take Riverrun in battle. And we believe the Tarly forces will be replenished from either the north or the south very soon. Ser Garlan Tyrell has raised near five thousand men at Bitterbridge. While Lord Mallister has indeed acknowledged King Stannis as his liege, his castle is held by more Tyrells who could march south to Riverrun. We have numbers to win this war, but our positioning may soon be perilous. Our enemies are all around us here."

Then spoke Ser Morton. "We must go where our enemies least expect. Strike southwest around God's Eye, and sweep up on Bitterbridge from the south. Then we can wreak havoc on Aegon Pretender's forces in the Stormlands. He may even retreat to Storm's End in response, but if we go from Bitterbridge-" He pointed. "-to Felwood, we trap him in the Crownlands, and take out his two most likely sources for reinforcements."

Yohn emptied the last of his ale from the horn and laid it gently on the table. He sat forward and rested the back of his forearms against the edge of the table, his hands folded. On the map, a lion figurine sat in the middle of the waters of the Narrow Sea. He plucked it up. "My lords, the time has come for you to know. King Stannis has welcomed Tyrion Lannister into the king's peace. The details of the treaty are unknown to me, but we may fight together with the dwarf's men." He stamped the lion down again with a thud. "But I wouldn't trust their men as far as we can spit." He nodded to Ser Symond, "you'd best make sure Lord Nestor doesn't either, when you get back to Harroway Town."

The rest was planning and back-up planning. No commander seemed truly happy or dissatisfied, and perhaps that was the best. It was after all the the nature of a true compromise. Yohn rose, and so did the men around the table. "Get some sleep, Ser Symond. You should ride at first light to deliver these orders to Lord Nestor." He glared down at the map one more time. "Harrold, get this sh**t off my map."

[Dereich]

I should have done this at the end of last turn, but I don't think its caused too much of a problem waiting.

The Small Council

As the War Council is no longer sufficient to adequately govern the realm, the Small Council is hereby reconvened to assist the Thone. All councilors, excepting Ser Florent, are hereby ordered to join me at court or send a representative in your stead.

The Capital of the Seven Kingdoms is King's Landing, now and forever. Until such time as King's Landing can be liberated and rebuilt, my court will be temporarily located in Gulltown unless it is required elsewhere.

Because of the damage done to the Kingsguard by the two pretenders, the guard is currently unable to fulfill its duty. Until the condition of the realm improves,  the vacancies on the Kingsguard will be left unfilled. Ser Balon Swann and Ser Jaime Lannister have my leave to continue their work for Lord Lannister. Should he live, Ser Barristan Selmy is invited back to his rightful place on the guard.
 
Hand of the King: Lord Davos Seaworth
Spiritual Advisor: Melisandre
Master of Coin: Lord Tyrion Lannister
Master of Laws: Lord Yohn Royce
Master of Whispers: Lady Anya Waynwood
Master of Ships: Lord Wyman Manderly
Special Represenative to the Iron Bank: Ser Axell Florent

Lord Commander of Gulltown City Watch: Ser Samwell Stone

Kingsguard:
Ser Jaime Lannister
Ser Balon Swann

So Says Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

[badgate]

OOC: Where is Ser Balon Swann currently in this game?

[DKrol]

A Proclamation from King Aegon

"It is my good and true will, with the Seven as my witness, that Illyrio Mopatis shall serve as Deputy Master of Coin and charged with the maintaining the personal accounts of Storm's End and Queen Arianne, out of respect for his support in aiding my return to Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms.

This is my will,
Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm"

[badgate]

To All The Lords and Ladies of the Vale,

In the name of Yohn of House Royce, Lord of Runestone, Lord Regent of the Vale, Commander of the Runestone Army and Master of Laws, let it be known-

-- I hereby appoint Ser Symond Templeton to command of the left cavalry of the Runestone Army.

-- I hereby appoint Lord Nestor Royce to command of the reserve of the Runestone Army.

-- I hereby appoint Ser Morton Waynwood to command of an honor guard to return to Longbow Hall the bones of Lord Gilwood Hunter.

-- Upon the Second Battle at Harrenhall, Harrold Hardyng has been knighted. He is henceforth and forever named Ser Harrold Arryn, heir apparent to Lord Robert Arryn. His wife, Lady Rowena Hardyng, will henceforth be known as Lady Rowena Arryn.

-- All men in Gulltown seeking an honest day's work and feed can find it at Gull Tower. In perpetuity, one-quarter of Gull Tower's lands shall be used to construct barracks and a mess hall to house and feed the City Watch.

Signed,
Ser Damon of House Shett, Knight of the Gull Tower, representative of Lord Yohn Royce on the Gulltown Small Council.

[badgate]

Yohn Royce

Smoke rose in columns from the walls of Lord Harroway Town. The tents were just now going up - the Runestone Army had not arrived until an hour past twilight. Lord Yohn Royce left his greathorse at the stable, and walked inside the town's sept. Inside Harrold was stirring a pot of mulled wine. "Two cups, I should think." He said to his squire.

The blonde teenager moved to obey, filling two silver goblets with the red wine. Yohn remembered Harrold's excitement after the first battle at Harrenhal. 'Ser Lyn says they're calling the battle The Submission of the Sparrows,' he had said.

'Battles have names, but the greatest name won't win a battle,' Yohn had replied. At times Harrold Hardyng showed his youth in foolish ways. But he was learning much and more as a squire. A shame he would ascend so fast. But Lord Robert still lived, so there was more time to learn him before his likely ascension. The name cannot wait. And after that display of swordsmanship against Tarly's van, neither can the knighthood. Maester Colemon had wrote to Darry and Lord Harroway's Town with slightly different messages. Robert Arryn is not getting better. Robert Arryn can not go outside, the cold gives him violent shakes. Robert Arryn suffered a very bad shake and bit his tongue near in half. The boy bled and slept four days, having lost so much blood. Sweetrobin is improving, but will never be hardy. His seizures become less frequent but more violent. But still he lived. Lysa Arryn had always chided the Lords of the Vale, "the seed is strong," she would quote. Jon Arryn's last words. Yohn had doubts it was said about Sweetrobin.

Yohn sipped the wine and looked down at the two skeletons wrapped tightly in cloaks. The left had been the body of Lady Tyene Sand, who was found dead after they took Harrenhal, dressed in the robes of a septa. Tyene Sand. I should return the lady's bones to her lord uncle, but how? She'd had a small face, milky-white like the Dornish of the mountains, and her golden hair flowed past her shoulders. Though she looked like an Andal queen, she bore Prince Oberyn Martell's distinct widow's peak. Yohn had failed to discover who killed her, whether it was a Valesman or a Sparrow, but perhaps that was the best. If it came to it, Yohn would tell Prince Doran that her disguise had been uncovered and the Sparrows had hung her. These foolish Sparrows and their hangings of sinners. They had heard of men being hung for lying with other men, and for that rumor Ser Lyn Corbray had bloodied his Valyrian sword to the hilt. Yohn finished the goblet and his squire refilled it, then he resolved to figure out how to return the lady's bones to Prince Doran Martell.

The larger cloak on the right was Lord Gilwood Hunter. He'd only been a lord for shy over a year. One brother gone, two remain. Now Lord Eustace Hunter would likely be able to hold Longbow Hall after the war. He would gain those who had supported his older brother, and Ser Harlan Hunter would be expelled. Perhaps Lady Waynwood can uncover evidence that Ser Harlan was his father's killer. As Master of Laws, Yohn would be able to arrest him, send him to the wall or execute him if need be. Yohn scribbled a letter on some parchment stained with mud on the other side, and sealed it with the orange wax of House Royce. On the morrow, the letter would leave along with the two skeletons, Ser Morton Waynwood on an honor guard back to the Vale. Rising, he beckoned to Harrold and the boy followed him outside.

The campfires were springing up across the field of brown and grey and green. Within the great castle's grounds about two hundred men who had honored themselves in the battles were making camp. Outside the thick wooden walls was the vast Runestone army, spread across the fields and the shores of the Red Fork on either side of the town. The two hundred men would soon be knights.

Harrold finished his goblet, and after slipping back inside to refill it, they walked through the walls out to the great camp. Ser Lyn Corbray was waiting to meet him outside the gates, as well as his cousin Lord Nestor Royce, Ser Symond Templeton, and Ser Morton Waynwood. Fifty yards away his son Andar was lighting the biggest of the campfires. Together the men walked as the flames licked the sky high above. Ser Lyn walked a few steps ahead, and for the best. Yohn was still wroth with him for his hasty moves against Randyl Tarly. His orders were to harry the scouts and draw Tarly closer to the castle.

Wine was being rolled out, and rabbits and squirrels crackled on every spitfire. His son clapped him on the shoulder when they met at the great fire. Yohn commended him on his work with the scouts. Ser Andar had been credited with opening the castle gates at Harrenhall, and they had retained many men in their retreat thanks to his scouts. In the bask of victory at Harrenhal they had laughed and drank in the night they took the castle. That was an easy win. The next was harder, and for the best. We have seen who was really made for battle. Yohn knew now that he could rebuild the left cavalry's strength with a better commander.

Yohn took a gulp of the wine that emptied the goblet, and bellowed, "MEN OF THE VALE!" A roar filled the night air. "You have bloodied your swords, lost brothers and friends, but we are still strong! Tonight we honor those we lost, and begin to turn the page in this war on the morrow. We are strong, we are King's men, and we will prevail, for the Vale, for the king, for Westeros!" The men shouted back to him "for the Vale! For the king! For Westeros!" Yohn took the second silver goblet from Harrold and handed them to his son, who emptied the contents into the fire and tucked them away. To Ser Lyn, Yohn commanded, "bring the men."

The men to be knighted made formation in rows of ten. Lord Yohn Royce, Lord Nestor Royce, Ser Lyn Corbray, Ser Andar Royce, Ser Mychel Redfort, Ser Morton Waynwood, Ser Symond Templeton, and three other Knights of the Vale stood in another row at the base of the greatfire. Each row of men came to them and knelt in their turn. They said the words and swore the vows, swearing knighthood vows of the Seven before the fire of the Red God. Each row would get their shoulders tapped with a sword, and then rise with a Ser before their names. Harrold was not in the rows; he stood behind Yohn. When finally all two hundred and sixteen men had been knighted, Lord Yohn Royce turned to his squire.

