Of Dragons and Men

by Aegon_the_Dragon

Summary:

Rhaegar has won the war of the ursuper by killing Robert Baratheon in the field. But the absence of the Three Heads of the Dragon and the apparent inability of him and his children to fulfil the prophecy lead him deeper and deeper into desparation and darkness. His two sons, Aegon and Daeron, now must attempt to escape the whims of their increasingly confused father and at the same time hold the Seven Kingdoms together.

Notes:

Hi everyone,

this is my first shot at writing a story (and actually letting someone read it) in the ASoIaF-universe. So please go easy one me ;-)

I know that the take that Rhaegar won at the Trident might not be the most creative start, but I like the idea what could have been nevertheless.

Other tags, especially relationship-tags, will be added later in the story once they are needed.

Hope you enjoy reading.

P.S.: Please be aware that English is not my native language, so if you come across any wrong or strange wording, please excuse me and let me know so I can improve my English-skills. Thanks.

Chapter 1: Daeron 1

The morning light burnt in his eyes and his head hurt as if a carriage had run over it a dozen times. He awoke from a wonderful dream that his brother had come north to see him, that they had drunken like fish and laughed half of the night in a tavern in Wintertown. It took him some moments to adjust to the painful brightness before he could really open his eyes and look around. The first thing he realized was that he was not lying in his own bed, not even in his own room. He was still fully dressed, what was a good sign at least.

It hit him like a whip to see the shape of another person next to him on the ground, still fully dressed as well. It was the shape of a man dressed in fine red wool and linen and black leather with long white blonde hair that totally covered his sleeping face. So it had not been a dream. His brother was here. A wide grin spread across his face. Aegon was here!

The memories of the last night came only reluctantly and Daeron didn’t expect most of them to ever come back, based on how his head and stomach were feeling. He remembered the letter he had received by raven. In his condition, still half drunk and not yet master of his senses, he had really believed that he had only dreamt up the letter as well. His brother had announced his visit to Winterfell only about two weeks prior and had asked Daeron to meet with him a day before officially been welcomed by Lord Stark in Winterfell. He had written that there were important matters to discuss, family matters. Daeron tried to remember as hard as the throbbing feeling inside his head allowed him to but if he had indeed discussed any important matters with his brother last night, they got lost forever somewhere between the third and tenth cup of ale.

Daeron got up and looked around. They must still be in the tavern, probably in the cheap quarters under the roof. He began washing his face in the small water bowl on the ground next to the door. As he passed by, he gave his sleeping brother a light kick to wake him up, but all he got in return was a sound that resembled a mixture of a sleeping bear and a dying goat. A second, somewhat harder kick finally woke him up. He had not seen his brother for almost three years now, but he remembered very clearly how graceful Aegon had always moved, be it while dancing, sparring, riding or just standing up from a chair. But looking at the young man now as he fought his way to his feet, he started to doubt that this was really him.

“You have grown old, brother. If you need a walking stick, let me know. Lord Stark will surely find one for you,” Daron said with a grin.

He finally managed to straighten up completely and turned around to Daeron, scowling at him with his dark purple eyes. Aegon has always been taller than him with broader shoulders but to Daeron it looked like he had gotten even taller and broader. His shape was impressive, intimidating almost, lean but muscular, and together with their father’s coloring - light skin, white hair, purple eyes - he looked like the very image of a valyrian prince.

“Wait till we are at Winterfell in the training yard sparring some rounds. Then you will be the one in need of a walking stick.”

The two brothers laughed about it together and since apparently both had hardly any memories of last night left, they fell into each other's arms as if they had just seen each other again for the first time. They adjusted their clothes as best they could without changing them completely and went down the stairs. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen when they left the Smoking Log and so Daeron just left some copper coins on one of the tables in the taproom.

“Shouldn’t here be horses waiting for us somewhere?”, Aegon asked after they walked around the corner to the tavern’s small stables, just to find them completely empty.

“I’m pretty sure we had some. Doesn’t matter. This is Wintertown. A short walk will bring us to Winterfell.”

“Oh, yes. I am sure it will make a great impression when the crown prince comes to Winterfell on foot, dirty and stinking like a beggar from Flea Bottom. I need new clothes and a bath. And besides … where is my Kingsguard? I must have lost Ser Gerold and Prince Lewyn somewhere along the way. Father will kill me if I come back to King’s Landing short by two Knights.” The smile on his brother's face grew wider, even though it was clear to both of them that their father was not an issue they liked to joke about.

“I think I know where to go,” Daeron said.

“You remember last night?”

“Some of it. I think.”

And so they walked through the cold and mostly still sleeping Wintertown. Daeron remembered correctly that he and Aegon had met yesterday in front of another house that was – like almost all of Winter Town at his time of the year – empty and was sometimes used to house guests that were too lowborn to be hosted in Winterfell directly. Daeron remembered the last time Vayon Poole had had guests from White Harbour, they had been house there and he had planned for Aegon staying there for the night. At least before they had decided to leave and drink one or two ales in the Smoking Log. After the better part of an hour, they finally managed to find the house Aegon was supposed to have slept in. Both knights were already standing in front of the small building in full white and shiny armor, but sour-faced as an old fishwife. In no more than a heartbeat the expression on both of the knight’s faces changed from sour to happy for finally seeing their crown prince back to sour again for having been let in the unknown about his whereabouts last night. But while Ser Gerold Hightower was just making an angry face at the boys, Prince Lewyn Martell immediately started a rant about how irresponsible and unacceptable such behavior is for a prince, not to mention for two princes. Aegon apologized at least a dozen times for getting lost the whole night and it took Daeron and him a lot of effort to convince both knights that they were never really in danger.

“I don’t care if you two wanted to drink, whore or do whatever but the next time, you will do it with us at your sides. Understood?”, Aeon nodded to Prince Lewyn’s words and only his promise not to leave their side again for the time they were away from King’s Landing seemed to satisfy both of them.

Aegon went up to his room where his baggage was still stored, washed and redressed himself quickly. When he returned after a short while, Daeron examined him with a trained eye. He knew his brother well enough to know what he looked like when he dressed and did his hair only half-heartedly, but to the everyone else he still must have looked like one of the shining knights from the stories.

They saddled up and began their ride towards Winterfell. Wintertown only slowly came to life, but at this time of the years with more than two thirds of all buildings abandoned, there wasn’t much life to come to anyway. Halfway there they met a group of guards who bowed so deeply one could think they wanted to kiss their own boots, immediately turned around and hurried back to Winterfell to announce the arrival of crown prince Aegon Targaryen. Winterfell’s big gatehouse was already in sight, it’s large form, massive walls and snow-clad roofs taking up a good part of the horizon, as Daeron turned to Aegon with an uncertain expression on his face.

“You might have told me everything yesterday already, but the ale made me forget almost the whole evening. What was the important matter you wanted to discuss with me?”

At first it seemed as if Aegon had not heard him. His gaze remained fixed on the ever-larger growing gate.

“Father,” he finally said. “He’s gotten worse.”

“What-,” Daeron wanted to ask, but a quick glance from Aegon brought him to silence. Now is neither the right time nor the right place to talk about their father, it clearly said. But Daeron already had an idea of what Aegon needed to discuss. No doubt his brother had not come this far north just for a few cups of ale and to tell him that King Rhaegar was getting better by the day. For a moment he wondered how in the world Aegon had even managed to talk their father into letting him visit the North. The unpleasant feeling of a bad foreboding spread through him, but since he wasn’t sure if it really was a foreboding or just the aftermath of last night, he decided not to concern himself with it right now and just enjoy having his brother back at his side.

