After The False Spring - The South

[Garlan Gunter]

THE LORD CAPTAIN



Of late battle had come to Balon Greyjoy as a pleasing relief. It had been sweeter by far tearing down the gates of Starfall, hemming about the Dornish island prison, and finally reaching out to grasp a prize of note on the mainland, than it was every morn confronting whatever borrowed or captive maester would serve, and hearing maddening reports from the ravenry.

Victarion had never been a brother of signal cunning, no, but neither had Balon ever hitherto adjudged him imbecilic. Even Aeron, the young brother he had long sheltered and defended, was, Alannys reported, since his marriage behaving in such a disturbing manner she and Goodbrother had had him confined to his chambers. Worst of all, and Balon hardly dared admit as much even to himself, he no longer trusted his sire’s judgment. They had often disagreed, on a certain, but always Balon had grudgingly known his father had more to teach him, was still in the end the stronger the wiser. With this folly of false gods and the slipping away of the Royal Fleet, though, the original price of House Greyjoy’s shameful subservience to the Roses, Balon could no longer believe this. By the Drowned God, he had never thought the day would dawn when Euron would seem the most competent of the Kraken’s tentacles.

Always excepting himself. Balon had yet to fail, and did not intend to begin. He marched into the Lord’s hall of Griffin’s Roost with all the pride a master of the Old Way deserved, and sauntered as if without a care up to its high engriffined seat. It was an odder fit perhaps than the Seastone Chair he had sat in his father’s absence, but it had long been the boast of his people that they warmed the thrones of subdued lords wherever the sound of sea and foam were heard. Balon meant to see such days return.

The latest grey mouse was in his wake and none too tardily, bowing fulsomely low. Balon waved him up with disdain. “You will send to my brother and the Cleftjaw upon the Point directly,” he stated rather asked, to hear an echo of ‘directly’ like the murmur of a rip tide. He was already tiring of so spiritless a minion when the saltier diversion of the Wynch, a reliably blood-hungry lieutenant, arrived to vary the maester’s maunders. “Ah, Lord Wynch. The preparations are made?”

“As you willed it, Lord Captain.”

“Good. Maester, pass me my father’s dispatches.”

Balon took the parchments in mailed fingers and riffled at their edges. He was not the dullard he liked to irritate his father by appearing. Just like maesters, paper and quill had their uses, distasteful though such might be to those who were born to the longaxe’s song, the prow’s kiss and the rope’s thresh. He had read all his father had written, and much that he had not written. He knew when to obey, …and when to withhold. “Wynch, call in all the captains. I have an announcement for them.”

Balon missed the Cleftjaw, who would like have brought the other raiding masters in with him already, but at least Wynch was curt about his business. Soon the Griffin’s Hall was about half-filled with its unexpected visitors and captors, harsh men all, ringed about, with grey, hard, storm-flecked stares. Balon felt justly proud of them.

“Captains of the Isles. Sons of the Ironborn. Banners of the Kraken. Children of the Drowned God.” As he named their god alone, contrary to his father’s new practice, there was a satisfied hum that grew to a ragged cheer. “My father bids me take the Griffin Lord’s head, and send it to the Rosy Regent. He gives this command in the name of the Eight Gods and the Old.” As Balon had well known it should, a wounded groan rang about the gables.

“House Greyjoy is leal to King Viserys,” he went on firmly, subduing his restive hearers, if perchance only for a time. “And I am my father’s son. But it was not he who gave us this ripe Roost. Nor was it I. It was He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves alone. And he must have his due.”

“The Griffin to the seas!” Wynch cried, as he had been instructed, and the chord was well struck, re-echoed as sweetly as Balon could have dreamed to hear. He allowed himself a fleeting smile as he nodded.

“The traitor Jon Connington is still a lord born and a fine offering. We shall give him to the waves within the hour. When the God is sated, the Roost is yours to do with as you will. I allow right of pillage without reservation. Then we shall raze this Stormlander midden…and then, make no mistake, we sail. The Iron Fleet returns to her rightful realm, the oceans of which she is the Drowned God’s chosen Regent.”

The acclaim was thunderous, not least from the Wynch who had played his part so finely. But it was not the last mummery, of course, to be performed.

They marshalled there, lords, captains, raiders all, to watch the tall, vigorous red-haired man weighted about with stones and irons meet his end. Balon had not bothered to interrogate his victim, leaving the Wynch to make that arrangement too, but he was impressed by the way in which the sacrifice died, composed, just contemptuously defiant enough, fearless, aye, lordly as the holy salten water whelmed him amid the cheers and catcalls of his conquerors.

Wynch must have told him a pretty tale as regarded his three children…and Balon would keep his side of the bargain. Three young Griffins would make useful leverage, alongside the captive Estermonts, in the matter of Lord Stannis. In the meantime, red-haired Ser Ronald looked quite kin enough to the former Lord of this petty fortalice to pass for him…and the Krakens still had uses enough for Jon Connington.