In the fighting that Yohn had encountered against Tarly's army, Harrold had been quick to jump before a charging spearman, cutting the wooden shaft as well as the knight's right hand. Yohn thought he had killed two others, and had seen him cross swords with another knight in gilded armor with the sigil of House Ashford of the Reach. Yohn knew that his men would go to battle again, but better they do it inspired. He remembered something his maester had told him when he became Lord of Runestone. Kill the boy within you. Kill the boy and let the man be born. "Harrold, you made me proud on the battlefield. You fought with honor and bravery. Kneel, my boy."

The young man's lake-blue eyes glittered from the flames. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he hid the smile well enough. Then he went to one knee. Yohn placed his longsword on either shoulder, bidding him to protect the weak and be the defender of honor. Harrold swore he would. "Then rise a man," said Yohn in a booming voice for all to hear, "Ser Harrold Arryn, the Young Falcon, Knight of the Vale."

Harrold snapped his head up and locked eyes with Yohn. The boy was clearly shocked. Slowly, he stood, and in the wake of the greatfire his shadow was cast looming and large across the castle walls. Yohn raised his sword high above his own head and shouted "The Young Falcon!" then hundreds, then thousands echoed, "The Young Falcon! The Young Falcon! The Young Falcon! Knight of the Vale!"

[DKrol]

Aegon VI

The King in the South, the singers and Maesters had taken to calling Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name. Even Aegon the Conqueror began with a foothold, the Seven Kingdoms were not one over night. Aegon stood in the solar of Antlers, the former seat of House Buckwell. He had taken the castle as his own once the town fell to his army. Lord Duncan Strong had urged Aegon to take a tent in the field with the soldiers, but Aegon would have no part of it. "Am I a king or a squire?" the Targaryen had lashed out in response.

Although he had just celebrated his 20th nameday, Aegon felt that many still viewed him as the small babe that was spirited out of King's Landing. He refused to remain in the field with his troops, in part, because it made him feel like many were viewing him as a squire - a young boy just earning his spurs. Aegon hated being treated as less than a king.

He had read, while waiting in Pentos, of the Targaryen Madness. Aegon tried at all times to suppress the fire that burned his mind - to scream, to burn, to kill - and yet it still broke through his defenses. Oft at night, Aegon would dream of hanging men above a fire pit, watching and laughing as the flames licked at their feet, at their clothes, at the rope around their neck. All of his dreams ended with Stannis and his Fire Witch being burned and devoured by a dragon - truly returning the Stag to his fiery demon. Although Aegon woke each morning with a smile, he was forced to tell his Queen it was her beauty that put the pleasure on his face. If any one were to know of my thoughts, of my dreams, of my true pleasures they'd crown me as the Mad King reborn. His waking hours were largely spent fighting the urge to have men gutted, hanged, burned, and thrown from high towers. Especially those knights and Lords who thought, because Aegon was younger than them, that he would cave to their will. I am not a boy. I am a man grown, a King, and soon a father.

No one ever questions Daenerys, and yet I'm three years her elder Aegon often thought. His mind often wondered to his Aunt and her campaign across Essos. Some of his advisers encouraged Aegon to send forces to Pentos and the Free Cities to aid in the fighting of Daenerys. But he recalled Harry Strickland, now Lord of Griffin's Roost, naming Daenerys as Aegon's most powerful weapon to the throne. So Aegon set his sights on Westeros and set his swords against the Stag, his allies, and the Ironborn.

As he sat in the solar of Antlers, preparing to retire for the night, there was a knock at the door. Ser Vortimer Crane - Kingsguard and Aegon's deputy commander of the foot host - allowed himself into the solar. In his hand was a parchment. When he unrolled it, a painting of Sansa Stark was revealed.

"Your Grace," Ser Vortimer said "This came from Storm's End. It would seem that the Lady Stark is getting restless at the capital, seeking to venture out of the castle proper."

"That time will come." Aegon said, taking up a cup of Dornish red he had poured himself. "Sansa is too important to me, to my - to our conquest. The last true Stark? Jon is a bastard oath breaker. If we want to win the North, we must have a viable Lord or Lady to sit in Winterfell."

"But Your Grace, you made Bolton your Warden of the North."

"A ploy, to attempt to give the Northmen who remain loyal to my House a rallying point. That bastard too turned once power was given to him." Aegon sipped his wine. He had taken to the cups recently - it oft helped him better express himself and his intentions. "A proclamation will come on the morrow. Sansa's marriage to the Lannister Imp will be declared null, as they never consummated it and she will be named the true Lady of Winterfell - albeit from Storm's End for the time. All that remains of my Northern strategy is the birth of my child. May the Seven favor me with a son."

A Proclamation from King Aegon

"It is my good and true will, with the Seven as my witness, that Sansa of House Stark and Tyrion of House Lannister are to no longer be considered wed - as the marriage was never consummated in the eyes of the Crown and the Seven.

Futher, with the Seven as my witness, Sansa of House Stark will henceforth by styled the Lady of Winterfell and serve as the Warden of the North. Until her coming of age, she will remain in Storm's End as the ward of Queen Arianna.

Further, with the Seven as my witness, until Lady Sansa of House Stark comes of age and returns to Winterfell, justice for the North will be administered by the Crown, from the capital at Storm's End.

This is my will,
Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm"

[leonardothered]

Tyrion II

Tyrion sat sunk deep into the armchair of his solar, rolling and unrolling the parchment. Without the hand of the high septon the proclamation was merely paper for wiping, but it created a sense of unease in him nonetheless. With a last look, he hopped down from his chair and consigned it to the fire. He watched it crinkle until his eyes blurred from the light, and soon heard a knock at the door. "Enter" he said, turning and looking out into the night to bring his vision back into focus. The stag and lion banners still flew as before; nothing about the castle had changed, yet the entire world had shifted on its axis inside.

They had won a great victory at Lannisport; Tyrion had spent the night regaling Tommen with histories of House Lannister and the realm. Tommen soon had nodded off, but Tyrion kept talking to keep himself and his wits mindful. He had woken instantly and run to Jaime when he had seen him, covered in soot marks and blood, and Tyrion breathed in relief, finally collapsing into a drowse. The ironborn on the coasts had left gifts, but they no longer scampered about the West. The sack of Sunspear followed, shaking the Dornishmen to the roots and bringing ruin to the proud city, unconquered even by the winged dreads of Aegon's day. They had smashed Aegon's fleet and that of his new supporter, but it smelt of low autumn to Tyrion, not the high summer many were praising it for.

It was Jaime he knew, and was proved right when he turned to find him shutting the door and slumping into a seat, still wearing his plate armor and white cloak; the valyrian steel Tyrion had christened Brotherhood hung at his side in its sheathe. He had been to see Tyrion almost every evening, along with most of his other councillors, and all about the same issue. Jaime opened his mouth to speak but Tyrion raised his hand. "Spare me Jaime, we both have your argument memorized by now." His mouth closed into a hard frown. Tyrion walked to the sideboard; "Wine? If I'm going to hear it again I want to be well imbibed"

Jaime took the cup with his good hand, but did not drink. "Tommen-" "Tommen is no less a Lannister than you or I. You could even make the argument for moreso" He drained his own cup, and went for more. "The Lannister name is as good as any, and better than most; we were kings for thousands of years, Tommen's blood is no less royal" Jaime narrowed his eyes. "The name is poisoned for him. It's an exclamation of blight he will never shake, neither him or Myrcella. The very faith we house here in the west will denounce him, and-"

"And if he stays a Baratheon and a king he will lose his head! The faith is indebted to House Lannister, as is our new king Stannis. For the nonce this is merely an uncle and nephew come together against a greater foe, a mad dragon king whose very claim descends from the last!" Tyrion made to finish his wine but choked in his anger and flung the cup away. "Do you think I mean for Tommen and Myrcella to live as what you and Cersei have wrought? Inbred pretenders with a castle as parting gift, and a legacy of despair?" The mention of her name set Jaime's face crumbling. "We were... unthinking, we moved with..." Jaime struggled with the words

"Cersei knew exactly what she was doing Jaime, and you knew what she was. Father and her didn't die of poisoned wine, they died of pride, of arrogance. I will not make the same mistake, and neither will you. I have given us time; we are invaluable to Stannis' cause and he can make no move to denounce Tommen or Myrcella at this time. His own debts mount, and coupled with the debts already owed by the crown, to House Lannister included, he will need us even with the dragon pretenders gone." He grabbed a special Myrish glass from the shelf, and set it on the desk between him and Jaime. He filled it halfway as Jaime watched, hungry, always starving for reassurance. With great care, he leaned it at a rakish angle, and let go. It sat suspended; he gave a small smirk which slowly turned somber and serious.

"We must hold this balance Jaime. At this point, Tommen is Stannis' nephew; he is also heir apparent to the crown without Stannis' possessing a son of his own. The realm still remembers the dance, they will not tolerate a woman on the throne without the threat of dragonfire, from dragons that aren't merely overgrown hatchlings"

There was more Tyrion left unsaid. The situation could not hold for long; Stannis would demand the relegation of Tommen soon enough once Aegon was inevitably swept away. Even now there were orders in the works to make him a landed lord in his own right. Tyrion could make even greater demands in exchange... But Tommen's claim must needs be yielded eventually. He had done what he could to placate the lords of the west, but he was aware his own proverbial neck was on the block with every move he made to protect Jaime and Tommen.

"Stannis must needs see the reason for deception, or damn House Baratheon and Lannister both for the sake of justice. He will be king, or he will be just; there is no middleground for him to walk."

He lightly touched the rim, and the mouth of the glass spun towards Jaime. He picked it up, and finally drank.

[badgate]

BRIENNE

Part 1 of 3

The eastern sky was pink and pregnant with the coming dawn as Brienne of Tarth gathered her things to enter the town at Bronzegate. She exchanged her armor for clothing closer to that of a peasant; rough-spun wool that hid her breasts and made her look like a man. Her hair was short enough nobody would question it. The Maid of Tarth hid her valuable possessions inside the clothing, and made way to join the other line of farmers and workers waiting to enter the town.

Each step is a step further away from Aurane Velaryon. The marriage had been forced on her by her father. Don't think about that. The conflict that had flourished between Brienne and her father since her return from the War of the Five Kings was still raw. Lord Selwyn Tarth had little choice but to yield to Aegon when the Golden Company came knocking on the island's door. But Brienne was surprised by her lord father's devotion to the young king. Lord Selwyn had been very loyal to Robert Baratheon, and though Brienne still nursed dreams of revenge against King Stannis for the death of Renly, Brienne had expected to return home to the fiery stag flying above House Tarth's banners. Instead it was the three headed dragon of Targaryen, and her father was leading an army for the king in the Kingswood.