When they finally arrived in Winterfell's courtyard, the entire Stark family was already gathered there, lined up like chickens on a roost and surrounded by the larger part of their personal household. Wolfs on a roost, he thought and could not help but grin for a moment. They rode slowly towards the waiting hosts until they were only a few man lengths away from them. His horse had just come to a halt when Aegon slipped out of the saddle elegantly like a dancer with a warm and honest smile on his face. There he was again, his brother he knew so well.

Lord Stark finally took a step forward with the typical seriousness on his face. Daeron had learned to read Lord Starks expressions well enough over the years. Those who did not know Lord Stark could think that he always looked serious, sad and almost bitter. Daeron had needed time to see and read the small signs on his uncle's face, more time to know what his mood really was, and even more time before the Lord of Winterfell began to openly show his feelings in the presence of his royal nephew.

But now Daeron could read Lord Stark. Not as good as his wife or children. That would never be possible, but still he could see it. He saw excitement. Good or bad, he couldn't say. He saw a mixture of pride and uncertainty. The pride he took in his home, in his family no doubt. Uncertainty probably about what not only one, but two princes of the realm wandering through Winterfell would or could mean for him and his family, for their future and the future of the North. Without a word Lord Stark knelt in front of Aegon and bowed his head. Immediately all the ladies and women curtsied deeply, all the men around them also went down on one knee, apart from the two white knights and Daeron.

“Your grace,” Lord Stark began in his hard, northern dialect. “It is an honor to welcome you here in the North. Winterfell is yours.”

“I thank you for having me, Lord Stark. It is an honor and a pleasure to be here. You may rise,” Aegon answered with his firm, regal voice, but still smiling warmly.

The voice of a king, Daeron thought. It was the voice their father always spoke in whenever he had something important to announce – or something he deemed important. Once, when they had still been children, he had told Aegon that he very much sounded like their father when he spoke serious and although it was meant as a compliment at that time, Aegon had been so unsettled by it that he had done everything he could to avoid using that voice for more than a year after that. He had always hated to be compared with his father, Daeron knew. He hadn't understood why that had been so at that time. Now he did. When Aegon had learned that his father had been overly bookish as a young lad, he hadn’t touched a book in over a month. He had – at least for some time – refused to learn an instrument because his father was known for wonderfully playing the harp in his younger years and it had only been after King Rhaegar had cut his long silver hair off one day, shortly before Aegon's two and tenth nameday, that Aegon had stared to let his hair grow.

Lord Stark, his family and the entire household rose simultaneously. Daeron looked over to the Stark family. Robb obviously tried to appear as serious and stern as his father did, but he could not hide his excitement. He had formed a close friendship over the past three years with the heir to Winterfell and they had become almost as close as brothers, but despite his name and title Daeron had always felt that Robb saw him as more of a Stark than a Targaryen. This was the first time his cousin truly saw the Blood of the Dragon with his own eyes. Hopefully his excitement was positive. He decided to ask him later about it. The last thing Daeron wanted was bad blood between his two families.

The other Stark boys looked at the prince with undisguised wonder while Arya seemed to be more interested in the knights of the Kingsguard that towered behind Daeron. Lady Stark strove to make her children observe courtly etiquette without raising her voice at them and at the same time to appear sovereign and controlled as it was appropriate for the lady of a Lord Paramount. Especially getting little Rickon to stand still for a little while and making Ayra curtsy in front of the prince – however clumsy and half-heartedly this may have looked – was a quest worthy of a queen and it impressed Daeron how well she did.

The only Stark child who behaved perfectly was of course the Lady Sansa, Lord Starks eldest daughter. The whole time her eyes never left Aegon’s face even for a heartbeat and when Aegon placed a light kiss on her hand when she was introduced to him, she blushed gracefully and curtsied deeply with the most adorable smile on her beautiful face. He knew Sansa well enough by know, he knew who much she had fancied stories of knights and princes when she was a child. Now she was six and ten namedays old, almost a woman grown and old enough to be married off to the heir of one of her father’s bannermen from some old, proud house of the North. And it was now that she really met the beautiful prince from her childhood dreams. He could immediately see it in her eyes how much she already was in love with his brother without even knowing him. Sansa’s dreams had always been made of young, handsome knights with broad shoulders, fine clothes and even finer manners. And here he was.

After the official welcoming of the crown prince, he and his Kingsguard were shown to their rooms. After a short rest, Aegon was shown around Winterfell, the Godswood and the Glass Gardens by Lord Stark himself and Robb. Daeron accompanied them and then, after a good but simple meal, they would finally go to the training yard. The real feast to welcome and celebrate having the future king of the Seven Kingdoms under their roof would start in the evening so there was plenty of time for some brotherly swordplay. They had always loved to spar against each other and so ever since the day the letter arrived announcing his brother’s visit, Daeron could hardly wait to finally compete with him again. Hopefully Robb will join, Daeron thought. It was a good opportunity to bring them closer together. Daeron was sure that they would get along well once they got to know each other better.

The tour through the castle and the Godswood took them almost the whole morning. Once again Daeron realized how huge Winterfell really was. Of course his brother probably already knew all the things Lord Stark told him about Winterfell, about the hot springs underneath the castle, how the water was flowing through the walls like blood through a living body, about the Glass Gardens and the vegetables they could grow there even in the depths of winter, about the Godswood with its ancient Weirwood tree and about their old gods who had no names.

Aegon was never the bookish type really. Daeron doubted that he had ever finished reading even the Seven Pointed Star, although the Septons in King’s Landing had not got tired of emphasizing how important it was for a future king to not only know the rules of the Faith and the Gods, but to understand and internalize them. But on the other hand, sometimes his brother could bite down on a topic like a hound dog for days on end and enthusiastically read every book about it he could get his hands on. Of course, he had already read every book about Winterfell that there was in King’s Landing, probably weeks before he left. Daeron was sure of it.

Nevertheless, Aegon listened carefully to Lord Stark's explanations, asked questions and was genuinely impressed by everything that was shown to him. In the end, it really was something else to read facts and figures in a book or to actually stand on the parapet of such a legendary fortress and see it with one’s own eyes.

Noon had long passed when they finally arrived at the training yard. Not very surprisingly, the courtyard was not as empty as usual, but almost overflowed with people. Everybody wanted to see the valyrian prince pick up a sword against his brother and the son of their Lord. It didn't surprise Daeron to find Sansa together with her friend Jeyne Poole among the audience as well. He couldn't for the life of him remember seeing any of the two watching him sparring ever, but now the two young ladies had chosen a place on one of the lower galleries that surrounded the courtyard and from which they had a good view of the upcoming fights. Sansa giggled and laughed with Jeyne and after a whisper of Jeyne in Sansa's ear, his cousin blushed so deeply that her face almost took on the color of her hair.

It was his uncle Prince Lewyn that helped Aegon into his training armor while Ser Gerold Hightower stood behind the two, grimly looking around. He knew the old knight almost his whole life, knew him as a friendly, caring man. Uncle Gerold he had always been to him when he had been a child. But now, his uncle Gerold seemed bitter, his friendly smile lost somewhere in those last three years. He wondered what had happend. On the other side of the yard, Ser Rodrik helped Daeron in his armor, readying him for the fight.

“Show him what you've learned here,” Ser Rodrik whispered to him. “This one is too much of a pretty southern knight to know what real fighting looks like. But you have the North in your veins, boy.”

“I will do my best, Ser.” Daeron knew that Aegon was formidable with the sword and he pretty much doubted that after three more years of training with the knights of the Kingsguard, with his infamous uncle Oberyn Martell and – if the stories were to be believed – even with masters of sword fighting from Lys, Braavos and Tyrosh, that his brother’s skill had somehow lessened. Also, even after three years of training with Ser Rodrik, Daeron wasn’t really sure what exactly he had learned from him. It was true though. The northern style of fighting was very different from what was taught in the south. There were fewer rules to follow, fewer postures and figures to learn. Fencing with a sword in the south was sometimes more like a dance, harsh and brutal but still a dance that followed its very own rhythm. Here in the North it was more intuitive, clear and direct, honest in a certain way. Just as the people up here, he thought.