They put to sea all of them after the day of pillage, and Balon watched the Roost blaze amid a sunset stained by smoke, warmed with surging joy by the helm of his Hunting Kraken. Mayhaps he might converse with his true prisoner soon. There was small hurry about the business, after all.

[Emmon Frey]

LAME LOTHAR

The brothers had gathered for a council of war. Nigh on a score of men, young and old, had gathered in the main hall of the Crossing where his lordship was sat in the high seat; only Stevron and his son Edwyn were notable absences.

Lothar, stood at the right hand of his father, had never held much of a voice in such matters but Father would insist on his presence. An idle hand groped one of the twin, wooden towers carved into the back of his father's seat.

"Bastard Walder continues to gather half our levies in the field," Hosteen growled, the contempt in his voice scarcely hidden beneath his beard. The man was still dressed for battle, ready for the moment when the Northmen would begin throwing themselves against the wall, with a massive warhammer held within his big hands.

"The half that remains," Hosteen's younger brother Danwell put in. He was seated alone in the gallery where the rest of the family would gather for formal occasions and matters of state. Danwell was a new voice amongst the councils but he seemed shrewd enough, Lothar thought. "Lord Erenford has made to join Lord Tully," he added with a sigh.

"The heron grows greedy, heh," Walder sneered, a wandering hand groping the breast of the serving girl replenishing his winecup. As she flinched, the Lord of the Crossing laughed. Lothar frowned but made no objection; Lord Walder had never abided the chastisement of his children. Does Father even care that we are surrounded? he wondered. Even the gravest matters would often be set aside for the sake of his father's lusts.

"Traitors, traitors the lot of them! Erenford has long wished for me to take one of his gets to bed. How quickly the men of the realm forget their place when they sniff out an opportunity."

"We should capture him and we should hang him from the battlements," brother Walton helpfully put in, pounding one fist into the palm of the second. Hosteen sniffed, Lord Walder laughed and Lothar shook his head. If that was the height of their plans, Lothar told himself, then they were all truly doomed.

"Lord Stark remains outside," Hosteen continued, fingers wrapping the iron haft of his hammer. He scratched his beard with his free hand and lowered his head, seeking answers to their plight amongst the rushes strewn across the floor. Was Lothar's brutish brother nervous? There was a frightful thought.

"The Late Lord Stark is capricious with his vows and his honour," Father mused, dismissing the serving girl with a slap to her rump. He took a sip of the wine, shifting his watery eyes to his third son, Aenys, in the midst of the hall. "The Wall is ever so far away. We should be glad he wishes to dine with us ere the coming hour, when the Night's Watch remind him of his duty, heh. What of his forces?"

Aenys, grey-haired and lean, had remained quiet until now. He was stood by the grand table in the center of the hall with great leather maps unfurled across the wooden tabletop. Above the proven warrior Bastard Walder, his own heir Ser Stevron, or the wicked Black Walder, Lord Walder valued Aenys the highest when it came to matters of war.

His son and squire, Aegon, was seated at his side.

"If they plan to starve us out," Aenys said in his customarily calm voice, "time is on our side. Our men brought in what they could from the early harvest before the Northmen came and the river us beneath remains a strong source of fish. We will have to ration our supplies accordingly, of course."

Lothar felt a "but" coming, and proved to be only wrong in word.

"However," Aenys continued, "if it comes to an assault, the odds are stacked against us. From what I have seen, Tully and Stark have thirty-thousand men outside our keeps. We have a tenth of that number, if even that. Half their men will die before we fall, but fall we will. That we allowed ourselves to trapped at all was a greivous fault."

"They say Lord Stark plans to place Roose Bolton in command of the Northern forces," young Aegon added. Lothar felt a shiver run down his spine. The Boltons had a reputation and every man in the hall knew of it. Hosteen spat to the floor.

"Perhaps the time has come to consider terms," Aegon whimpered, lowering his gaze to the maps on the table before him.

Nobody said a word. The boy is smarter than he looks, Lothar thought, catching sight of his Lord father's smile in the corner of his eye. Aenys, gruff and unyielding, cast his son a most reproachful glare.

Lord Walder climbed to his feet.

Though an old man, Lothar's father remained spry enough when the occasion demanded it. With winecup in hand did he shuffle down the stairs of the dais towards the table, a whistling wheeze escaping his clenched teeth as he walked. They all watched him: Lothar, his brothers, the serving girl, the guardsmen posted by the doorway at the far end of the hall.

Lord Walder Frey seldom rose for anything in his dotage and his sons were rapt by his every movement.

He placed a withered and spotted hand on the shoulder of his grandson, and smiled his weaselly smile. Aegon dared to meet his grandsire's eye, while Aenys simply watched in stony silence.

As Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, buried his silver cup deep into the face of the boy.

Blood, wine and tooth spilled across the floor and Aegon fell with a thud. His father, wide-eyed and maddened, glanced to Walder with a look of utter astonishment before falling to his knees to help his stricken son.