"Aurane is very comely. Many have said he looks like Rhaegar Targaryen," her father had said. "I will not endure another arranged marriage," Brienne had replied. For a week she had held her tongue, been curt toward the newly legitimized Aurane Velaryon, and allowed preparations for a hasty wedding begin. It had only been twelve hours since she had disappeared. After a few days, knowledge of her disappearance would be known at Bronzegate.

By the time the gates were opened, the sun had risen against the small-folk's backs. The guardsmen at the gates did not give her a second look as she passed, and inside the small town she found one large, busy courtyard below the castle. On the far end of the walls she gave two bronze stars to a stableboy to house her mount, and she found a small inn and breakfast on the west end of the town.

She broke her fast on cooked eggs, bacon fat and cider. The table she chose was near the innkeeper's bar. "When did the castle fall?" she asked the woman. "Three days past. They dragged poor Lord Buckler into that courtyard and chopped his head off. We're dragons here, now. Not that I got anything wrong with dragons, mind you. Lord Buckler was a good man, though. They had us sieged for months, you know. Every night he'd let all us small-folk into the castle, feed a hot supper and let us sleep in the barracks while the soldiers stood watch. Promised to feed us through winter, too. Even provision firewood for everyone to have a fire once in a while. Though I guess now that he's dead I could just go chop down a tree. No lord to be accused of stealing from." When the woman spoke you could see that she only had three good teeth, and a few rotted molars.

The cook brought out a tray of fresh lemon cakes and she tossed the inn-keep a bronze star in exchange for one. "You shouldn't talk, if you're going to be a man," the old woman said. Brienne felt her heart skip a beat. The crone continued, "you're ugly enough, don't get me wrong. Big and bulky, intimidating enough to ward off most robbers. But your voice gives you away. Anyway, room's all yours if you've got a couple pieces of silver to go with them bronze."

After walking the streets for an hour, she noticed the big courtyard was still. When she got to the crowd blocking the streets into the courtyard, she saw a makeshift stage raised against the castle's walls. Atop stood three guards, a steward, maester, and lordlings. The lordling was holding a large scroll, and the maester whispered something in his ear before passing the parchment to the steward. Stepping forward, the man announced, "In the name of Aegon of the House Targaryen, Sixth of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, we will hear and dispense your justice until such time as His Grace King Aegon awards lordship of Bronzegate. All who have business to bring before the court, assemble to the left side of the stage in an orderly line." The lordling coughed. "Lastly," said the steward, now opening the parchment, "from the hand of His Grace himself, 'It is my good and true will, with the Seven as my witness, that Sansa of House Stark and Tyrion of House Lannister are to no longer be considered wed - as the marriage was never consummated in the eyes of the Crown and the Seven.

Further, with the Seven as my witness, Sansa of House Stark will henceforth by styled the Lady of Winterfell and serve as the Warden of the North. Until her coming of age, she will remain in Storm's End as the ward of Queen Arianne.

Further, with the Seven as my witness, until Lady Sansa of House Stark comes of age and returns to Winterfell, justice for the North will be administered by the Crown, from the capital at Storm's End.'

Brienne felt her heart drop into her stomach. The pounding filled in her ears as the chattering of the smallfolk rose and many got in line to plead their cause. Lady Sansa. She had been with Jaime when Lady Catelyn Stark had died at The Twins, and blamed herself for that. I was taking him there on your orders, she thought. Lady Sansa had been in King's Landing when the city burned, and Brienne had thought her dead. I must go to her. I must be her shield.

The proclamation was transparent enough. It was plain to Birenne that Aegon meant prisoner when he said ward. He named her Warden of the North and Lady of Winterfell, a ploy to win support from Northern houses. The memories of her failed betrothals came flooding back. While Brienne had accepted her father's first attempts to betroth her, she had never felt truly free until the day he gave up. Sansa deserved that agency. Storm's End is not far from here. I could be there in a few days. But word of her disappearance would reach the castle not soon after. Her father had told her with wide eyes the activity there, and the efforts to make it a new capital of the Seven Kingdoms; it would be hard to go unnoticed in King Aegon's new capital. I swore a vow. Lady Catelyn had taken her vows and taken Jaime's vows. There is too much risk.

She resolved to decide later. The onlookers were slowly dispersing as the nameless men on the dais dispensed their justice. Looking up, Brienne saw two Targaryen banners streaming from the walls of the castle. She returned to the inn and went up to the room she'd bought. Inside her armor and weaponry were set on the bed where she'd left them. After sharpening the sword and daggers on a whetstone, she laid back in the bed and closed her eyes...

The inn was bustling with noise hours later when Brienne awoke. Dinner was in full swing, so she locked her room's door and went down to eat in the common hall. The woman inn-keep gave her a shaded table in the corner of the hall and an extra codfish with her food. From her corner she overheard two men-at-arms a table over.

"They say them Lannisters joined with Stannis Baratheon now. Ye ask me, he's who we should be fightin' for. When even the Lannisters know, that's when you been left behind. Storm's End is his lands, after all!" The man's companion smacked him on the head. "You want to get your tongue cut out?! We're dragon men now." His friend gulped the ale. "Aye."

Brienne looked away. Survivors from the garrison, she thought. After dinner she went to the stables across the town and paid for the night. Stars were glittering in a cold clear sky by the time she got back to the inn. She fell asleep the second her head hit the straw pillow.

[badgate]

BRIENNE
Part 2 of 3

As the days passed, Brienne of Tarth wandered aimlessly westward through the country of the Stormlands and the Reach. Each day she thought of a different course to set. On the first, she resolved to strike for Casterly Rock, and ask Ser Jaime to accept her sword in service. On the second, she spent six hours riding hard north to pledge her sword to Jon Stark, in honor of her oaths to Lady Catelyn. She changed her mind when the sun set. On the third, she rode east for two miles, intending to sneak into Storm's End and rescue Sansa Stark. When she stopped to eat all her original doubts about that plan came creeping back. For three more days, she rode west with no particular destination in mind.

On the seventh day, Brienne stopped mid-day to let the horse rest and eat the last of the jerky she'd purchased at Bronzegate. After the last bite, she was licking her lips as she stood and her heartbeat stopped. I've been here before. The woods suddenly came flooding in all around her, and again she saw Lady Catelyn before her. Brienne was kneeling, with her sword laid on the ground between them. My vow. They had been fleeing from the death of Renly Baratheon, and stopped here to sleep. Brienne had stood watch all night over Lady Stark. She had held her king in her arms, his neck gushing blood from a phantom cut. Stannis. Lady Catelyn had accepted Brienne's sword, and pledged to not stand in her way when the time came. I was his Rainbow Guard. The shadow should have killed me. I pledge my life to save the King's. She sat down on the tree stump and sobbed.

Hours later, Brienne's hair whipped in the wind as she pressed her horse south. The woods had told her, she knew it was only a day's ride. This is where I have to go. After an hour she let the horse slow, and stopped for a few minutes to give him water and her last onion. The sun had set on her seventh day in the wilderness when she stopped to sleep under a tree just two miles from Bitterbridge. She found her sleep fitful, and during the hour of the owl woke to the thundering of horse hooves, but the riders were on the far end of the hill and didn't seem to see her. The sunrise reminded her of the day she'd entered Bronzegate, a swollen pink light arching over the horizon like a pregnant belly. Again she donned her costume as a man, and rode her horse to Bitterbridge.

The tourney had been held on the side of the Mander, next to the old stone bridge where the castle stood. Across the bridge was a bustling town, grown in size since the start of the war. Fighting has not reached here, though armies have. And recently, it seemed. Where King Renly had held court over the melee, the ground bore the fresh markings of soldier tents. She stopped at the town well to refill her flask, and across the well she caught a flash of red hair. The man, bearing a green cloak and enamored steel, stood guard over the road that led toward the old stone bridge. He glanced at her, and looked again. Brienne froze, but the Red Ronnett looked away in an instant. I'm a man, she reminded herself. Nobody at Bronzegate had questioned her disguise unless she spoke, and Red Ronnett was yards away. But why is he here?

She ignored the echoes of Highgarden as she found an inn where she thought she could find some food and information. Inside the ceiling was choked with smoke, but Brienne was grateful for the food, her stores having run out the previous day. The inn-keep here seemed less informed, however. "Was Lord Garlan the Gallant, he had thousands of men here not so long ago. M'lord can go bugger himself, y'ask me. Profits have dropped by half since the army moved out." Brienne disguised her voice as best she could. "Where did they go?"

The inn-keep narrowed his eyes at that. He knows. "Didn't think to ask," he replied, and moved on to other customers whilst muttering to himself.

As she rounded the corner outside the inn, a dozen men-at-arms bearing the same green cloaks were waiting. Brienne stopped in her tracks, and saw two more Green Cloaks were now standing behind her. The dozen men parted and Ser Ronnet Connington stepped forth, grinning. "Brienne the Beauty. So good of our runaway bride to grace us with your magnificence." He approached her as if they were the best of friends, and linked his arm in hers, leading her down the street. "The singers have composed a dozen songs of our poor Aurane's heartbreak, his eternal wait for his beautiful bride's return." Brienne bristled, and he felt it. "Now now, my lady, don't fret. The game has been won, and Velaryon is the victor. And I am not the scorned contestant you must answer to."

She was led across the bridge and into the castle. It was a small and flat keep, with unremarkably tall walls but numerous turrets and flat land all around. In the great hall were three other knights drinking with a fourth man who had his back to her as Brienne approached. Red Ronnet coughed. "Ser, I have brought you Lady Brienne, the Beauty of Tarth for the pleasure of your company." The man turned and Brienne's heart felt like it was turning to stone.

Ser Hyle Hunt was not a particularly comely man. He stood nearly a foot shorter than Brienne, and had bland brown hair end eyes. His most interesting feature was the scar he bore near his left ear. At Highgarden, he had brought her apples and carrots for her horse and a blue silk plume for her helm. The silk had glimmered like sapphires. But that had all been a game, and before her stood a man who had been to war. "My lady. Welcome to Bitterbridge." He swept his arm over the table and took a seat, gesturing for Brienne to do so as well. The green cloaks left, but Ser Ronnet lingered, and a servant brought in a new flagon of ale and hot bread with beef broth. "In wartime even lords in castles eat plainly," Ser Hyle said with disdain between bites of bread. Brienne sat silent and still, refusing to eat or drink.

Frowning, Ser Hyle leaned forward. "My lady, please accept our hospitality." When she did not reply, he straightened up. "My men, lords, could you leave us? I must speak to Lady Brienne alone." The men got up quickly and left, but Ser Ronnet didn't move to leave. "Ser Ronnet, would you do me the honor? I seem to remember being the one left in charge here." The ginger knight muttered a curse and left the hall, the door closing hard behind him. And then she was alone with the knight. Smiling, Ser Hyle pushed the plate of bread toward her. "Go on. You must be hungry."