It was Aegon’s voice that pulled him from his thoughts.

“Are you done thinking about which dress to wear to the feast tonight or are you busy trying to come up with an excuse why you won't face me?” He already wore his helmet so he couldn’t see it but Daeron could practically hear the broad grin on his brother's face.

Chapter 2: Eddard 1

Summary:

We pick up where we left the last time, at the beginning of the sparring. After that Ned will have to deal with some unexpected guests.

When he had been a young lad and had been fostered at the Eyrie, he had heard stories of the glorious Prince Rhaegar, the future king that everybody expected would bring a golden age to all the Seven Kingdoms. Not that the realm had done badly at that time under his father Aerys II. For the most part, there had been peace and the realm had prospered. At least before the old king had begun burning people alive at will. But still people had talked and dreamed about what a wonderful ruler, a legendary king for the history books Rhaegar one day surely would become. Ned had never really been interested in most of the stories of how wonderful the young prince could play his harp with the silver strings. He hadn’t really seen how this would possibly make him a great king later. He had noted however that the prince had also been spoken of as a fairly good fighter, good with the sword and even better with the lance. Not that that necessarily would have made him a great king either but mastering the use of weapons was at least a virtue that one would want to see in a king.

Now he was a grown man, not old yet but certainly not young anymore and he regarded himself adult enough not to listen to fancy stories and gossip anymore. Some of the gossip from the south, especially about the king, had become unsettling over the years, to say the least. It wasn’t as bad as it had been in Aerys’ later years, but still…

He had of course also heard stories of the current crown prince as of late, of his abilities with the sword and the lance, but nowadays he was experienced enough not to believe everything that reached his ears. In particular not, if it had reached his ears only after someone had told someone else something he had heard from someone else before. Gossip was never reliable and so he was eager to see with his own eyes how much of it was grounded in reality and how much was owed to the bards' and singers’ artificial freedom.

Ned was standing at the side of the training ground now, both princes getting ready to begin. However good Prince Aegon was, he knew Prince Daeron’s abilities with the sword well enough by now and he knew that he would give his brother a hell of a fight. Daeron was good, very good.

Not as good as Robb though, he thought proudly, but still very good.

Rodrik and Prince Lewyn were still whispering something in the brothers’ ears when Maester Luwin approached Ned. The old man really had gotten old and it was not the first time that Ned acknowledged how bad the man looked. Two years ago, a short but hard winter had surprised them all. It had come so unexpectedly that not even the white ravens from the Citadel had arrived in time, but only almost a month after the first winter storm had hit them. Thank the old gods they had lost very few lives, but to Maester Luwin the harsh months had certainly not been merciful. With his sunken cheeks and a skin color that was almost as grey as his ever thinning hair, Ned feared that rather sooner than later Winterfell would be in need of a new maester.

"My lord”, he said, bowing deeply. “A message from Lord Ryswell just arrived."

Ned tried not to roll his eyes but didn’t really succeed. He really didn’t want to hear what the Lord of the Rills had to say, but he already had a feeling anyway.

"What does it say?"

"Lord Ryswell and his oldest son Roger are on their way to Winterfell. Lord Ryswell was kind enough to send this message from Cerwyn to announce his visit. He is now on the Kingsroad heading to Wintefell. He expects to arrive within the day."

Ned was startled for a short moment, then took the message from Maester Luwin’s hand and read it again himself. He scrunched up the paper, not knowing what to say or to do now.

"No doubt he will again propose the betrothal between his oldest son and Lady Sansa", Luwin said after some moments. "He has already done so four times, my lord."

"I know", Ned finally said. "You don’t need to remind me of that."

"Are you considering it, my lord?"

"If I were to consider it, would Lord Ryswell have had to ask four times already without getting an answer? One would think that a man with such a high opinion of himself should know how to read hints."

Maester Luwin slightly smirked at that, but then continued in a serious voice.

"Roger Ryswell is a fine young man, by all accounts, and the heir to the Rills. Not the most prestigious region in the North, but surely important enough to be bound to the Lord Paramount by blood. If you don’t want the Ryswells, my lord, other Lords like the Lords Bolton or Hornwood surely will. Also, young Lord Roger recently participated in some tourneys in the South and was able to achieve some victories and bring honour to his name. Maybe Lady Sansa will take a liking in that."

"A fine young man?", Ned asked. "I have met the lad already. Remember? He was here two years ago, shortly after the spring sickness. As strong as an ox he is, aye, but too stupid to find his own shadow when the sun is at his back. I somehow doubt that this man is who my daughter will find a liking in."

Maester Luwin didn’t respond to that but waited patiently until Ned had put his thoughts in order.

"Be it as it may", he finally said. "Lord Ryswell and his son are almost here. It’s too late to deny them a visit. I just wish it hadn't happened right now", he said nodding towards the two princes getting ready to fight. "Have some rooms for the Ryswells prepared, but in the Guest House, not in the Great Keep. I will deal with them, but I want Lord Ryswell to see that at the moment, he is not my main concern."

"Yes, my lord."

Maester Luwin then turned around and worked his way back through the dense crowd. For some moments, Ned’s thoughts were still with Lord Ryswell. He surely would propose the union between Roger and Sansa again. There was no way this visit could mean anything else. But this was not what he wanted for his daughter, for his perfect little lady. Even Arya would make a better match for Roger Ryswell, who was known for a certain … roughness in his manners.

Maester Luwin was right of course. If House Stark would not accept a union, other houses would. It would weaken House Stark’s position in the North surely, but not enough to be a threat. Before the winter had surprised them all, Ned had planned to betroth Sansa to Domeric Bolton. A strong bond between House Stark and one of their most powerful bannermen would have been a good thing. Unfortunately, the heir to House Bolton had died in a hunting accident. Some of the hounds had gone mad and had fatally wounded the young man. His bastard brother had been there with him, but had not been able to save his brother's life. That would have been a fine match indeed, but now instead of the heir to the Dreadfort, the heir to the Rills was trying to get his daughter's hand. Then again, who knew if Sansa in fact didn’t take a liking in Roger Ryswell. He was of Sansa's age, he was tall and strong, relatively good looking – although Ned wasn't sure if he could pass judgment on that – and he liked tourneys. But a quick look at Sansa's face, at how widely and wonderfully she smiled as she watched Prince Aegon getting ready for the sparring, was enough as an answer. No, Ned would turn down the offer, once and for all. He would have to. He just wished he would not have to do it on a feast with two princes of the realm as guests of honour.

Both princes left their respective corners of the fenced training ground, stepping closer to the middle to face each other. Prince Aegon had obviously managed to somehow get his hands on some red paint and had quickly drawn a three-headed dragon on the breastplate of his training armor. It looked horrible, more like a bunch of red, trampled snakes than a proud and regal dragon, yet it was obvious what it was supposed to represent. Prince Daeron also had used some paint on his armor and it filled the Lord of Winterfell with pride to see that he had tried to adorn his breastplate with the sigil of House Stark, a running grey direwolf. It looked terrible as well, but still he was proud that the prince’s connection to his mother’s family had become so strong.

Prince Daeron and Robb had gotten very close over the course of the past years, for which Ned was incredibly grateful, and he had no doubt that it was this close friendship with Robb that led the prince to fight under the banner of his House.

A good sign. A strong future connection between Winterfell and the Iron Throne.