"WE DO NOT SURRENDER," Walder roared, his voice echoing up high amongst the rafters. Lothar felt his breakfast turn in his stomach and he knew, by the looks in the faces of all his brothers, his kinsmen shared his sudden trepidation. The serving girl fainted but no man moved to aid her. All eyes remained on their father.

Lord Walder suddenly appeared old and frail once again, and he summoned Danwell from the gallery with a raised hand. The young man obeyed, tentatively, offering his arm for their Lord father to take.

"Lothar, Hosteen," Walder said, his voice little more than whisper. "Join me."

And the Lord of the Crossing retreated to his solar, followed closely by his sons. Lothar did not dare a glance to his fallen nephew as he passed him, red wine staining his shoes.

[Emmon Frey]

THE MOTHER

Bethany wept as the babe was placed in her arms. The birth had nigh on killed her but it was all worth it for this one moment. A girl! Finally, after three sons, the Lady of the Crossing finally had a girl to call her own.

The nurse at her shoulder placed a hand on her arm.

"Lord Walder has commanded the girl be named Lysa," she said with a gentle smile.

"A beautiful name," Bethany replied. Months of living in confinement, away from the quarrels of the castle and the lands beyond, were finally over. Tears of joy slashed across her cheeks.

[badgate]

Victarion

There was tension in the crisp morning air about the Crownlands. He awoke as he always did, with his wrists chained and his ankles tied tight to the stump of a tree. The men were already milling about, some finishing breakfast while others prepared for the day's ride. Victarion laid his head back down in time to see the boots of his keeper approaching.

Ser Desmond Grell had served House Tully his entire life, to hear him tell it. There is not a more loyal man to the trout, Victarion thought.

"Up, up," Ser Desmond said, followed by a hearty laugh. "Ah right, you can't. Keep forgetting." Ser Desmond knelt carefully and untied Victarion from the stump. Rising, two of his men-at-arms hefted Victarion up by his armpits and led him to his horse. The grey palfrey was a nasty animal, bucking and biting at every bump in the road, but being tied to his saddle there was little Victarion could do to stop it, much less dismount.

"Where are we today?" Victarion overheard Ser Desmond asking Ser Robert Ryger.

"We should arrive before sun down," the knight answered.

Victarion's heart skipped a beat and the palfrey snapped at his knuckles. Today, he thought.

They had been on the road a week or more, and while nobody would tell him what was going on, Victarion had surmised as much that he was being taken to the capital to stand some stupid trial. I won't be able to stand it, he thought to himself and smirked. I'll demand a trial by combat and kill whatever bastard they send against me.

Confident he could win, Victarion had said as much to Ser Desmon the first night on the road. The knight roared with laughter. "You think you can defeat Barristan the Bold? The Sword of the Morning? Begging my lord's pardon, I'll have to defy Lord Tully's orders and stick around to see which knight of the Kinsguard gets to bugger you with his longsword." After that Victarion had kept his plans to himself.

His confinement hadn't exactly prepared him for a battle anyway. For all the fish decorating the walls of Riverrun, he had seen scarce a cod in that river cell. The best he got most days was a heel of bread, occasionally accompanied by a bowl of brown. The night Lord Tully left to seize the Twins from Walder Frey, he'd been sent two bowls of brown. The next morning an army departed one way, and one-hundred and fifty men the other with Victarion as their prisoner. He could feel how sore and weak his muscles had become in that cell, going to sleep with saddle sores and an ache all over.

And now the journey was almost over, and he faced a new problem: fight or flight? Realistically, Victarion knew he'd only stand a small chance against a knight of the Kingsgaurd in a trial by battle. A trial by words, however...was not Victarion's forte. There are some words, he thought. Surely Lord Tyrell will want to know how deeply involved House Frey really was at Riverrun. He could choose flight, give up the secrets he'd held close as a prisoner, and appeal for mercy. That is weak, he thought. I am Ironborn, and words are the gold price. I must pay the iron price for my freedom.

The entire day was nothing but an endless debate in his mind over the two options. He hardly noticed the city walls until the blast from Ser Desmond's horn broke through his thoughts. The party trotted forward faster, approaching the city from the Kingsroad.

I'm here, Victarion thought. King's Landing. Time to win or die.

[Enduro]

To all the Lords of the realm;

I announce the birth of Brandon Stark, to Lyanna Stark in the Twins.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell

[Garlan Gunter]

BALON GREYJOY, GRIFFIN'S ROOST: 'Do these Starks think themselves Kings again, to wash their daughter's bastard's name so white?'

EURON GREYJOY, BEFORE HARRENHAL: 'It seems the lady gave birth to twins after all - Brandon Stark and Aegon Snow!'

VICTARION GREYJOY, AT SEA: 'The girl is mine, sealed by blood and worthy in battle, and one day yet she shall well know it.'

[Chancellor Tanterterg]

BALON GREYJOY, GRIFFIN'S ROOST: 'Do these Starks think themselves Kings again, to wash their daughter's bastard's name so white?'