"I ate at the inn, before your men arrested me," she said.

"Well, what were they supposed to do? You're a wanted woman, you know. And Lord Garlan left me in charge of the garrison." He stroked his beard mockingly. "What am I to do?"

"Do what you will, but don't expect me not to fight back," Brienne spat. "Why are you here, anyway?" You lied to me, you mocked me. You all mocked me.

Ser Hyle frowned. "Lord Tarly grew tired for my service at Harrenhall. The Vale had amassed an army to match my lord's, but I led the van in a foolish clash against Ser Lyn Corbray. Both armies had to readjust and get reinforcements, and though it gave Lord Tarly the time to figure out their weak spots, I lost a thousand good men in my foolishness. He stripped me of the command after we took the castle and forced the Valemen back up to the Trident. I was sent here to coordinate with Lord Garlan's army. He's raised a few thousand reinforcements, I assume for the Riverlands."

As he finished his story, Brienne realized she was holding a heel of bread in her hand. Slowly, she bit a chunk and chewed. "Ale?" she asked, and Ser Hyle poured her a mug.

He continued, "so, Lord Garlan saw through my presence as a mere messenger enough to know I'd be seeking other service. He left me in command here and hinted at an appointment when he settles into his Lordship at Brightwater Keep. And to earn that, it seems we must escort you back east where your bridegroom awaits." Brienne froze, the ale halfway to her mouth. Ser Hyle smiled. "But perhaps not yet. You've been a fortnight on the road, it looks like. Please accept the hospitality of my garrison. We can find you a nice room here in the castle and a few days rest." After a moment, Brienne nodded, and drank the ale.

[badgate]

BRIENNE
Part 3 of 3

Later she was escorted to a comfortable room on the first floor of the castle. The room had fresh rushes and an oversized bed, with a fire already roaring in the hearth when she entered. Servants brought her a bath and she stripped off her clothes and climbed into the tub. By the time she was done washing her hair and scrubbing her body, the dirt of a week in the saddle had turned the water dark brown. She rose and dried off with a fresh cloth left for her. From her room's small arrow slit window she saw the sun setting in the west, and could hear the end of day bustle in the town winding down. It was a long wait until the dead of night arrived, and the tallow candle in Brienne's room had burned down to the end of the wick. Silently, Brienne donned her armor and gathered all of her things. She was surprised to find there were no guards posted on her door, and in the castle's courtyard she found the stable stocked with saddles, and a large horse sure to get her well and away from Bitterbridge by sunrise.

Ser Hyle is not well suited to command a garrison, Brienne thought as she walked the horse out of the castle. The portcullis was drawn and there wasn't a single man standing watch. As she rode the first mile out of the city, Brienne's relief turned to unease. It was too easy to get out of there. Her new horse trod quickly through the valley on the Mander, but half a mile on it reared up and whinnied. "What is it?" Brienne asked the horse softly, stroking its neck and urging it to continue with her heels.

"He smells blood," came a voice in the darkness. A few sparks suddenly flew from a flint and Ser Hyle Hunt was standing there before her, sitting cross-legged and deboning a trout. "My lady. Would you join me for a midnight snack?"

Brienne's lips pushed together, hard. Her right hand moved to her sword hilt as she said, "I had not thought to find you fishing in the Mander so late."

"Well, life at Bitterbridge has been quite the disappointment, but we do not lack for fish. Did you not note the lack of guards on your way out? It's a quiet place, the war has yet to find us here. And did you really think me fool enough to exchange one stupid lord for another?" Ser Hyle stood, and Brienne's fingers tightened around her sword hilt. "My lady, let me join you. Let me run with you. I'm better company than your horse and your ghosts. The game is over, and I am haunted by guilt for my part. It was cruel and I was wrong." He took a step forward; she loosened her sword from the scabbard. "Take one more step, Hunt, and I'll remove your head."

The knight stopped. Sighing, he said, "so be it. I am sorry, Brienne." He drew his sword, but she was faster.

Leaping off her horse, Brienne landed full on Ser Hyle's chest and the knight fell to the ground with a hardy thud. She did not hesitate to swing her blade, but his came up quick enough to divert the blow. Somehow Ser Hyle got to his feet. They fought for what felt like hours, trading blows while he traded taunts as well. "Your father has half the kingdoms keeping their eyes peeled for you. Go back to Bitterbridge with me, Brienne, if you will not accept my company on the run." She almost had him against the river, but as she charged to push him in he stepped aside. They both had to readjust, but as Ser Hyle brought his sword back up, Brienne of Tarth knocked it from his fingers with a blow that flashed all the way up to his shoulder. "Why do you want to join me?" Brienne muttered. She raised the sword to plunge it into Ser Hyle's heart, and shouted again, "Why do you want to join me?"

Ser Hyle was on his back. He raised his left hand up as if it could protect him. "I-I-I dreamed of you."

Brienne's sword arm went limp, and she lowered the blade. Her mind was swimming with confusion and shame. 'I dreamed of you,' Ser Jaime said when she asked why he came back for her. The bear had been about to kill her, but Jaime had plunged into the pit despite his right stump where his hand was gone, and saved her life. Looking down, she saw relief on Ser Hyle's face. "I dreamed of you," he repeated.

She stepped back and said curtly, "I will accept you as my companion." She sheathed her sword and mounted the horse. Ser Hyle sheathed his and Brienne saw for the first time a horse tethered to a tree mere yards away. When all was said and done, the two outlaws set their horses down the road. Ser Hyle turned. "So, my lady, where shall we go?"

Jaime...Sansa...Jon...or none at all, she thought. Half an hour later, the two riders reached the peak of a particularly large hill. Brienne paused and looked to her back. Far off behind them was Bitterbridge, bathed in another rising son. But this one was not pregnant. This morning, the sky was red, drenched with the blood of childbearing. She turned, and the companions set off with the rising sun at their back.

[DKrol]

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[badgate]

To All The Lords and Ladies of the Vale,

In the name of Yohn of House Royce, Lord of Runestone, Lord Regent of the Vale, Commander of the Runestone Army and Master of Laws, let it be known-

-- I hereby appoint Ser Targon the Halfwild to command of the reserve of the Runestone Army.

-- Ser Albar Royce, son of my cousin Lord Nestor Royce, is hereby raised to his father's lordship of the Gate of the Moon.

-- I hereby appoint Ser Sam Stone to command for the new Runestone garrison, and task him with restoring the castle, harbor, and town.

-- I hereby appoint Ser Damon Shett to Lord Commander of the Gulltown City Watch.
--- I hereby raise House Shett of Gull Tower to the office of lordship in perpetuity.
--- I hereby appoint command of the Gulltown City Watch to the Lord of Gull Tower in perpetuity.

Signed,
Ser Damon of House Shett, Knight of the Gull Tower, representative of Lord Yohn Royce on the Gulltown Small Council.

[DKrol]

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[Spamage]

Willas Tyrell

Willas waited patiently as the Council entered the meeting chamber, all of them clearly eager to hear what he had to say, for he had called them there warning of important news. His grandmother arrived first, with a knowing look in her eyes. Not for the first time Willas thanked the Gods Olenna Redwyne was there to advise him, since he had taken up his title as Lord of Highgarden she had been his biggest supporter and was one of the few people who was completely honest when he asked for advice. She had backed his plan completely when he had spoken with her several days earlier, something which gave him hope.

After the others had taken their seats he began to speak. Olenna sat to his left, Lord Redwyne to his right, with Garth Tyrell, his wife, mother, and uncle Baelor further down the table. Two empty chairs signified the absence of Lord Tarly and Garlan.

"I'm certain you're all wondering why I called this session of the Council, and perhaps even more perplexed as to why I said it was urgent." Willas said, his eyes meeting each Councillor's as he spoke. "It's no secret Stannis has been gaining ground the last few months, and our men have been doing most of the bleeding. While we were holding the Riverlands against the oncoming forces of the Vale, Aegon was playing house with Arianne." As he spoke Willas saw a flash of nervousness enter his mother's eyes, but the remainder of the Council appeared to be in agreement.

"Hear, hear!" Lord Redwyne shouted, having been angered over the lack of aid from Aegon when the Reach was working to rid itself of the Ironborn, something with had damaged his prestigious fleet.

Willas smiled slightly and then continued. "I bear the boy no ill will, but a King must protect his vassals, not rely on them. Several days ago a raven arrived and we were offered terms by Stannis. In return for bending the knee, he said he would pardon the Reach. Initially I was inclined to refuse these terms, as we've been against Stannis since the beginning, but then I asked myself, over what? Stannis didn't blow up King's Landing, Stannis wasn't the one who murdered my brother, Stannis didn't sack the Shield Islands and threaten Oldtown!"

"How many people must die before we realize the cause is lost?" Olenna asked, completely backing up her grandson. "The heart of the Reach has been lucky so far, and we appear to be one of the regions set up best to withstand the oncoming winter. But as we've seen time and time again in the course of this pointless war, luck can change in an instant. I thank the gods everyday that I was not in King's Landing when that monster blew up the city, all the while cursing myself for not forcing Mace, Loras, and Margery to accompany me to the Reach. While there will surely be repercussions within our region from declaring for Stannis, I believe the anger of a few is preferable to being raided and ransacked by the armies of many."

Talla was the next to speak, "What of Riverrun, or my father at Harrenhall?" she asked worriedly.

"Don't worry my love," Willas responded in a comforting tone, "Your Lord father has been in contact with me since I received news of the offer. Though I suspect he'd like to see more battle before bending the knee, he understood my eagerness to cease fighting in the Riverlands and return the men of the Reach to protecting their home instead of attacking the lands of others."

"We're certainly going to need him", his mother added. "How do you expect the High Septon will react when he receives news of this? Lest we forget, he believes Stannis and his priestess to be demon worshipers..."

"I expect he will be furious." Olenna responded before Willas could get a word in. "That being said, what can he do?" Tensions are high in Oldtown, remember that he's in a power struggle with your father Alerie, and if he lashes out against us, I'm willing to bet he understands it would cost him and the Faith any control they have in the city. "

But the mention of the red priestess has brought a certain unease to the air. "Will we be expected to convert?" Talla asked with a tone of concern in her voice. "I was raised in the Light of the Seven, as were we all, and leaving the faith of my fathers makes me worry for the safety of my soul" Willas knew there was another soul she was worrying for, their son's. Mace was a healthy child, thank the gods, but Talla was constantly fretting that something would go wrong.