Finally, Ser Rodrik left the training ground to make room for the fighting to begin.

"Are you ready?", he asked. Both fighters nodded at it and knocked with their training sword against their shields. "Begin!"

Immediately Prince Daeron took the basic stance, both highly defendable and able to advance quickly at the same time, the shield high in front of him, the sword above his shoulder ready for a quick strike. Prince Aegon didn’t move. What’s that supposed to mean? Daeron seemed as uncertain about it as Ned as he did not attack immediately. He seemed to be eyeing his brother closely instead, unsure what to do now. A moment later, Prince Aegon unstrapped the shield from his left arm and let it fall to the ground. Now he was standing there, unguarded with only his sword in hand.

It is an invitation, Ned realized. Prince Daeron obviously came to the same conclusion as he still didn’t move one bit. Finally, Prince Aegon began to move, but certainly not as expected. He also took a stance, but not one that Ned had ever seen in a sword fight, neither in the North nor in the South. His sword circled around his body a few times, looking elegant but not very useful in any way Ned could think of before it came to rest behind his body. Ned wasn’t sure what to make of it, some of the others around seemed to be very sure however. Ser Rodrik was the first one who could no longer suppress his laughter, which earned him a very angry look from Sansa.

"This is a fighting ground, not a dance floor, your Grace", he said, with a big smirk all over his face. Other men and women now seemed encouraged enough to also start laughing at the prince, although still slightly more cautious than Ser Rodrik. The louder the laughter became, the grimmer Ned's expression. He didn't really know Prince Aegon, but if there was one thing he was damn sure of, then that openly mocking a member of the royal family in front of an entire household was never a good idea.

Hopefully this is over soon so I can apologize to him.

Again, Prince Daeron seemed to have read his mind and finally began to attack – if only to finally put an end to this little drama, which was taking place here at his brother's expense. He approached his brother him with a firm step, raised his sword in a quick movement to be able to strike strongly and ... faster than most spectators could see, he landed on his arse with a smack. Prince Aegon had attacked so quickly that Daeron’s sword had flown off to the side as if Daeron himself had thrown it away and with his shield seemingly as useless as a silken nightshirt, he immediately had lost the ground under his feet. Through the small visor of the helmet Ned could not see Daeron’s face, but he could easily imagine the disbelieving expression on it.

Prince Aegon had moved so quickly that Eddard could not tell how exactly he had managed to disarm his brother and sent him to the ground in a single, fluid movement. But it had happened. Now nobody was laughing anymore and instead of a broad grin on his face, Ser Rodrik’s jaw had dropped almost to the ground.

Prince Aegon helped his brother back on his feet then.

"Luck", Daeron said.

Aegon didn’t answer but instead went back to his position, again taking a stance that Ned had never seen before and that would have certainly earned him a few laughs just some moments ago – had he not just sent his brother to the ground so quickly.

Ned looked over to his eldest son. Robb looked as astonished as everyone else around him, but quickly the seriousness returned to his face while Jory Cassel was already helping his son into his armor. After all, he would be facing Prince Aegon in combat as well once Daeron was done. Or rather, once Prince Aegon was done with Daeron, as it seemed. Arya and the other boys seemed to enjoy the spectacle, short as it has been, while Sansa’s gaze had turned from the angry stare she had pointed towards Ser Rodrik some moments ago to a wide smile with her cheeks beautifully blushed as if the prince had just asked for her hand. No doubt her friend Jeyne had whispered something inappropriate into her ear again. He would have to talk to Vayon about that.

His wife was nowhere to be seen, which was no surprise to Ned though. She had made it clear from the very beginning that she had no interest in watching a few young men beating each other up just for the fun of it, especially if one of these young men was her own son. He had seen her reasoning, Catelyn had never been too fond of weapons and their handling, but still he wished her to be here. It would have been good for Robb to see his mother supporting him.

In the meantime, Prince Daeron had picked up his sword and returned to his position as well. He advanced towards his brother again without waiting for Ser Rodrik to give the signal to begin, this time trying to surprise him with a lunge from the side. And while Prince Aegon indeed didn't again manage to defeat Daeron with his first strike, it only took him two more quick movements and one seemingly easily deflected attack from Daeron to leave his brother without a sword again, this time Aegon's blade threatening his unprotected throat.

Prince Daeron raised his arms as a sign of surrender and took the helmet off his head.

"You’ve gotten better, brother", Daeron said, trying to smile while Aegon's blade still lurked beneath his chin.

"Can't say the same for you, I’m afraid. What exactly have they taught you up here in the last years? Surely not swordplay."

Prince Daeron only smirked about it, knowing that his older brother was making fun of him. He put his helmet back on, picked up his sword again and got back on position. He tried to take on his brother three more times and although in every fight it seemed like he could hold his own against his brother in between, in the end he was defeated each time. Again Ned looked over to his son, who seemed to become more nervous with every defeat of his cousin and friend.

"That's enough humiliation for one day. Maybe Robb can teach you some manners", Daeron finally said with a wry smile on his sweaty face as he climbed through the fence of the training ground. He took position only a few feet away from Ned to observe how his cousin would do against his brother and it surprised Ned how heavily he could hear him breathing.

So now it was Robb’s turn to step forward and face the young dragon. The visor already closed, shield and sword in hand, he stepped forward. If he was feeling insecure, he would not let it show.

Robb waited for Ser Rodrik’s signal to begin before he slowly approached the prince. Daeron had attacked quickly and powerfully, more quickly and more powerfully every time he had tried, and it had brought him no luck. A more thoughtful approach could be the key.

That’s good, son. Don't fall into the same trap as your cousin.

One moment everything was quiet like a winter night, then the next moment all hell broke loose. This time, for the first time, it was Aegon who delivered the first blow. Apparently he had realized that he had a different kind of opponent in front of him and did not intend to be easily seen through. The prince's blow came fast and hard from the side, but Robb managed to quickly pull his shield around and let the sword smash against the hardened wood with a mighty crash. Immediately he pushed the prince back, took a swing and now struck with his weapon in a wide arc.

The Prince parried the blow, letting Robb's blade slide along his own edge. He jumped back a short step, kicked Robb's shield violently, only to immediately go back to the attack. A quick thrust with the tip of his sword was supposed to slip past Robb's shield, piercing his defense. Robb dodged the thrust, more elegantly than one might have expected from such a rapid attack.

The crowd now began to cheer loudly for the two opponents. Some still had Prince Aegon's name on their lips, but most cheered for the heir to Winterfell. Even Sansa clapped and cheered loudly by now, although Ned was not quite sure for whom.

He's gonna make it. He can win, Ned thought, now also smiling over all his face.

The two fighters exchanged more and more blows, parried, dodged, only to attack again directly. If this duel had taken place in a major tourney, in King's Landing or Harrenhal or Storm's End, it would almost surely have been a day for the history books. Robb's technique was excellent, his attacks precise, his defense impenetrable. He had to remember to compliment Ser Rodrik afterwards for his excellent work.

Aegon's technique was... Ned didn't know what it was. He'd never seen anyone fight like this young prince before. Some of his poses and moves were very typical for the southern style of knightly fencing, others were totally unusual. Some of his parries and attacks he obviously had learned from the knights of the Kingsguard, others seemed exotic and outlandish. And despite the armor he wore, his every move seemed to be of an almost dancing lightness that felt so out of place that Ned was not sure what he really was looking at.

The fight continued, getting more and more intense with every moment.