EURON GREYJOY, HARRENHAL: 'It seems the lady gave birth to twins after all - Brandon Stark and Aegon Rivers!'

VICTARION GREYJOY, AT SEA: 'The girl is mine, sealed by blood and worthy in battle, and one day yet she shall well know it.'

OOC: Euron hasn't taken Harrenhal.

[Swedge]

An open letter to Lord Tully.

Lord Tully,

I realise how the tragedy in Riverrun has terribly affected your family, you have my deepest condolences. You currently have  my sister and her husband, my own brother, Ser Arwood Frey, as your captives. Please, only punish the men responsible. I request that you release my sister Ryella Royce and Ser Arwood. It is my duty as Lord of Runestone to guarantee their safety.

I do this for my family. I hope it is not an insult to assume you would do the same.

Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone

EDIT: originally thought it was only the Frey captive, modified to include Ryella

[Enduro]

To all the Lords of the realm;

I announce the birth of Brandon Stark, to Lyanna Stark in the Twins.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell

I apologize for the confusion, his name is Brandon Snow.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell

[Garlan Gunter]

A GODLY PROCLAMATION



My father was punished by divine wrath not for treason with House Frey, but for forsaking true religion. The Faith of the Seven and its marriages have no place on the Isles.

The sacred custom of saltwivery is hereby restored.

Long be the praises to He Who Reigns Beneath the Waters.

Attested in my name and faith,

Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke, Son of the Sea Wind



LESSER PROCLAMATIONS OF THE FLESH

My brother Euron I name Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet in my stead.

My brother Victarion I name Lord of Pyke in my stead, until such time, close at hand, as I return thither.

[badgate]

Lyanna

Her room at the Twins was a modest one. "My Lady Royce stayed here with her husband," the handmaid had informed Lyanna sweetly on her first night after the battle. These smallfolk must be forced to memorize the Frey family tree, Lyanna thought to herself as the maid went on to explain that Ser Arwood Frey was the only son of Ser Hosteen Frey, Lord Walder's sixth son and his first by the late Amerei Crakehall, his third wife.

The room was not at all to Lyanna's taste, much unlike her room at Winterfell with the expansive view of the snowy castle courtyard. She had spent many hours on that balcony dreaming of a prince, long ago...

"Any water, my dear?" the crone asked.

"No," Lyanna said as sweetly as she could manage, and pulled her son close to her chest.

The maester of the Twins was uniquely practiced in the arts of labor, having performed the births of all of Lord Walder's children and kin. The pain was more than Lyanna had dreamed it could be, so much that she nearly passed out, but Maester Willamen had seen her through it well enough. In the end she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, with beautiful black hair and bright purple eyes.

"Aegon," she whispered into his ear as he nestled against her bosom.


The trees of the Isle of Faces surrounded them, as they clasped hands and she vowed to be his forevermore. The witnesses were the heart trees all around, with not a Child in sight.

"The rumors weren't true, then," Lyanna had said.

"Who can say," Prince Rhaegar replied. "Few ever dare to venture to the island. The potential for what one might discover...it has scared many brave men for centuries."

She kissed him passionately, as she had always been wont to do when he spoke so sadly. She remembered the first time she'd seen him, singing a mournful version of the Dance of Dragons at the great tourney at Harrenhall. He must have seen me crying, she thought when he named her the Queen of Love and Beauty at the end of the tournament.

All her hopes and plans had washed away with the gallant Prince's attention. She had been blind to his intentions, even on the Isle of Faces, when it became too late.

There in the clearing Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen had consummated their marriage, a marriage they knew none but the gods would ever believe or accept. Lyanna remembered that she fell asleep the happiest woman in the seven kingdoms.

The next morning, as they set out to sail across the God's Eye, a trio of rangers patrolled the shore for every mile they could see.

"There's no way to make land without them catching us," Rhaegar said angrily.

"What do you mean, catching us? I'm your wife, you're the future king."

"Do you really think anyone will believe that, Lyanna? Anyone at all? They're out there because they think I kidnapped you."

"But I'll tell them you didn't," she pleaded. "I promise."

The seeds of doubt began to grow as the sun passed across the sky, and Brynden Tully's scouts continued to patrol every corner of the shore of the God's Eye. Had he really loved her like he said when they ran off from Riverrun together? He needs a new wife, I knew that, but he chose me because he loves me, she told herself. It was common knowledge even in the North of Elia Martell's frailty back then, that she'd nearly died giving birth to Rhaenys and many doubted her survival of a second child.

But to think that Rhaegar had used her just to have an heir...Lyanna couldn't accept it, but couldn't shake the notion either. So when they landed at the hour of the wolf, the slim crescent moon barely lighting the ground, it was Lyanna who had snapped enough twigs on the ground to get the Tully's attention. Her theory was proven right when Rhaegar attacked the scouts on sight, and she held back as the Crown Prince died from the sword of a nameless peasant.


"You cannot name the boy Aegon," her brother said furiously.