"I have not broached the subject with him yet, nor will I for a while. I hope he chooses to tolerate our beliefs, as it'd certainly save us from trouble with the Sparrows, but honestly I'm not sure what he'll say" Willas replied. For several second there was a period of silence before Willas raised his glass, "To Stannis and peace!" he toasted

"To Stannis and Peace!" the Council replied. After a quick meal, full of planning for the long term in light of House Tyrell's changed allegiance, councillors began to depart, everyone realizing how late it was. His mother finally came around later in the meal, though she expressed continued concern over the High Septon.

His uncle Baelor was the last to go, ensuring Willas he'd have his personal loyalty, though he could not speak for his father, Willas' grandfather Lord Leyton. After he departed Willas looked out upon Highgarden, now bathed in the light of the setting sun. Forgive my Loras, he thought to himself. As he watched the golden rays sink below the horizon he reflected on the fates of his his father, brother, and sister, all slain in the war.

[badgate]

Yohn Royce

The greatfires roared about the castle of Duskendale after twilight set in. Though Yohn could count the Vale men he knew personally who had converted to the red god on one hand, it seemed enough of his soldiers had joined the faith to justify a greatfire in their camp on the south side of the castle. On the western side of the castle were the men under Ser Rolland Storm. More fire worshipers over there, Yohn noted. Their fire was bigger too. However the biggest fire was on the north side, where the sellswords from Essos made camp. There were so many followers of R'holler over there that their nightchant echoed all the way to the southern camp.

"Lord cast your light upon us," Ser Symond Templeton intoned. "Lord cast your light upon us," the mass responded. Ser Symond was one of the earliest and most fervent converts in the Vale. Across the flames Yohn saw his son Andar and Harrold Arryn sharing a flagon of wine, chatting quietly and laughing. He noted with some sort of pride that neither joined in the prayers. Across the camp the murmers from the other two fires could be heard.

"For the night is dark and full of terrors," Ser Symond finished. This time, Andar and Harrold raised their goblets and joined in: "for the night is dark and full of terrors."

The camp broke into its normal rhythm of dinner and the Lord of Runestone turned to his companion. "My lord, shall we?" Lord Jon Lynderly nodded, the whiskers on his second chin quivering. Yohn had yet to find another squire, so they joined the camp line to receive a bowl of brown beef stew and hard bread to soften in the broth.

Inside his command tent a fire was not far from the table, so they were kept warm from the winter winds. "Lord Tyrion has made demands that the Vale and the West cement our alliance in the name of our King," Yohn began. Lord Jon looked up. "The Lannisters," he sneered. "What were King Stannis' terms?"

"His Grace is merciful. He has pardoned the west, and Tommen and Myrcella have forsaken any claim to the Iron Throne. The Imp, on the other hand, is his father's son. He writes that two betrothals and wardships shall suffice. Myrcella Baratheon shall be legitimized as Myrcella Lannister...as will her younger brother."

"Betrothals..." Jon began.

"Two," Yohn repeated. "Your son Terrance will marry Myrcella Lannister when they have both turned fourteen. Terrance will ward at Casterly Rock until he comes of age."

Lord Jon's face betrayed no pleasure, but Yohn knew his men. The former Baratheon princess may be seen as tainted in the eyes of some, but she was the best option Lord Lynderly would ever hope to find for his heir. Now the bait. His coffers are as broke as any of ours. "Lord Tyrion has offered a generous dowery. Here." He slid a letter across the table. This time Lord Jon smiled. "This will do, my lord."

Yohn stood, and so did Lord Lynderly. "Good," said Yohn. "Terrance will depart for Casterly Rock as soon as the Riverlands are safe to travel."

"Forgive me, my lord," Jon paused. "You said two betrothals and wards. The others..."

"Will be known soon enough," Yohn finished. "Do me a kindness and send me my son."

The Lord Regent had finished another goblet of Dornish white by the time his son joined him. "Do you remember this?" he asked him, holding out the goblet.

Andar sniffed it and rolled his eyes. "Your drunk wine." Yohn laughed.

Five years after Robert's Rebellion, House Swann of Stone Helm had held a tourney to celebrate Ser Balon's appointment to the Kingsguard. Yohn had supped the second night of the tourney with Lord Toland from Dorne, and gotten so drunk on the tart Dornish white that he had purchased forty barrels. It had been a pricey vintage, but worth every copper. The grapes were a special green breed from the lands of Ghost Hill. Years later, fifteen barrels still remained in the cellars of Runestone.

"Sit, sit," he said to his son as he poured him a goblet. Andar sat across the table and immediately picked up the letter where Jon Lynderly had left it. Yohn watched as his son read the terms.

"A bastard?" he asked incredulously. "A highborn bastard, said to be beautiful," Yohn replied. "And she will be Lady Joy Royce once you drape the runestone cloak about her."

"Joy Royce..." his son let the name hang in the air.

"Lord Tyrion says she has been a sad girl since her father disappeared in Essos. I have no doubt you can bring joy to her once more, my son." Andar put the letter down. "When will this happen?"

Yohn sipped the wine. "In a moon's turn, in two, half a year, when summer returns. We are not sure. Once the Riverlands are liberated and under Stannis' rule, Lady Joy and her cousin will come to the Vale. The boy will ward at Runestone."

"That's fair enough. Was Lord Jon happy?" his son asked. "More than he should be. But his house is as impoverished as Lady Waynwood before your sister wed Ser Harrold. His son will be smitten, I am sure. Myrcella was a beautiful girl at court, and they are of an age."

Andar rose. "I should set the scouts. The boy king may be desperate enough to try and attack us in the night. With your leave, father." Yohn stood and his son exited the tent.

Again taking his seat, Lord Royce looked over the other letters. There was the proclamation he'd sent to Lord Damon Shett. He should be happy. And it's all well and good. House Grafton were Targaryen loyalists, running back to before the Queen Regent of the Vale had yielded to Aegon the Conquerer's sister. With the Small Council set in Gulltown, Yohn thought it better to play the game than let the game play him. Soon Gulltown will be equal parts Royce and Grafton. The Shetts were a knightly house, at least until recently, and sworn directly to House Royce of Runestone. In raising Ser Damon to lordship, he'd put his bannerman in charge of the City Watch as well. His thumb ran over the sentence he'd thought over for three nights. 'I hereby appoint command of the Gulltown City Watch to the Lord of Gull Tower in perpetuity.' If House Shett was ever extinguished of all its male members, Yohn supposed a Lady Shett would take command...or appoint someone, if she chose.

On the marriage proposal, he noted that Terrance was not promised to squire for anyone until after he got to Casterly Rock. Perhaps he should already be a squire. Lord Grafton's eldest son had been left to castellan in Gulltown. Surely he couldn't turn down such honorable appointment as being Terrance's sworn shield in the west. And one less Grafton in Gulltown. Lord Grafton was at Dragonstone, his younger son Gyles a squire at the Bloody Gate. Lady Anya may try to work against my machinations, he thought. But that can be changed. She has daughters, and my cousin's son needs a wife. But that would have to wait for the nonce.

Yohn found his flagon empty and strode across the tent to refill it from the last of the barrels he'd brought with him to war. He was just pouring into his goblet when a breathless rider burst into the tent. Yohn's instinct was to draw his sword, but he dropped it when he recognized Ser Targon the Halfwild and his squire. "My...lord..." he muttered through heavy breaths, half bent over.

Yohn filled two more goblets and handed them to the knight and boy. Ser Targon's entrance had drawn many eyes, and behind him came in Ser Harrold, Lord Jon, Andar, Albar, and a few of his other knights and commanders with curious ears. Ser Targon gulped the wine and belched. "My lord...we received word...your orders..."

"Take a seat," Yohn commanded him. "Breathe and drink."

A few minutes later, twenty or so men lined around the table as Yohn sat on one end with Ser Targan and the boy on the other. "So," Yohn began.

"You sent us to coordinate with Lancel Lannister at Maidenpool as you went south. Before we left, we heard news. We rode hard, surprised the horses aren't dead." Targan produced a small, rolled up parchment with a broken wax seal of House Waynwood. He handed it to Lord Royce, who unrolled it and read.

Lord Royce,

I regret to write to you from Gulltown devastating news of your home. It seems this false King Aegon the Pretender sent his sellswords to take Runestone unawares. Nearly a dozen of your garrison survived long enough to reach Gulltown and tell the tale, but most have since died of their wounds. The castle walls stand, but the town and harbor were put to the torch. Most all of your garrison is dead. Even Maester Edmund's corpse was found by our scouts. We have dispatched part of the Gulltown City Watch to fully assess the damage. The ships that we had begun construction on are gone, as are the workers with the talent to raise them. I will pray that you avenge this heinous crime, my friend.

Signed in the name of the True King,
Lady Anya of House Waynwood, Lady of Iron Oaks, Mistress of Whisperers to the Gulltown Small Council.

Yohn's blood had run cold, and he felt his face paling before the men. "Father, what is it?" Andar asked.

Wordless, Yohn handed the scroll to his son. Andar read quickly, and looked up. "Aegon has sacked my home," he told the room.

An uproar followed that was more than he would expect. The lords and knights shouted that the boy would pay, and others voiced concern for their own holdfasts on the coast. The voices made a cacophony that prevented anyone from truly being heard.

Yohn picked up his goblet and emptied the contents on the floor. Rising, he banged it hard on the table, one, two, three, four. By the fourth the tent had quieted down.

"That whelp of a king is one day's ride from us at Rosby. My home is in ruins. The castle of Royce kings, blessed with runes of protection, is gone. All of our homes are at risk." He felt the blood flush his face. Again he drew his sword, slicing the air. "My lords, join me or leave me, but I will not turn back until this c**t boy's blood fills the fullers of my blade. It is time to end his farce of a reign. I swear it by the Old Gods and the Seven..." he turned to the fire in his tent. "And by the Lord of Light." When he said that, Ser Tymond almost looked relieved. Yohn raised his blade, and the men did the same.

"This boy's reign will end with my blade." The tent roared in agreement, and the commanders sat down to make their plans. The rest left, and soon word crept across the garrisons until the night was full of the hum of voices, like three greatfires joined into one.

[DKrol]

Aegon VI

Aegon stood at the edge of the camp they had set up for the night, standing on the crest of a hill. He looked North and saw the fires of the Arryn-Baratheon-Royce army. He looked East and heard the flapping of leathery wings. He look South and smelled the salt sea and the Ironborn sailing about. He had been in the cups since sunrise and it was now well past moonrise.