The Prince managed to block a hard downwards blow from Robb that brought him down to one knee in the last moment. Robb quickly advanced forward, kicking the prince against the chest. He fell over on his back, the sword still in hand trying to defend himself, Robb towering over him like one of the giants from Old Nan’s stories. Robb struck one, two, three times, but every time the prince managed to deflect the blows. Robb struck hard towards his opponent’s head, but Prince Aegon again managed to parry the blow in the last moment, slashing Robb’s sword to the side. The prince rolled over before Robb could strike again, swung his own sword in a fluid movement. He hit Robb’s legs hard, making them collapse like winter wheat cut by a sickle, and so brought him down to the ground himself. He rolled further, swinging himself back on his legs surprisingly smoothly, and struck again, this time from the other side. He hit Robb’s sword just above the hilt, disarming Robb. The prince’s sword again circled around shortly, before coming to rest next to his son’s head.

Robb also held his hands up now to signal his defeat. Prince Aegon dropped his sword to the ground then, grabbed one of his son's hands and pulled him back on his feet. Both took off their helmets, both wet from sweat on their faces.

"Excellently fought. Excellently", the prince said with an honest, appreciative smile on his face.

"Not excellent enough though."

"Maybe not, but I can honestly say that if I had to face you in a real fight, you would be one of the few men in Westeros that I would get really shit scared of."

Both laughed heartily at that before they turned around to leave the training ground, arms over their shoulders as if they were the oldest friends. Hard to believe they've only known each other a few hours. The laughter and cheering of the crowd around them had grown louder, so that Ned could no longer understand what they were saying to each other. But just as he wanted to turn around and command everyone to leave now to give the boys some time to themselves, he saw Ser Rodrik whisper something in Daeron’s ear before he then climbed back through the fence, again sword and shield in hand.

"I thought that was enough humiliation for one day, brother," Prince Aegon said with a wide grin in his face.

"I changed my mind."

"So you want another beating then?"

Without another word, Daeron put his helmet back on. Robb left the training ground, standing next to Ser Rodrik. He talked to his master-of-arms, obviously concerned about what this meant.

Aegon put on his helmet as well, picked up his sword again and brought himself into position. This time, it was Daeron who did nothing. He let his brother come to him instead of rushing forward. After some moments, Prince Aegon advanced, launching the first attack with a strong but defendable strike from the right. Daeron blocked the strike, counterattacking with a quick thrust with the tip of his sword. Aegon evaded easily, taking a step to the side. His sword circled for a short moment, before both tried to attack at the same time. Their swords met in mid-air, the edges of their blades gliding along each other until their crossbars hit each other hearably. The princes pushed each other away, again both ready for the next attack.

Just as Robb and Prince Aegon had just done, they now exchanged more and more blows, parried, dodged, only to attack again directly. As different as they both looked, Daeron with the typical Stark-colors and face and Prince Aegon being the very image of a Valyrian from the stories, whoever saw them here in their duel, the movements so similar, both so elegant and graceful, could not help but notice that these two surely were brothers. Whoever had any doubts about it, looking Prince Daeron in the face, had only to see these two here and now and would not be able to deny that they for sure were of the same blood.

Then it happened. Aegon seemed to notice it the same moment Ned, Robb, Rodrik and some of the bystanders did. He had just blocked another blow from his little brother, who now took a few steps back and briefly circled the sword around to bring it into a defensive position, when he saw how the sword seemed to slip out of Daeron’s hand. Immediately Aegon rushed forward, the sword already in motion for a powerful blow against Daeron’s chest. His blade followed his arm, raced around his body, but instead of his brother’s armor, the sword hit nothing and only cut through the thin air in front of him. Out of balance by his own swing, Aegon tried to stay on his legs.

Daeron however had let himself fall and rolled over the ground as fast as a snake, reappeared behind him almost at the same moment, clutching the hilt of his sword tightly, and hit him with all his strength. The blow hit Prince Aegon’s back with full force. Losing his sword from his hand, he didn’t even manage to take another step to keep himself on his feet. Instead, he was thrown forward and landed face-first in the dirt.

Again the crowd cheered and shouted. Prince Aegon turned around, taking his helmet off.

"You tricked me", he said, still sitting on the ground. "That certainly wasn't very knightly of you, little brother." His voice sounded serious, almost admonishing, but the growing smile on his face spoke more of joy, surprise and even pride.

"That’s true. Behaving knightly is great for the royal court, for stories and singers and tourneys. But it surely doesn't win you a fight. That’s what I have learned in the North", Daeron answered.

He helped his brother back on his feet then, hugging him tightly. Ned looked around and to his surprise, he found Catelyn standing at the side of the fence, talking to Robb with a proud expression. So she had been here for him.

Shortly after, the princes Aegon and Daeron left the yard together with Robb. His son had said he wanted to show them around a bit more. Ned wasn’t sure what exactly he though the two of them should see – probably they just wanted to be left alone, talking about things young men of their age were talking about – but with the two knights of the Kingsguard following them, he thought it couldn’t do them any harm to have some time for themselves. There was still enough time for the boys to waste some time before they would need to get ready for tonight. The crowd began to dissolve in all directions and he saw Catelyn and Septa Mordane approaching Sansa, Arya and Jeyne, walking them away. He knew that Arya still had some stitchwork to do to appease Septa Mordane for her recent behavior and after that, his lady wife and his daughters would begin to prepare themselves for the grand welcoming feast tonight.

He also knew that Sansa had neither been able to decide on which dress nor on which hairstyle to wear to the feast yet – Catelyn had told him that much this morning already – and judging by how ever more and more excited she had become about Prince Aegon, he guessed that this would indeed not be an easy decision for his daughter to make. He was glad not to have to trade places with his wife.

Ned decided to take some time for himself, so he left the yard as well and headed towards to Godswood. He had no intentions to pray now, but there was simply no place in all of Winterfell where he could follow his thoughts more undisturbed than under the old Weirwood tree. After a short walk through the castle and the forest, he finally arrived at the heart of the Godswood and sat down on the gnarled roots of the Weirwood next to the small pool of black water. It was so quiet around Ned that it seemed almost unreal.

He loved the quietness around him and after the better part of an hour, it almost made him fall asleep when he finally heard gentle steps approaching. He opened his eye and looked towards where the entrance of the Godswood was hidden behind the trees. He recognized Catelyn, who came towards him carefully with bare feet over the thick moss.

"Here you are", she said when she finally reached him. "I have been looking for you. Maester Luwin told me I could probably find you here."

"A wise man."

"Indeed", she smiled sitting down next to him. "Riders are approaching under the banner of House Ryswell, my love. They will be here within the hour."

"Great", he said but his face spoke otherwise. "You know why he is coming?"

"Of course." She paused. "What are you going to do?"

"Refuse him of course."

She smiled at him but her expression was pitying.

"Oh Ned, you know that you cannot do that."

"I can", he said decidedly. "Or do you really want Sansa to become the Lady of the Rills?"

"Of course not. The family would not gain much from it and Sansa would be terribly unhappy. You know that as well as I do. But you had your chance to refuse him when Lord Ryswell brought it up the very first time, but you didn’t. Instead you put him off as if that would be answer enough. And now after how many attempts you cannot welcome him under your roof just to tell him no."

She was right, he knew that. She always was. His wife was so much better with politics.

"So, any good advice? How are you handling those things in the South?"

He saw it in her eyes that – at least a bit – it hurt her that he still considered her a southern lady. He would apologize later, once the whole situation didn’t unsettle him that much anymore.

"You should welcome him, let him attend the feast tonight. Tell him, that you think about his proposal but will only accept it if his son can win Sansa over."

"And what if he does?"

"What if he does? Then you will accept," she said with a soft smile.

Without another word, Catelyn stood up, turned around and left. Ned watched her wordlessly for a while until she had disappeared between the trees. He knew that she was right. He had had the opportunity to refuse the offer when Lord Ryswell had made it the first time, but to do so now, after he had made it a second, third and now a fourth time even, was simply no longer possible without it being taken as an insult.