"He is the son of a Targaryen, a boy always receives a name from the father's house," Lyanna answered.

Eddard paced the small bedchamber, barely able to look at her and the child. His violet eyes followed his uncle left and right as he crossed back and forth across the room.

"My sister," Eddard finally said, "give him a northern name. For the love you bear this boy, protect him from those who might use him. Please, it is what must be done." Ned finally looked down at his nephew's face, and Lyanna saw the love in his eyes.

After a long moment of silence, she reached for the goblet of chilled water and gulped it down. "I think..." she said, "I think that Brandon, well, that might be a good choice as well," she finished quietly.

The relief showed plain on Eddard's face, but she could tell he was touched by the name as well. "Brandon...yes, he looks like Brandon a little," Ned replied, smiling down at his nephew's face.

When Ned had left, Lyanna pulled back her dress to let Brandon feed. She stroked the crown of his head, then graced it with the lightest of kisses.

"My boy," she whispered. "My prince."

"Prince Brandon."

[Garlan Gunter]

AN IRON KING ARISES



Lords of Westeros!

My father Lord Quellon is no more, and though he was a man of cunning and prowess much of his policy by necessity returns with him to the Drowned God's watery halls. I am not he.

But I do not forget him, nor do I forget that the Tyrell Regent was set up with his help, and then that he was basely baulked of his rightful reward to the last.

My people have naught now to do with the wars in which my father embroiled himself. They need peace, good, godly order, and a King they know.

I return home with all speed to sit the Seastone Chair as Iron King, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, and all my eldern titles of Pyke.

In the wars surrounding me I do not choose to play a willing part. The Iron Throne is naught to me nor mine. But should anyone hinder my homeward passage, be assured he will well know the day when he regrets it.

Furthermore, in consequence of the shiftless Tyrell's footling, strife-addled government of the capital, and of Lord Stannis's victory on the field my people respect - that of battle - House Greyjoy advocates that Lord Stannis should be accepted as Regent in Tyrell's place. But I do not go so far as to deny the boy-king his throne, remembering what my House owes the dragons that once were.

As a show of good faith to Lord Stannis, I release this day to Lord Swann my hostages of Houses Estermont and Connington, kinsmen and rebels to House Baratheon alike, without differentiation.

Attested in my royal name and that of the Drowned God,

Balon of House Greyjoy, Ninth of His Name Since the Grey King, King of the Iron Islands

[badgate]

Davos

Davos never had much need for gods. He sauntered past a dimly lit sept, voices rising with some hymn about the Mother or the Maiden or the Warrior. Few roamed the streets of Flea Bottom these days, especially after the fires. He had Flea Street to himself for half a mile after that sept, passing dark window after dark window with not a candle lit.

The city has gone rancid of late, Davos had observed. This was his home, but never in his life had he seen it so fearful or deadly. The fires across the city had struck terror in many hearts. Each day more peasants gathered in the squares, chanting for Stannis or Viserys or even now the baby Brandon, depending on the square you went to. And even more smallfolk had taken to spending their days gathering outside the Red Keep begging for food or coin or mercy.

Davos had no time for that. The smuggler’s trade was on the rise as of late, and he had just returned from an engagement in the Narrow Sea. Tomorrow morning he would be a hundred golden dragons richer. Unless I sleep through the morning, he thought to himself.

As he reached his apartment above the Dragon’s Breath Tavern he heard the scuff of fine leather boots a block away. Straining to see in the dark, a patrol of guards had passed him without so much as a glance. The wisp of a green cloak as the last soldier rounded the corner out of sight was all Davos had to see. Upstairs, he found his straw bed waiting. He barred the door and laid down to sleep.


That morning he woke with the sun, thank the gods, and rose quickly to meet his employer on the Street of Steel.

There was no trace of Green Cloaks on any street he walked, but he noted the increase of crowds gathering in Fishmonger square as he passed. Today they chanted for Brandon. Must have supplanted the Stannis supporters somehow, he thought. Perhaps he met the same end as his brother. One less highborn, at least.

In the mess hall below an inn he found his employer, a jubilant Summer Islander who always wore robes to match his eccentric personality.

“Ah, Davos, my boy.”

“How are you, Salladhor?”

“Well, very well. My men tell me you brought back the most precious cargo in five summers! Where is this prize, I ask you?”

Davos shifted uncomfortably. “I thought it best to keep it hidden, for now. It is safe.”

Salladhor leaned forward, and his black eyes narrowed. “The question is, is it real?”

Davos had always worried that his thoughts were being read, ever since an uncomfortable encounter with a red priestess in Volantis. He tried not to think of the very real dragon egg currently stowed away in his apartment, and said only, “Yes.” He could see the doubt in his friend’s eyes, but there was hunger there as well.

“How can you prove it?”

Davos thought for a moment. Finally he said, “you heard the stories about how the mad king killed his sister?” Salladhor nodded. Davos continued, “this…prize that I have found...I believe it was the same item he used in the ritual. There are scorch marks all over it, burned so deep even the waters of the Rush didn't wash them away.”