A squire approached the Targaryen, squeamishly. In his hand was a roll of parchment with the seal of Lord Varys on it. Aegon snatched it up and dismissed the boy. Useless idiot, they all are. He tore of the seal and feverishly read it. "Your Grace, the Roses have shown their true roots. They have turned on us - and towards Stannis." Now Aegon looked West and saw the army of Tarly marching on him. He threw the parchment down and slammed his heel into it.

"I AM THE KING!" Aegon screamed. His anger had boiled over, not fought back in anyway by the ale and wine he was drowning in. "I AM A TARGARYEN! I AM MADE TO RULE!" The four kingsguard who had accompanied Aegon on his campaign North came running up the hill to him, swords drawn.

"Your Grace, what is the matter?" Ser Garth Hightower asked as he approached Aegon, who recoiled at the sight of the Reachman.

Aegon drew Blackfyre, which never left his side these days, and pointed it at Hightower's chest. "You, damn Reachman, are the matter. Lower your sword, lay it on the ground." Hightower looked sideways at Sers Vortimer Crane, Ryon Allyrion, and Archibald Yronwood who were just as confused. Hightower put his sword on the ground and stepped back, his hands above his head.

"Your Grace..." Crane said, only to be silenced by a wild glare from Aegon. Aegon's head was dripping with sweat, his hair matted with sweat and dirt as he had stopped bathing for nearly a moon's turn.

"You bloody Reachman, you bloody traitor!" Aegon sprang forward and Blackfyre sliced through Hightower's armor like a knife into warm butter. Blood spurted out of the hole as Hightower collapsed onto the ground and Aegon sprang onto him, hacking away at the dying man's neck, head, and face. Ser Vortimer Crane and Ser Archibald Yronwood pulled Aegon off of their former companion. Aegon broke free of their grip, slippery yet sticky with blood and sweat.

There was a wild fire burning in Aegon's eyes as he held Blackfyre in his hand and pointed it at Crane and Yronwood. The two knights had their swords drawn as well, although a terrible confusion left them mostly unable to use them. Ser Ryon Allyrion was on his knees, laying over Hightower's body - crying, shaking, and praying like a madman. The two had formed a bond during their time together in the kingsguard.

"Allyrion! A Dornishman crying for a Reachman? What would your family think?" Aegon shouted at Ser Ryon, who didn't seem to hear Aegon's ranting. "Answer me! You pest!" Still, Ser Ryon remained on the ground. "You traitor! You cur! Bastard!" Aegon charged at Ser Ryon and planted a strong kick square in the knights jaw with the sickening crunch of bone. Blood immediately began to trickle down the Dornishman's face as he fell onto his back. Aegon stomped on his face once more before jabbing Blackfyre into Ser Ryon's eye. There came a terrible cry from Ser Ryon that was cut short by another blow to the jaw. Aegon kicked the lifeless body and sent it rolling over, down the hill.

The Targaryen now turned towards the final two knights with him. "Are you going to betray me too? Was this all your plan?" Aegon was now shaking badly, Blackfyre wobbling like a rubber toy. His black robes were as crimson as a setting sun and his face looked wild as a savage wolf. "Who else knew of this plan? Varys? Mopatis? My father? Tell me!" Aegon's shouting, matched with the sounds of the death of two noble knights, was beginning to draw attention. Several of Aegon's leal lords and knights had made their way to the hilltop, to see what the commotion was. They formed a circle around their king and the two kingsguard who remained standing.

Suddenly, Aegon fell to his knees. He threw his head back and sobbed, sobbed harder than any man should sob. "I'm sorry! I've failed you father! You wanted me to be king - you wanted me to avenge you and I've failed!" Aegon's stood up but nearly fell over, due to a mixture of his shaking, drunkenness, and rage.

Doubled over in rage and covered in blood, Aegon clutched Blackfyre in his hand. His eyes darted around at the many faces looking at him. Ser Vortimer sheathed his sword and stepped toward the king. "Get away from me!" Aegon screamed at the knight. "You're a Reachman! You're here to kill me? I won't let you do it!" Aegon stabbed Blackfyre once more, with a force built on pure rage and sadness.

And the body of Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of the His Name, fell to the ground as brackish, sticky blood spilled out of his chest - where Blackfyre was buried deep.

[badgate]

Myrcella
Part 1 of 2

The queen had been in labor since dawn. Myrcella had looked out the arrow slit window in her tower cell and seen a sunrise bathed in blood, as it had been for weeks. Now the blood has begun to flow, she thought. Her mother had told her once of the pains and horrors of childbirth. Myrcella briefly said a silent prayer that she would not have to wait upon the queen today.

For lunch she was marched to eat with the other highborn captives: Trystane Martell, her former betrothed, was hardly a captive; however she was not naive enough to miss that he remained at Storm's End to ensure Prince Doran's loyalty. Lady Sansa was sad and quiet, but when a plate of lemon cakes were placed before them after lunch she smiled. "I love lemon cakes," she said as she nibbled on one.

Myrcella had taken to the spices of Dornish food quickly, and lemons were a common ingredient. She plucked a round cake off the plate and ate as well. On the door to the chamber, she saw that Ser Franklyn Fossoway had returned. My shadow. The legitimized bastard followed her wherever she went, except for twice a day when he retired to the privy to move his bowels. The grizzled knight who had come across the Narrow Sea with King Aegon was nothing if not predictable. We all must have our traditions, she thought tartly to herself.

"I hope my sister is okay," Trystane said. "My lady, would you join me in visiting her?" he asked Myrcella. Seven save me. How can I refuse him? Though their betrothal was broken, she still felt butterflies when her prince spoke to her in those sweet tones. His beautiful chin and cheekbones, perfectly sculpted like Arianne's... "Allow me to bathe, and then perhaps," she responded.

After lunch Ser Franklyn escorted her up the keep to her tower cell. She waited by the window for the bath water to be brought up. Two servants poured the steaming water and took their leave. Myrcella took off her dress and climbed in, relaxing in the hot water.

As she enjoyed the steam, her thoughts turned to her family. Uncle Tyrion bent the knee to Uncle Stannis- but her thoughts stopped. Was he Uncle Stannis? Is Jaime my uncle? Or...my... Despite the heat she shivered. She had done her best to avoid those thoughts, but the War of the Five Kings had taken her to Dorne as a peace offering, and now her father's former castle as a prisoner. I must be brave. Like my father...both of them. I may be a lioness, but I am not Joffrey.

Her shadow referred to her as "the princess," or sometimes "bastard."  I have no family name. I'm Myrcella Hill, like the bastards of the Westerlands. But she was born in King's Landing, the largest city in the Crownlands. So am I Myrcella Waters?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door to her chamber opening and hitting the wall with a slam. Ser Franklyn stood there, stealing far too long a glance at her budding teats. "My knight?" she asked as sweetly as she could muster. She sunk deeper into the water to cover herself, and the man scowled. "Her Grace's childbirth is near an end, the servants say. Get up, bastard. Get dressed. You and the other wards ought to be there for the unveiling of our prince." The knight slammed the door shut.

Quickly, Myrcella dried herself on a thick cloth and left it to dry over her bedpost. She pinned her hair back in a golden clasp, and donned a red velvet dress. The dress had a stripe of satin gold at the end of either sleeve and across her diaphragm. If the Queen wants to see her lion cub, I will be her lion cub, she resolved.

The castle was humming louder than she'd ever heard it as Ser Franklyn pushed her faster down the corridors with the butt of his sword hilt. "Faster, little princess," he said mockingly. They walked past two sparrows, one a freakishly tall woman with a plain face and bright blue eyes. She wore a brown hood to hide her hair, and if Myrcella weren't as sharp she could have easily thought the sparrow was a man. The other sparrow glanced at her before looking down at his feet as he passed. This one was shorter, with brown hair and eyes, and a scar that ran from his left ear to jaw. "Out of the way, sparrows," Ser Franklyn said gruffly as he pushed them past.

On the way up one flight of crooked stairs a washerwoman coming down bore the bloody sheets of childbirth. "Is it done?" Ser Franklyn asked the woman. Given his stature and manner of dress as a kingsguard, she had no choice but to stop and answer him. "Yes, m'lord. The queen's had a beautiful baby girl. I beheld the little thing myself. She don't got the king's hair, though, 'least not what I saw." Ser Franklyn frowned at that. A girl! thought Myrcella. He has no heir, not yet. But come to think of it, neither did her uncle-who-wasn't-her-uncle. "Off with you," the knight said gruffly to the women. He kicked at Myrcella's ankle, one of his ways of telling her to move.

In the gallery outside the Queen's chambers were all present members of King Aegon's Small Council. She didn't know many of the faces, but recognized quick enough that of Lord Varys. The Spider. Mother said never to trust him, and anyone I spoke to could be bought and paid for by his hand. Varys glanced over as she was marched in, but looked away disinterested.

Sansa was already waiting when Myrcella joined her side. "I could hear the queen from my cell," the Stark girl whispered. She would have replied, but it was just then that Trystane came running up, out of breath from the climb down from his sister's chambers. "How fares our queen?" Myrcella asked. "She's good. Tired, but good," Trystane answered breathlessly.

The voices in the gallery grew until it sounded like a fly buzzing in Myrcella's ear. Too much noise, she thought, rubbing her left temple.

The black stained weirwood doors opened and Queen Arianne was pushed out on a carved chair with wheels, a precious baby girl sucking at her breast. Myrcella couldn't help but smile at the sight of the child. Trystane ran forward to get a closer look, and then the members of the Small Council, then Myrcella and Sansa had to come forward and congratulate the queen and compliment the child. "We shall have a feast tonight, to celebrate. Lord Varys tells me my royal husband's banners will return before the morrow. If the gods are good, he will join us by dinner to see his daughter." Myrcella was dismissed and Ser Franklyn herded her back to her chamber.

In her tower cell, she looked down over Shipbreaker Bay. Her cell had a slightly larger window than an arrow slit, but still smaller than her head, so she'd never squeeze through. The sea was blanketed in layers of mist. Uncle Tyrion could be right out there, she thought, with a hundred galleys. They'd never see him coming. But that was a girl's fairy tale. Myrcella had never put much stock in the fantasies of the songs bards sang. They were just nice stories to her.

The mists had hung like this the last time she'd seen Storm's End. It had been years before the war, when Tommen was still a baby. Her uncle Renly was Lord of Storm's End then, and the castle had been a splendid sight. The household was lively and the decor beautiful. Her uncle and his squire Loras Tyrell had both danced with her. I was just a little girl then, she thought. She remembered how her heart pounded a mile a minute when Loras Tyrell smiled at her.