He sat there for some more minutes before he stood up as well and left the Godswood. He wandered around the castle walls for some time, until he saw the retinue under the horse head banner arriving at the East Gate. He went down a number of stairs until he finally stepped out into the courtyard.

Lord Ryswell had already arrived and dismounted. His son Roger at his side he waited to be welcomed by his liege. The lord, his son and the guards who accompanied them immediately knelt down when they saw Ned coming towards them.

"Lord Ryswell, welcome to Winterfell. I did not expect to welcome you here today."

"My lord, I apologize for our unexpected arrival. But we have matters to discuss that better not be discussed with a raven because it seems that a lot of ravens got lost lately. And I think we can all agree that there are decision to be taken that should better be taken sooner rather than later."

"You may rise", Ned finally said after eyeing him for a moment. The lord and his retinue rose. "What matters?"

"The upcoming betrothal of your lovely daughter with my oldest son, of course."

Ned nodded towards one of his guards standing nearby.

"Guard, lead Lord Ryswell’s men to the quarters in the Guards Hall we have prepared for them."

"Yes, my lord", the soldier said while giving the lord’s men a sign to follow him. Ned kept silent for some more moments before finally speaking again to the lord and his son. Both were smiling so broadly as if Ned’s approval of the betrothal was merely a formality.

"Lord Ryswell, the last time you proposed such a union, I told you I needed time to decide about it. As you can image, my daughter has a lot of suitors-"

"She is very beautiful", Roger Ryswell cut him off. Ned frowned at him, but the lad did not seem to notice.

"My daughter has a lot of suitors", Ned finally continued. "So the decision to whom I give the hand of my eldest daughter is not an easy one for me."

"My lord, I have proposed this union years ago already. I’m sure that has to be worth something."

Now Ned frowned at lord Ryswell who also didn’t seem to notice anything as both father and son continued to smile widely. They look like fools.

"My daughter’s hand is not something to win in a racing dual, lord Ryswell." Ned's voice now became decidedly louder, which seemed to finally make the two of them take notice.

"I’m sorry, my lord. I had no intention of even suggesting such a thing."

Again Ned paused a short while. He was thankful that Lord Ryswell at least had sense enough to apologize. For a short moment it looked as if his son wanted to say something, but fortunately he changed his mind.

"Lord Ryswell, as your liege I welcome you to Winterfell. One of my guards will show you to your rooms where you can wash and change clothes if you need to. Bread and salt will be brought to your rooms as well. Tonight, you will attend the great feast with which the crown prince will officially be welcomed to Winterfell."

Only now took Lord Ryswell the time to inspect the banners flapping on the nearby towers. It was not very windy at the moment, but due to the unusual and very differing colors, the second banner flying even higher than the banner of House Stark was easy to spot: a three-headed dragon, red on black. Lord Ryswell’s eyes grew wide, his face pale.

"You are a father of daughters yourself, Lord Ryswell. So you know how much we want to protect our children, especially the girls, and how much we want them to be happy. My wife advised me on this and I agree with her: you and your son will attend the feast tonight and of course you are welcome to stay for some more days if you will. If your son manages to win my daughter over, I will agree to the union."

Immediately the broad grin returned to the faces of father and son.

And already they look like fools again, he thought.

Notes:

So here this was it, my second chapter. :-) Let me know what you think.

The next chapter will be the feast and the next days to come. I hope to finish it this week, but can't make any promises.

Chapter 3: Aegon 1

Notes:

Hi everyone,

here is chapter 3 now. Robb, Daeron and Aegon will spent some time together first and then we will see the grand feast.

A small warning to all fans of the Stark's direwolves: the beginning of this chapter will probably be a hard time for you guys. Sorry. ;-)

Robb led the three away from the training ground, unerringly through heavy doors and dark corridors, and after some minutes they stepped into a somewhat larger room inside the Great Keep. Daeron asked the Kingsguard to wait outside the room and reluctantly they agreed. The room was only dimly lit when they entered. Aegon could hardly see his own hand before his eyes, but Robb had insisted on showing the room to him. Daeron obviously knew what was coming, for he had a wry smile on his face that made him look like a fool ever since they left the training ground. Robb went over to one of the big windows and drew the huge curtain to finally let enough daylight in.

The head of a huge wolf hovered just in front of Aegon's face and he immediately was so shocked that he almost landed on his arse and with a quick shriek on his lips like a little girl, as he had to admit to himself. It took a heartbeat for Aegon to realize that the wolf was dead and stuffed. Robb and Daeron held their bellies in laughter. He scowled at the two, but before he could scold those two jokers for their little jape, the wolf's head had already completely caught his eye again. The head was big, huge even.

"What in the seven hells…," was all he could say.

The two came back to him. Robb stood beside the huge beast, one arm loosely on the creature's back, as if it were a cuddly pet.

"That, my prince, is a direwolf. And those are the others," he said, pointing further into the room. Only now Aegon realized that this was not the only one on display.

"A whole pack," he said.

"Yes, six in total. About two years ago, shortly after the end of winter, we received reports of a pack of direwolves in our forests. There hadn't been any direwolves south of the Wall for over a hundred years and so at first my lord father did not want to believe the stories of the peasants of course, but after he was shown some of the bodies of their victims, there was no doubt left."

Aegon walked around the massive dead beast that was almost as large as a horse. Its fur was of a dark grey color, its teeth as long as daggers. He could only imagine how dangerous such an animal really must have been when attacking. The furs of the others were of different colors, from almost black to a light brown. But the one beast that caught his eye was a wolf in pure white in the far corner of the room. That one was even bigger than all the others and although he was obviously dead, Aegon felt a shiver run down his spine.

"So that was the leader of the pack?"

"We are not sure," the heir to Winterfell said. "We only got him some time after the others, about two month or so. I guess that's why he's bigger. Was hard to track down because he never made a single sound. Even when the arrows and spears and crossbow bolts bored into him, he was absolutely silent."

"Almost like a ghost," Aegon said with a strange feeling of admiration.

"Robb and I killed this one together," Daeron proudly said. Once again Aegons gaze darkened.

"So Lord Stark took you both with him to hunt those … beasts?"

"Aye, but don’t worry about that. We had to beg him for it and he had only allowed it after he had put half of Winterfell’s guard at our side."

"We were never really in danger," Robb said, jumping at his cousin’s side.

Aegon was still angry, at whom exactly he could not say – Lord Stark for letting his brother take part in this madness, his brother for behaving that stupid as if he were five years old or their father for sending his brother here in the first place – but his anger vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Sooo … for the first time in over a hundred years you find an example of your heraldic charge on your lands and then the first thing that comes to your mind is killing it immediately?" Robb and Daeron laughed at that and Aegon smiled widely.

"Direwolves are too dangerous to roam freely through our forests and so my lord father had decided to hunt down the pack," Robb finally said. "It’s sad but it was necessary."

Aegon touched the creature's fur, petting it as if that could somehow calm it down or compensate for having to stand in a dark room forever, dead and stuffed. The fur was shaggy but soft, pleasant on the skin. In that moment he had to think about King’s Landing, about the giant dragon skulls presented in the throne room. The skull of Balerion, the largest of them all, had been hung from the ceiling above the Iron Throne with thick chains by their father's order shortly before Aegon had left King’s Landing to head north. Their father had been of the opinion that the power of the mighty dragon would be even more evident this way than if the huge skull would just lie on the ground as if some knight in shining armor had just slain it. For a brief moment Aegon had agreed with him in thought before he had realized what their father had been talking about: a skull. Balerion was dead, as dead as all the dragons. Sure, he was a symbol, but not of symbol of the power they had but the power they had lost. Balerion no longer held any power, no matter how high his skull would be hung.