His friend’s eyes widened. “The mad king…” He began, “...he did this, yes. But it failed.”

“So?” Davos said. “A sane man like you can surely figure it out.”

Salladhor laughed. “Okay, okay, my friend. You will bring this to me tonight upstairs where I have a room. If this prize is real, you will go home to your wife five hundred dragons richer.”

“I want a hundred up front,” Davos said forcefully.

“Fine, fine,” Salladhor waved his hand and one of his captains produced a heavy bag from beneath the table. “But if you don't show up tonight, you're his problem then.” Salladhor gestured to his guard, a gnarly old pirate who Davos knew had a reputation for disemboweling those who failed to repay his employer.

Davos rose steady, the bag in his hand, and left the inn. As he passed by Fishmonger Square, the tangle of smallfolk had nearly doubled in size, and there were now Green Cloaks blocking the entrance of the Mud Gate.


That night, his prize and his gold locked and hidden away, Davos stepped out to the street for a warm bowl of brown from his favorite pot shop. The layer of grease floating on top was a nostalgic sight, when he could remember being a poor boy scavenging the streets of Flea Bottom and looking enviously at the knights and merchants and whores who could all afford a bowl of stew with grease on top. How far I've come, he thought tartly as he took another gulp full of aurochs and cabbage and carrots.

He was so engrossed in his dinner that he didn't even notice the shadowy knight approaching him until the man sat down in his booth and stares across at him.

“Can I help you?” Davos asked through a mouth full of peas and broth, some of which trickled down into his beard.

“My employer requires your services, Lord Seaworth.”

Davos laughed. “Piss off, I'm no lord. And Seaworth is just a name I made up. I've no noble family like you.” He returned to his bowl but was stopped from taking another mouthful when a heavy thud landed on the table. Davos recognized that sound.

By the looks of the hempen bag, it was double the size of the one Salladhor had given him that morning. Davos stared at it and set down his spoon. “What do you need?” He asked, much more politely than he'd been before, but he couldn't help but add, “and don't try flattering me again with ‘my lord’ and sh*t.”

The knight straightened. “Lord Davos Seaworth will be your title the next time you return to this city; if you accept this job and succeed.”

This time Davos said it through gritted teeth as he leaned forward. “What do you need?”

Two hours later he finally arrived home, and with the speed he had learned apprenticing on old Roro Uhoris on his Tyrosh smuggling ship Cobblecat, gathered up both bags of gold, the egg, and every piece of clothing he could find.

He paced quickly down the streets of the city, determined to reach his destination. He ducked past the inn where Salladhor Saan stayed, and with luck didn't see a single Green Cloak as he approached the docks.

Half a mile down the shore, his black smuggler ship was berthed on a jagged rock, unreachable for most sailors, and certainly so for the oafs in the Redwyne fleet. I suppose I'll have to captain her alone on this one, he thought as he untied the knotted ropes and prepared to set sail.

He glanced up at the sky: the hour of the wolf. Salladhor would be waiting for him. When he didn't appear, it would only be a matter of weeks before his bounty was known to every smuggler sailing the Narrow Sea. Pushing those thoughts from his mind, Davos Seaworth gripped the steering wheel and set sail into the pitch black waters of Blackwater Bay.

[Garlan Gunter]

THE CLEFTJAW



“So, my brother is a king now. What that make you, coz? Some kind of lord or prince?” Euron was joshing him, not entirely freshly. Euron rarely spoke but to jibe and jest, though he spoke nonetheless fluently and often. It all made a great change from the son of Lord Quellon the Cleftjaw had come to know best, dour Balon, who now called himself the Ninth of His Name Since the Grey King. But Dagmer bore no grudge and paid small mind. In this regard, perchance, he was well fitted to serve and complement this particular kraken.

“Matters little, but you’re a prince and lord both y’self now…Lord Captain,” he replied quietly through his usefully, imperturbably maimed grin. Much went unspoken in that moment. Dagmer was the most proven and renowned of House Greyjoy’s raiders. Euron was the veteran of one debacle, a battle needlessly lost because of the young Greyjoy’s failed ploy at sneaking about with knives by night. By all reason the Iron Fleet belonged to Dagmer, and both the man and the boy knew a lesser man would have resented that. But Dagmer knew he was kept more from the name than the substance. It was still he who would steady the fleet’s nerve and heighten its ambition, whether astorm or in the line of battle.

“Aye,” Euron answered with false carelessness, pouring a fresh cup of wine pilfered on Whent land. “And such a captain must see to his fleet. I had much unfinished business here elsewise. The black line of Harren’s monstrous fortress contains the House of my father’s slayer.” His flashing blue eyes narrowed as he stared beyond the tent’s scant aperture, across even fires, water-meadows and gentle slopes softened by a night of creamy starlight.