Storm's End had been a busy castle back then; but now, it was chaotic in a way she'd never seen. There were so many faces she did not recognized.

That night, Ser Franklyn left her at the table reserved for wards. Myrcella ate alongside Sansa, but Trystane had been moved above the salt. Her formerly betrothed sat to his sister's left, with an empty seat to the queen's right to symbolize Aegon's absence. The feast was modest but lively, with loud drunken ballads being sung over and over. He's going to move his bowels again, Myrcella thought as she watched her sworn stalker disappear into the crowd. She turned to her goblet and gulped down the Dornish red faster than she should.

After the third rendition of the Bear and the Maiden Fair, Myrcella felt her stomach rumbling in response to the drink. I should lay down. If the queen excuses me. She stood and the room spun around and around. Quickly, she grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. I've drunk far too much, she thought. "My lady, I'm not feeling well. I'll see you on the morrow," she said to Sansa before making off to excuse herself from the feast. She approached Queen Arianne on the dais and Prince Trystane tapped his sister's arm to make the queen look up from her babe at the breast. "Your Grace, pray excuse me, but I ought to retire to my cell." Sh*t, I should not have said 'cell,' she thought, and the queen's eyes narrowed as if to confirm her folly.

"You are excused, Myrcella. See that you find your chambers quickly," she said in a cold voice, devoid of love or kindness.

Myrcella looked around the hall but did not see her shadow. Where would I go? she thought. Escape had come to her mind weeks ago when she first arrived, but she figured it was impossible with the Spider in the castle. Not to mention the recent addition of Ser Franklyn escorting her wherever she'd go after word came of the Tyrells bending the knee to Stannis. There was no way she'd get out alive.

[badgate]

Myrcella
Part 2 of 2

Her head was still pounding as she made her way up the stairs. She rubbed her temples and squeezed her eyelids together to relieve the pain. Drums were pounding down below in the feast hall, and up above in her skull. She heard the scrape of leather on stone and looked over her shoulder to see two shadows following her down the corridor. The spider's spiders, she thought immediately. He's sent them after me.

Turning a corner, Myrcella picked up her pace. She got to a final flight of stairs and looked back to see only one of the men was following her now. She threw herself up the stairs and down the hall to her cell. How will I get in without Ser Franklyn? What if the door is locked? That proved to not be an issue, as she turned the final corner to see the second man had cut her off from the other side. Behind her the shorter, fatter one was jogging lightly to catch up.

The tall man knelt. "My lady," he said, pulling back the hood to reveal his face. His head was topped with a mop of grey hair, and his square jaw kept the face from being handsome. But he wasn't ugly, no...the squished nose was distinctive too. I know this face, she realized. "You..." she began.

"I am Ser Lothor Brune, my lady. You may remember me from your father and brother's court." He stood.

"Yes!" said Myrcella. She found herself smiling. Finally a face I know.

"You rode in Joffrey's name-day tourney, the first name-day after he was crowned." "Just so," the knight said, smiling. He reached a hand over her shoulder to his companion. "And this is Ser Shadrich, a hedge knight in service to your uncle." Myrcella was confused. "Which uncle? The true, or false?"

Lothor didn't look like he wanted to answer that. "The false, I suppose. King Stannis. Though Lord Tyrion was the one who paid us to save you. My lady, do you know that your uncle swore House Lannister to Stannis?"

Myrcella pulled back the sleeves to reveal scars and half-way healed cuts from a whip, all up and down her forearms. "They whipped me until blood ran down my fingers," she explained. "Of course I know." Ser Shadrich made a noise that sounded like a frightened mouse, but Ser Lothor's face darkened so much she thought he was about to draw his sword and cut down the garrison man for man. Instead, he went down to his knees again and took her hands in his.

"Your uncle has won this war. Aegon the Pretender lost it the day the Great Council of the Vale declared for the True King. The stormlands will be the final battlefield, and you a captive in the middle of it." He ran his finger over one of the fresher scabs on her arm. "No one will ever do this to you again, not while I still breathe. You have my word." Myrcella felt tears rising into her eyes.

Abruptly, Ser Shadrich grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. "The feast," he said, and Myrcella realized why. The drums had stopped, and been replaced...with screams. "We have to go."

She had come to Storm's End a child, full of dreams and excited to behold the wonders of her father's home. Joffrey only cared about jousting and practicing with blunted swords in the yard, but Myrcella had taken note of another guest the night they arrived: Ser Davos Seaworth. The Onion Knight was known to be in her uncle Stannis' service, but it so happened he was traveling from Dragonstone to his own lands and wife and children in the Rainwood. "Ser Davos," Myrcella had begun meekly. "I was wondering...if you would do me the kindness..." finally she'd just blurted it out: "I want to see how you saved my uncle!"

The Onion Knight laughed and clapped the little princess on her shoulder. "Of course, my little lady."

As her saviors led her down into the chambers below the castle the memory came flooding back.

"Down here," Ser Davos had said as he led her down a dark and wet corridor into the bowels of the castle itself. The lower they got, the louder was the sea.

Suddenly Ser Lothor and Ser Shadrich came to a stop, and Myrcella ran into Lothor's back. "F***," exclaimed the smaller knight. "The Onion Knight told us how to get in, not how to get out!" They were at a fork with three different corridors they could run down.

Honestly, are all men useless? Myrcella thought. She remembered the way. Pointing to the left corridor, she said, "it's this way." The knights did not question her knowledge, and again they were off.

In peace time, Ser Davos had showed her the murder holes that starving men had looked through as he rowed his boat full of onions and fish into the lower chamber. She had giggled and removed her shoes to splash in the waters that washed in from Shipbreaker Bay. Now, she felt no cause to giggle. There was a voice shouting behind her. "Sansa," the voice shouted, "Sansa!" I am not Sansa, she thought, and ran faster.

Ser Lothor helped her into a rowboat while Ser Shadrich climbed in the front and untied the rope binding the boat to the little harbor under the castle. Lothor used the oar to push them off, and out they went into the mist. Past the first few layers of mist they came on a ship. Myrcella went up the ladder first, then her saviors.  On the deck of the ship Ser Lothor finally smiled. "It is good to see you again, my lady."

The ship was already making off into the knight seas. Myrcella looked back at the castle wistfully, wishing she could have brought Sansa and even Trystane with her. "I'm no longer a lady. I'm no longer a princess. I'm the waters. Myrcella Waters."

"No, my lady," Ser Lothor insisted. He cupped her chin in his hand and made her look up into his eyes. Green, and sad, she thought. "King Stannis has signed the papers. You are the Lady Myrcella Lannister, and you're going home."

[leonardothered]

Tyrion III

The Lord of Casterly Rock sat amidst papers, scrolls, and old tomes. His hand was cramping and he nearly knocked over his goblet of wine when he reached for the abacus and measuring triangle. The proportions must needs be exact, the calculations perfect he said inwardly as he used a sharp piece of charcoal to draw a neat line. In this matter quills were ill suited with their blotches, smudging and dripping. It had not taken him long to summon the knowledge up of the secrets of triangles and circles; though more inclined to history, his education had left him well endowed in the arts of arithmetic as well.

He shifted to one side and was turning the pages of a tome by a Braavosi mathematician when his brother entered without knocking. For once he was not trailed by Tommen, which means the boy had an easier night than usual in being put to bed. He stood without speaking, leaning over Tyrion's shoulder as he made a few notes in a cribbed hand. "Jaime, even if you weren't blocking my light I'd find it ****ing impossible to concentrate with you hovering over." The golden lion stepped back, "I didn't mean to-"

"I know, there is no need to mince apologies with me. I assume you know enough of this numeric babble to puzzle out what is transpiring here?" he said, pushing away from the table and rubbing his eyes. As Jaime came forward again, Tyrion stood and stretched, then walked to the narrow window of his solar and stared out at the cold evening. The sea could be heard where it lapped at the rock far below. Jaime took the seat he vacated and began examining the various parchments, one of which off to the side were orders for Lannister men to leave Goldengrove and return to the West. "Don't stack them, they'll smudge. Use your golden hand if you must touch them, it won't disturb the markings." he said without turning from the window.

It was quiet for some time, then Jaime spoke up: "You've always loved dragons. As a boy and a man they've held your fascination since the time you could wring words from paper." Tyrion said nothing. "How soon is she expected to make her arrival?"

"On dragonback she could be here within the fortnight. Casterly Rock was untakeable even by the dragons of the conquest, so on that front at least, they hold no fear for us; it's never fallen to invaders either, except our namesake, the great Lann the clever." He thumbed the latch for a moment, sighed, and then shut the window against the cold. He had not told Jaime of his plans for Myrcella; not until she was back in his hands would he finally let himself have a moment of ease. With his own nuptials likely to be looming soon for the third time, it seemed the Lions of the West had finally managed some security. Dwarfed, crippled, and bastardized lions though they were.

"They might still leave the west a burnt ruin. Men will shield their eyes from the flames and be tempted to run, small though these drakes are." Jaime stood and walked to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of arbor red. With the Tyrells in the fold Tyrion thought it prudent to open a cask. Already he had able minds and deft hands ready to duplicate his plans and send it to liege and fellow lords. The trees of the west were being felled for ballistae and trebuchets, though the Lannister coffers were bleeding. Better gold than blood, better empty pockets than burning bodies

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. The maester from Feastfires, Myles Prester, entered after Tyrion gave assent, bearing a letter with an unbroken seal... in the dimly lit doorway of the solar, the color of the wax shifted in the firelight.

The breath of the dragon reaches far...

Tyrion and Jaime locked eyes.

The war of the false pretender was over, but a new dance had already begun.

[badgate]

Varys
Part 1 of 2

The queen sounded just like Elia Martell in childbirth. She's almost bleeding as much too. Varys had waited upon Princess Elia when she gave birth to the king. Afterward, his birds reported that Grand Maester Pycelle had told the crown prince she would not survive another child. "What did the Prince say?" he'd asked the little bird. "The dragon must have three heads," the child answered. Varys wondered if Arianne would be able to have three children as he tried in vain to ignore her crying.

"You should take some milk of the poppy, Your Grace, or a small cup of sweetsleep. It will ease the process," Varys offered. "No," the queen insisted. "It could hurt the baby."

An hour later Varys excused himself. The sight of blood was making his stomach roil, and it would be a great offense to retch in front of the queen. Down in the yard, squires were practicing with blunted swords. He saw one of his birds polishing armor in the armory. Never more than a stone's throw away from Ser Rolly Duckfield, he thought.