So it didn't matter how much bigger the dragon skulls really were. Some of them were bigger than any of these dead direwolves combined but still he found these creatures to be more impressive. Maybe because the skulls were no more than that, skulls and bones. But the direwolves … they seemed almost alive and so much more real to him.

For a moment he thought about what stories they would tell and what songs they would sing about him had he killed one of the heraldic charges of his House, had he slain a dragon. Robb had done exactly that – with or without the help of half the household’s guard didn’t even really matter – but still nobody outside the walls of Winterfell had ever heard about that. Of course, by no means could all hunts for one’s heraldic charge be turned into a heroic story. All he had to think about was Robb's family on his mother's side. Catching a silver trout was undoubtedly far less heroic and adventurous than killing a dragon. Or a direwolf for that matter.

But with those wolves right in front of him … he couldn’t help but envy Robb and Daeron for their adventure.

"Why does your father hide those creatures here in the dark? He could have them displayed in the Great Hall. No doubt that would look impressive."

"It would, certainly. But father thought it would send the wrong signal to have the heraldic charge of our House displayed as prey. He already found it bad enough that he had to kill these animals at all."

They all were silent for a while, watching the huge beast of prey in awe.

"Thank you for showing me this," Aegon finally said.

"With pleasure, my prince," Robb answered with and honest and proud smile.

The next hours, the three wandered around Winterfell, closely followed but Ser Gerold and Prince Lewyn. They talked about this and that, about what life had been like in King’s Landing lately and about how Aegon would surely be knighted soon.

"I don't want that as a gift. I want to earn my knighthood," he said after Daeron had suggested that he could simply ask a knight of the Kingsguard to do it. Daeron made a face to it, which told him very clearly that he should not make such a fuss. In his years in the North, he indeed seemed to have lost some of the admiration for knights and knighthood that he had held when he had left King’s Landing three years ago. Robb however seemed to be seriously taken with Aegons stance.

It's a pity we have so little time, Aegon thought. I'm sure we could become close friends if we only had more time.

They wandered further through Winterfell. Again Aegon tried to take in as much of it as possible. In a certain way, the mighty fortress was so similar to the Red Keep and yet in most ways so fundamentally different. He could not pin it down to anything specific, it was certainly not the looks, but more ... a feeling. King’s Landing and the Red Keep in it were his home, even more so than Sunspear was, although Aegon often wished it to be the other way around. And seeing how much this place had become a home for Daeron, with a family that loved him and cared for him even more than parts of his other family from time to time, gave him a warming feeling. Maybe that was what intrigued him about this place so much. And apart from that, Aegon had visited a number of fortresses by now, mostly throughout the Crownlands and parts of Dorne, but he had to admit that Winterfell, rough and unpolished as it may seem, had a beauty of its own that would probably not be found anywhere else in the realm.

They were just passing through the courtyard again when another group of young men caught their eyes. In the middle of the group, a young lad with a horse head crest on his chest and a mop of sandy blond hair on his head was prancing about with a big grin on his face. Aegon wasn’t sure if the lad was drunk, the happiest man in the world or just dumb as a post.

The three of them stopped and watched the group for a while as they roamed the courtyard and seemed to inspect the surrounding fortress. For someone inspecting the walls and towers and buildings of Winterfell as keenly as if he wanted to buy them, Aegon wondered how he managed to notice neither the Lord Paramount's son nor the two princes of the realm that were standing nearby.

"Who is this?", Aegon asked.

"Roger Ryswell, son and heir of Rodrik Ryswell, Lord of the Rills," Robb answered. He recited the name in an almost ceremonious tone, but his face revealed how little he seemed to think of the young man. "He is here to claim my sister’s hand in marriage."

Aegon grew wide as he didn't even try to hide his surprise. Of course a lady as young and beautiful and of such a good lineage as the Lady Sansa had more than enough suitors. However, by no stretch of the imagination he could imagine why Lord Stark should even consider such a union, since there were undoubtedly much better offers for Lady Sansa's hand from all over the realm. At least that what would have happened in the South with bards and singers praising the young lady at all courts far and wide. But he had to admit to himself that he had no idea how far the bards and singers got around here in the North, given that before he had seen Lady Sansa with his own eyes, he had had no idea of her outstanding beauty and grace, apart from some very cursory descriptions of the Stark children in the letters Daeron had sent him. Robb seemed to notice Aegons disbelieving stare.

"He will not get her", he said with a look on his face as serious as if he had just passed a death sentence.

Eventually Roger Ryswell seemed to notice them after all and walked over to the three of them.

"My lord, Your Graces," he said, bowing deeply. Aegon ignored the fact that of course he and Daeron should have been greeted first and returned the greeting with a short nod.

"You must be Lord Ryswell’s son then. Roger."

"Indeed, Your Grace. It’s an honor and a pleasure to meet you. And it’s an honor and a pleasure that you know my name, Your Grace." He bowed again, the doltish smile never leaving his face.

Does he think it’s an honor for him or for me?

"I assume you will be attending the feast tonight as well?"

"Indeed, Your Grace. His lordship was kind enough to invite my father and me to the feast. Maybe he will even be kind enough to invite me to the tourney."

"What tourney?", Robb asked.

"Well, I assumed that, with two princes here in Winterfell who are both known for their skill in jousting and in the melee, your Lord Father would arrange a tourney in their honor."

"You assumed wrong then", Aegon said. "My visit to Winterfell was unfortunately only announced at very short notice. Planning and arranging a tourney in that short amount of time, especially one with a number of worthy opponents, would simply have been impossible. I am already very grateful for the kindness and hospitality that the whole Stark family has bestowed on me."

"How unfortunate", Roger Ryswell said. "I had hoped to challenge you in jousting, Your Grace. Unfortunately, the last tourney we both entered, there was no such opportunity."

"And which tourney was that?", Aegon asked. He had indeed taken part in some smaller tourneys as of late, but could not recall ever having seen this young man's crest in a tourney , let alone in the later final rounds.

"The tourney at Yronwood, Your Grace, in honor of the fifteenth name day of Ryon Allyrion's eldest son."

"Ah, yes. I remember."

He did indeed remember the tourney. He remembered the grand and very numerous speeches that had been given that day, the endless babbling about how House Yronwood was Bloodroyal and the not very well-hidden insinuations that they should be the ones to rule Dorne. But he certainly did not remember this young man, nor did he remember having heard his name or seen his crest.

"Did you win?", Daeron asked.

"No."

He really didn't wish to tell his brother here and now how the damned Knight of Flowers had knocked him off his horse with only a lance in the semi-final. Aegon also did not feel that this could lead to any interesting conversation, so he turned away and took his leave already while walking.

"I’m afraid you'll have to excuse us now. We will meet tonight at the feast then."

Neither of the three waited for an answer as they left the lad standing there, still smiling widely, and continued their journey through Winterfell. They had no particular goal in mind, but everything seemed better than having to continue this conversation. The day was already advanced and the sun was slowly beginning to set when Prince Lewyn caught up with them.

"My princes, it's getting late. You should start preparing for the feast. It would be impolite to show up late after having done nothing half of the day."

Of course he was right and so the three went back to the Great Keep, the building where their rooms were located. When entering the long corridor with the princes’ chambers, they split up.

"Don't take too much time, brother. No one likes a prince who takes longer to dress than his own sister", Daeron said to him as he walked by heading to his own room.

"And by sister, you mean yourself?", Aegon called after him but he didn’t wait for an answer when he entered his rooms.