“You mourn him dearly, then?” Dagmer enquired, not bothering to conceal any curiosity, surprise, even a quite definitely sardonic note. Lord Quellon had always been good to him.

“Not unduly, no. But a name as my father’s avenger would have set me well with our people…and rallied their morale, to be sure,” Euron pointed out without delay or scruple.

“These damned Volantenes are no folk of ours. They care neither for my slain lord nor his sons,” Dagmer avowed with a curse and a hawk of rheum upon the grass.

“Aye. But for blood and victory. And there is the rest of my unfinished business. It seems Lord Arryn is quite determined to prove himself to the flowers at our expense. When he next hopes to come upon us, with whatever trouts he catches, we must be ready. That is why these rests must be scant indeed.”

“I know plenty of broken rest,” Dagmer growled, not unamiably, as he instinctively felt for the hairless ridges of his carven mouth.

“And of battle. My father left matters in a pretty state indeed. Whether my brother has just blunted or sharpened it, well, perchance it is too soon to say. But as it seems, every man is against us and we must be ready for aught at march or at sail.” Then Euron smiled, and drank deep. “I do not intend to fall, you see. I grow aweary of yearning for Pyke and the rest of my kin. Especially if my brother means to wear a crown. Why, a king must have heirs.”

“King Balon has four,” Dagmer insisted stoutly, most firmly disliking now whither this talk wended. “Rodrik, Maron, Theon…”

“And darling Asha, the daughter just wed to the west, whom my father would have had us bow to,” Euron murmured, somehow enjoying his own anger, feeding upon it and growing stronger. “While Maron was permitted to go a pawn into the northern wasteland. No, cousin Dagmer, you are fit indeed for counsel of battle, but this you have not considered. I said I missed my kin. Most dearly I meant my smallest, most comical brother.”

“They say Aeron went mad when he took the Dornish maid to wife,” Dagmer proceeded with care. “It was an unlucky match…”

“Perchance so, though my larger brother celebrated it lately with a fine libation of Starfall blood. But what of this, Cleftjaw?” Euron’s stare gleamed now as if the stars had kissed the sea. “What if my brother is no madder than I am? What if little Lanny is as false as they say he screamed she was ere they confined him? Where then does that leave Rodrik, and Maron, and Asha, and Theon?”

Dagmer did not fear the return of the Valeknights and the Trout scouts. This time they were ready. He did not fear lesser fleets abroad. His mind and his vessels were more than their equal. He certainly did not fear the callow high-born cousin beside him, the hollow Lord Captain. Did he? He kept looking at those glittering eyes, until he looked away, and his muttering had a surly catch.

“Victarion returns to see the Isles in order. He will scotch that report soon enough.”

“Will he.” Euron did not annunciate a question. “More of a slayer than a scotcher, my brother, I think. And should the new Kraken king fall…he will need an heir of age, not a child of doubted birthright.”

“He will not fall,” Dagmer stated simply, his words quiet and dull but confidence returning to them. “We march to ensure as much, …Lord Captain. And it is past time we kept doing so. You have drunk enough.”

“Enough? Of wine, it may be so…” Euron replied with a curious air of absence, but the Cleftjaw cared nought for it, rearing himself up to rouse the Volantene camp once more.

[leonardothered]

To the Great Lords of the realm:

As a result of recent discoveries, The Vale has no choice but to support Lord Stannis Baratheon in his rebellion against the current leadership of the seven kingdoms. We urge all good men to do the same and commend the young Lord Baratheon in his firm stance in regards to the sedentary members of the realm.

Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale

[Garlan Gunter]

DECLARATION REGARDING THE SUCCESSION TO THE TWINS





Symond, seventh son to the late and attainted Lord of the Crossing, Walder of House Frey, having received no word as to the intentions of his eldest unattainted brother, Ser Emmon, saving only the rights of the said Ser Emmon does this day lay claim to the Lordship of the Crossing, the towers of the Twins, and the overlordship of Houses Charlton, Haigh, and Erenford.

He admits the treason of his late father, but denies the slander of House Greyjoy's part in the plot, beyond his foster-brother Victarion's blind obedience, of which the law of gods and men has absolved the said Victarion.

In consequence of House Tully's harsh and indiscriminate punishment of his House, Lord Symond defies House Tully and declares his allegiance to his beloved foster-brother and guardian, King Balon of the Isles and the Rivers.

Finally, Lord Symond embraces the true faith of the Drowned God, and dedicates his brother, Willamen, to the service of the Drowned Men.

Avowed under blessings of salt and stone and strength and steel,

Symond Frey, True Lord of the Crossing, Sworn Bannerman to Pyke

[Garlan Gunter]

LEAST OF KRAKENS




There were three of them confined to his scarce chambers now, and his wife was not among them; presumably Alannys and Lord Gorold had small desire to let him find an ally, even in the marriage bed. Aeron’s time with Allyria had been a curious one. She was a sharp enough girl to count herself fortunate that the youngest Greyjoy, not any more seasoned Ironman, had named himself her captor. She would not confess any softness towards him, but in the querulous complaints she had offered him towards his family and people there was closeness of a sort, a presumption that Aeron, for all his youth, could be trusted to protect her. Few had seemed to lay hope or trust in him before, save for perchance his good-sister Lady Alannys. And now Alannys was a queen and a traitress both, holding him in this musted cage under false pretences.