"Lord Varys!" a voice called across the yard. Varys smiled thinly as his old friend rode in from the growing town outside the castle. Palanquins were not loved in Westeros, so Illyrio Mopatis had taken to riding the largest horse he had ever seen. That thing could pass for Sandor Clegane's horse, he thought as his friend awkwardly climbed off the beast, one hand holding his stomach in. Behind him rode a retinue of five knights, and about twenty dirty sparrows followed on foot. Some were even barefoot.

Varys noticed one curious one, a big tall sparrow. And ugly, he thought. The man had striking blue eyes though, and short cropped hair like corn.

"Our Deputy Master of Coin," he answered his friend. Illyrio blanched. "Our kingly friend insists on honoring the Westerosi before me. I do not complain." He noticed Varys eyeing the sparrows that had followed him into the yard. "Oh yes. Insistent buggers, these fanatics. They promised to perform the blessings of the seven on the prince once it is done."

"Of course, my friend," Varys said.

"How goes the queen's labor?"

"A trial by battle. But she is strong. She will make it through this one, at the least."

From the tower above, a scream echoed down from the Queen's chamber window into the yard. One of Varys' birds walked by carrying a stack of shields. He dropped one next to Varys, and said as he picked it up, "it is done. She is born." The lads jousting had stopped to look up at the tower.

She, he thought with mounting dread. We may all soon be dead. One of the queen's handmaidens then found them. "The baby is coming. Her Grace wishes all Small Council members to be present for an unveiling." Just what I wanted, he thought. Instead he answered, "of course, my lady. We shall ascend at once."

Being a spider was Varys' trade, and he had already spun a web throughout Storm's End. He saw the former princess Myrcella being led through a hall by her shadow; ever since Willas Tyrell's turn of cloak had reached the eunuch's ears the girl was followed everywhere by one of the kingsguard remaining here. He slipped into a little-noticed stairwell and ascended before the main procession of ladies and lords.

When Myrcella was walked in by her shadow Varys glanced before looking away. He heard the faint creak of the wheeled chair they were pushing the queen in. The doors open and out came a bathed and redressed Queen Arianne Martell, glowing with a tiny baby in her arms. A tiny girl baby. When it was his turn, Varys stepped forward to praise the girl's beauty and compliment the Queen. Then he leaned forward. "Your Grace, my birds tell me the king's banners are not far from Storm's End. He should be here by morning at the latest." Arianne smiled.

Addressing the gallery, she said, "We shall have a feast tonight, to celebrate. Lord Varys tells me my royal husband's banners will return before the morrow. If the gods are good, he will join us by dinner to see his daughter." Lady Sansa and Myrcella were ushered out, but the Queen's brother was allowed to stay. "What's her name?" little Trystane asked his sister eagerly. Arianne smiled, but only answered "that's for the king to decide."

Varys remembered a story he'd heard about wildling customs. Typically the free folk did not name a child until it was two years old, for fear of cursing the babe. The queen would do well to do the same, he thought.

After the unveiling the Master of Whisperers slipped to his own chambers, where he found another of his little birds waiting. "Is it done?" he asked the little girl. "Yes, m'lord," she answered. "I saw them off myself." "Good."

His birds had flown into the Reach in reaction to Willas Tyrell's about face in support of Stannis Baratheon. Always a step ahead. It had not been a week after the Highgarden Council's decision came down that Varys had heard and dispatched word into the Crownlands to inform Aegon. He'll have to beat back to Storm's End now, and wait for his aunt and her dragons. They are our only hope now. He dismissed the girl and changed into an opulent purple robe for the new princess' feast.

Down in the great hall the drums were pounding the beat to "The Dornishman's Wife." Varys took his seat on the dais, a few seats to the right of Queen Arianne. She kept an empty chair next to her in case Aegon arrived during the feast. He noticed the same tall and ugly sparrow walking to the corridor that led to the privy just as Ser Franklyn and Myrcella walked in. The Kingsguard sat his charge down next to Lady Sansa and left her there. To use the privy, so my birds say. Twice a day, like a broken sun clock. The knight disappeared down the same corridor as that sparrow.

After seven courses, the eunuch couldn't take another bite. He considered excusing himself, but knew that the Queen liked to have him close. Suddenly a flash of golden hair moved before him as the final chords of The Bear and the Maiden Fair faded in the air. The little princess had stepped up to the dais to ask Queen Arianne if she could take her leave. Varys saw the Queen reply, but couldn't hear it over the drums that announced a parody of The Rains of Castamere that a singer in Storm's End had written. As Myrcella left the hall, Varys suddenly realized her shadow wasn't following her. Where is he? he thought. Before he could find the knight in the crowded hall, servants wheeled out a giant pigeon pie that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't as opulent or large as Joffrey's pie, but just as fragrant. The music died as Arianne rose to cut the pie.

"Oh, this smells simply amazing!" she exclaimed to the servants, hugging each in turn. The cooks stepped back in shock and took their leave. "With this cut," Arianne said in a ringing voice that filled the hall, "we honor the birth of our dear princess, my daughter." All in attendance applauded. Just then Varys saw Ser Franklyn, standing against the wall in the shadows, no less than ten feet from Lady Sansa's table.

Arianne brought down a large knife and the crust of the pie burst open. The top half halved, Varys could have sworn he saw something move. Suddenly, as if in slow motion, he saw Ser Franklyn stepping forward. No. That can't be him. It was the ugly sparrow's blonde hair sticking from the back of the helm that betrayed it. How did he get the knight's armor? Varys asked. He rose to find Areoh Hotah, but before he could a shrill scream filled the hall. He looked to the pie and saw steam rising in the air as the head of Ser Franklyn Fossoway, half-cooked with his hair singed to the scalp, rolled out and landed with a thud at Her Grace's feet.

[badgate]

Varys
Part 2 of 2

The entire hall had gone mad with chaos. There was shouting and pushing, the Queen and half her ladies sobbing and screaming hysterically. Nearly every man with a blade had drawn it, adding to the danger. A few servants doubled over to vomit, and Prince Trystane Martell dove under the dais to do the same. Varys moved swiftly, faster than anyone would have expected from a man his size. He plucked up the newborn girl from where Arianne had left her in a bassinet on the dais. Turning, he found the Kingsguard's lord commander before him. "Ser Areo," he said, "you should see the little princess safely to the Queen's chambers."

The big knight nodded and took the bassinet from him. "Find the captives, Spider. The Lannister girl and the Stark girl." Then he turned and swept through the crowd.

Lord Varys had saved Sansa Stark from the fires of King's Landing. She knows she is safer within the castle than without. So he first climbed the stairs to Myrcella Baratheon's tower cell. When he got there he found the door barred, with no sign of breakage. Quickly, he slipped a key into the door and it opened almost immediately. Within, the chamber was empty. That was when his heart began to beat faster.

Out in the corridor, he found one of his little birds waiting. "Find Myrcella," he ordered tersely, and the boy moved to obey. Turning, Varys bent his knees and ran. He ran faster than he had in years, since he'd been a young man in the slums of Lys and Pentos and Myr. His belly slapped against his thighs with every step but still he ran. Sansa had been staying below ground, in a wide chamber one level above the castle's prisoner cells. He found this door locked as well, and empty within. Now his heart was in his throat. He forced a gulp, then saw a flash of three people running at the end of the corridor. "It's this way," he heard a young girl's voice say. Sansa! How the Stark girl knew of Storm's End's entrance by sea deep below the castle he did not know, but it had to be her.

Running, he chased their shaddows and footsteps deeper into the castle. "Sansa!" he cried as he heard the faint sound of feet splashing where the tide rolled in. "Sansa!" he shouted again.

By the time he'd gotten to the lower chamber, all he could see was a rowboat disappearing into the mists on Shipbreaker Bay. His head was swimming with thoughts. How? How?! With Sansa gone, and possibly Myrcella as well, they'd just lost the only reason Stannis had avoided storming the castle.

Above in the yard there was still chaos. He found Illyrio, who told him the queen was up in her chambers, in shock. Hundreds of men and women moved about. More were leaving the castle than coming in. Fleeing, more like, he thought. He was about to ascend to the Queen's chambers to inform her that the two girls had disappeared when he heard the beating of horse hooves. A horn was blown as about fifty dirty riders charged into the yard. They rode with such fury that they would have stampeded the eunuch had he not jumped back. He saw at the head of the party a kingsguard cloak and moved to meet the knight.

"Lord Varys," the kingsguard said as he dismounted his lathered horse. He was paler than parchment. "Ser Vortimer. What-" he stopped. Behind Ser Vortimer two corpses being laid on the ground. "Hightower?" he asked, almost to himself. "Allyrion?" "The king went mad," Ser Vortimer said in answer. "The Vale crushed us, pushed us down to Rosby, and when your letter came with news of the Tyrells..." the words hung in the air.

Varys fixed the knight in the eyes. "Where is the king?" he asked. Ser Vortimer began to cough. Varys gripped his shoulders and shook him. "Where is the king?!" he shouted. Ser Vortimer coughed. "He's...he's...dead," he managed to choke out, before falling down to sob next to his fallen brothers' bodies.

The other knights had dismounted and the word was falling from every lip across the yard. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, the word was ringing in Varys' ears. He looked over to where Illyrio stood, and saw tears streaming down his friend's face. Everything we worked for. Everything we did is turned to ashes. There were no bells to toll at Storm's End to mourn the king's death, but as word spread across the castle he could hear trumpets and horns being blown in a desolate tone.

[Dereich]

Updated Small Council

Hand of the King: Lord Davos Seaworth
Spiritual Advisor: Melisandre
Master of Coin: Garth Tyrell
Master of Laws: Lord Yohn Royce
Master of Whispers: Lady Anya Waynwood
Master of Ships: Lord Wyman Manderly
Special Represenative to the Iron Bank: Ser Axell Florent

Lord Commander of Gulltown City Watch: Lord Damon Shett

The Kingsguard remains temporarily suspended.

So Says Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

[Garlan Gunter]

Proclamation to those few, brave captains who still dare to fly the stag and fiery heart at sea

You have fought honourably and well. At hand is a new employer who richly appreciates such service. Raise the dragon and join my fleet, and you shall receive more than reasonable remuneration.

Persist, however, in sporting the colours of the usurper Lord Stannis, and I will find you, I shall sink you, wheresoever you swim.

Vowed in the light of the Seven, Aurane Velaryon, Grand Admiral of the Narrow Sea, Lord Regent of Driftmark, Captain-General of the Stepstones, Lord of Bloodstone, Captain of the Seasmoke, commonly known as the Lord of the Waters