The Lannisters, Ser Stafford and his son Daven, had the freedom of the castle and the Islands themselves, and never visited here; Aeron had not set eyes on the younger one. Leo Tyrell was said to be under guard at Hammerhorn, and Symond Frey had become a close counsellor to Lord Gorold; calm, courteous Domeric Bolton, rumour had it, had already parlayed his way back home through the West. There remained only the younger Frey, quick-witted little Willamen, and the lumbering Wendel Manderly to bear Aeron fellowship. Had his despair been less, he would have found their contrast undeniably funny.

“We shall be back at the Twins before long,” Willamen was saying, mostly addressing himself, his own faltering courage. “If the attainder holds, the castles are Ser Emmon’s by right. If it is overturned, Black Walder may yet take them.” Aeron rather resented how much he involuntarily knew about House Frey’s lineage by now. “Either way, the Lannisters stand by our side.”

Willamen was relatively lucky. While young Manderly was held just as tightly as Aeron himself, Willamen, though under guard, was allowed out to confer with his brother at least every week. Most of the boys’ news came from the sharp-eyed and tongued young weasel, but the slight little Frey was not so very ill-natured, and had even passed on to Aeron what sounded suspiciously like an enquiry of concern from Lady Allyria. But his relative freedom made the Frey undoubtedly irritating during Aeron’s bleaker moods.

Wendel Manderly was, in his way, even worse company. He did not seem to care about his imprisonment, did not even seem surprised, but it had an evident effect upon him. Always evident in his gluttony, he now seemed quite without other interests in existence. Their fare was still adequate, sent from the high table at Pyke. Aeron scorned it with contempt whenever he could spare the strength. He would gnaw no more of that false bitch’s larder than he must.

Aeron’s own hopes were hard and uncompromising, unspoken but no secret for all that. Victarion was a brute, but a fair brute. He would stand with his blood. Unless Alannys gathered the guts or Lord Gorold the wits to have him murdered, Aeron would speak to his brother, the slayer of his good-brother, when the Lord Deputy of Pyke arrived at last. He would be believed. And the tables would turn.

When the commotion stirred among the armsmen at the threshold, Aeron looked for Victarion for the thousandth time. But it was only Symond Frey, an odd sight himself. When he wanted his little half-brother, he had him brought to the solar, never sought him out here.

“Lord Aeron,” Symond acknowledged his very notional host with that ever-present mockery of his. “I have come to a decision of which I thought it best that you should hear as well as Willamen here, for it will mean the loss of his company all too soon. I have decided, with your royal brother’s encouragement, to claim back our old seat.”

“You?!” Willamen spluttered. “What of Black Walder? Ser Emmon?”

“An outlaw likely dead already, and an old woman tied to an ogress in the West? I think not,” Symond answered, his sneer veering all the more stingingly over his thin face. “To fasten our alliance within the new Ironborn kingdom that shall gloriously arise, I have accepted conversion into the Drowned Faith.”

Willamen actually laughed at that, but Aeron did not. Silently he admired Symond’s effrontery; truly, here was a man who made the best of ruin and captivity. He had entered Lord Gorold’s trust, while noticing and appealing to the dour piety of the new king.

“The Drowned God appreciates gifts,” Symond went on, as if uninterrupted, “and, brother, just now you are all I have to give.”

Aeron smirked himself at the pallor of Willamen’s reaction. “What, brother? You mean to…have me drowned?! What kinslaying madness is this? We are both of the handful of our House still at liberty!”

Symond and Aeron were curiously at one in their mirth by now. “They won’t kill you,” Aeron reassured the boy. “Not for long, anyway.”

“You will join the Drowned Men,” Symond explained. “The first Riverman to join the service of the God for centuries. A fine portent, and a seal of trust. The priests will come for you at midnight.”

Anyone who trusted Symond, Aeron reflected, was likely salt-addled already. The elder Frey was already bowing and nodding his unctuous leave.

His last footsteps were oddly re-echoed by the Manderly’s belch. Aeron turned a disgusted glance on him…and saw to his slight alarm that the fat Northern lad’s eyes were glinting.

“Lord Aeron. Our Houses are foes, but you have been good to me in person. As for you, Frey, no God deserves to have you inflicted on his servants. Listen well. I have a plan…”

***

The Drowned Men proved just as amenable to the scheme as Wendel had guessed. A Greyjoy Prince was a far greater catch than a greenlander. So it was that it was given out and affirmed by the priests that Aeron Greyjoy had perished of a swift fever; that Willamen Frey’s body went unmarked into the brine; and that, while Queen Alannys wept guilty tears for Aeron, in deadly secret, the Damphair was born.