He hadn’t really had the time to inspect his rooms when he had arrived this morning, but there was not too much to see anyway. The room was large, but only modestly furnished. There was everything he needed, no doubt about that. The bed was even larger than his own bed in King’s Landing, layered with furs of all kinds of animals from the North. For a moment he wondered if there were any direwolf furs on his bed as well, but then he saw for himself how stupid it was. Robb had told him that the pack of direwolves he had shown him had been the first in over a hundred years south of the Wall. And none of the animals had looked as if a piece of fur had been cut out and the hole sewn up again just to give him a pleasant night.

Opposite the bed there was a big fireplace in which a fire was already burning and given how warm it was inside his room, the fire must have been burning for quite some time already. Two large windows gave an impressive view of the inner Courtyard. Unfortunately there was no balcony but he hadn’t seen many of those anyway here in Winterfell so far. Right between the two windows was a small desk with a small chair, with ink and quill and some pages of paper.

He wouldn’t want to write a letter home just yet, but sooner or later he eventually would have to report his father that he had arrived safe and sound. He decided to attend to it first thing tomorrow. Aegon was well aware that Ser Gerold also had sent letters to his father regularly – Ser Gerold had tried to be discreet with it, but he had succeeded about as well as if he had tried to sneak into a maiden’s chamber with a millstone around his neck – and it would no doubt be better if his letter arrived at King's Landing first. After all, he did not want to give the king any reason to doubt him or his reliability. It had been a hard enough fight to be allowed to travel to Winterfell personally instead of just sending a raven, and if his father would become unhappy with him for one reason or another, this would be his last trip away from the capitol for a very long time. That much was certain.

A large cabinet took up a good part of the eastern wall of the room into which some servants had undoubtedly already put his clothes. His boots had been lined up next to it, all obviously freshly cleaned and polished. However, the room was dominated by the huge tub in the middle of it, almost filled to the brim with water that was so hot that it was still steaming even in this warm room. Aegon looked around to see if he had missed a second door, for with the best will in the world he could not imagine how the servants had managed to get this thing through the door through which he himself had just come in. There was no second door, however.

Maybe some things should just stay a secret.

He quickly took off his boots and undressed, letting his sweaty and dirty clothes fall to the ground and let himself sink into the hot water. For a moment it felt almost too hot for him, as if a bright fire was burning his skin, but then again ...

Fire cannot kill a dragon, he heard his father’s voice in his head and he had to smile wearily at the ridiculousness of that. His grandfather had always said the very same in his later years. At least that was what he had been told. At one point, his royal grandfather had demanded that his mother throw Rhaenys and him into a fire that he had lit in the throne room to prove that her children really had inherited the Blood of the Dragon. But their father had intervened in the last moment, had protected Rhaenys and him from the flames and their mother from the late king's wrath. When he had heard this story for the first time, he had thought about whether their father would still protect them today or rather get some extra wood to heat the fire properly. That had been nonsense, of course.

His father had always been a somewhat unconventional man, grief-stricken and deeply immersed in his belief in a silly prophecy about a savior and redeemer that would have to come from his bloodline. But he did not murder innocent people or burn children. That much was clear. So even if he had been getting increasingly peculiar lately, he was no second Mad King.

For some time Aegon just sat in the hot water and enjoyed how his muscles could relax after this already quite long day. Soon the feast would begin and there would be rich food and loud music, singing and dancing, but here and now there was nothing but comforting silence and even more comforting heat. For quite a while he just lay in the tub and let himself soak like a piece of meat that needed to be marinated. Only when he finally noticed how hungry he already was, he started to scrub himself from top to bottom and to wash his hair. Immediately afterwards he got out of the tub and dried himself thoroughly. Especially the hair had to be as dry as possible, because he would like to do a little bit of hairdressing as well. Now he stood butt-naked in the middle of the room in front of the open cupboard and thought about what he should wear tonight.

He didn't want to give Daeron the triumph of having taken too long, but still the choice of his clothes had to be well-considered. One choice was a noble, deep black doublet made of finest cloth from Myr with his family’s three-headed dragon sigil on chest and back, embroidered from finest silk from Qarth and artfully decorated with tiny ruby splinters that would glow in the light of the fires. Matching this he had trousers of the same fine and deep black cloth and a pair of high boots with bloodred seams. One would probably not find clothes in all of Westeros, Essos and beyond that would make him look more like a prince than this.

The other possibility was an equally black doublet made of good, but noticeably simpler fabric. The sleeves were embroidered lengthwise with red fighting dragons but made of the same simple thread as the rest of the doublet's seams. This was accompanied by blood-red wool trousers and a pair of plain black boots.

In King's landing such a decision would not have been up for discussion, but here in the North everything was a bit different. He knew how skeptically he would be looked at if he came into the Great Hall all dressed up like a young rooster, strutting about in fabrics that were worth more than the entire wardrobe of some of the guests who would be present tonight. It was appropriate for a prince, especially for the Crown Prince, but he would be looked upon crookedly for it. On the other hand... he was the Crown Prince after all, so why should he hide?

So he decided on the first combination and started to get dressed. When he was done, he went over to one of the windows and looked down into the small courtyard between the Great Keep and the Great Hall. The guests of the feast, who had either come from the immediate vicinity of Winterfell or who had been accommodated in the Guest House next to the Library Tower, had gathered next to the small Sept and had already begun to enter the Great Hall one after the other through its massive main portal. His brother Daeron, the Starks and he himself would be the last to enter the hall in a ceremonial procession but being the guest of honor, he would be the one to lead it. So, there was indeed not much time left for him.

Between his clothes he luckily found the small ivory mirror he had brought with him from King's Landing. It was clearly a mirror for young ladies, but Aegon felt that it was serving him just as well. Fortunately, Daeron had never seen it before. He didn't want to imagine the mockery that would otherwise pour over him for the rest of his life. He put the small mirror on the table between the windows, sat down in front of it and started to braid at least some strands of his long hair. He then artfully merged the braids at the back of his head to a bigger knot, which would then also hold the rest of his hair in place.

When he had finished and was satisfied with the result, he stood up and left his room to meet Daeron and the Starks at the foot of the Great Keep. As soon as the rest of the guests had taken their seats, they would enter the Great Hall from there. He got there quickly and it didn’t surprise him to find Daeron there already. His brother had obviously also washed and redressed himself, but he had chosen the more modest option obviously. He wore a red doublet and black trousers made of wool, and red boots of good leather. Around his neck hung a silver chain with a pendant in the shape of a dragon, the links of the chain in the shape of small wolves.

Probably a present from Lord Stark, he thought.

Lord Stark and his sons were also already there waiting, all dressed in fine wool and linen in different shades of grey. Lady Stark and the daughters were still nowhere to be seen though.

Thank the Seven. At least I was faster than the ladies.

Lord Stark came over to him, greeting him with a sad smile.

"Your Grace, it’s good to see you."

"Thank you, Lord Stark. Were you worried that I'd flee the feast? If so, your concerns were unfounded", Aegon replied with a warm smile.

"No, of course not." Now Lord Stark was smile was becoming somewhat less sad. "It’s just that my daughter Arya is sick and cannot attend the feast. And since you … took your time in your rooms, I feared you might have fallen sick as well."

So I did take too long, he scolded himself.

"No, I’m fine, my lord. Please express my wishes of recovery to your daughter."

"I will, Your Grace."

"I hope your other daughter is well though?"

"Indeed she is, Your Grace. I’m sure Sansa will be here soon. She would not want to miss this evening even if her life depended on it."

With that, he turned around and went back to his sons.

All day long he had expected to enter the Great Hall with Lady Catelyn on his arm, as would have been appropriate. She was this castle's lady after all. But in the afternoon Robb had told him that his father had changed the plans so that he would now lead Sansa to the feast. To his own surprise, he had been a bit excited about it. He had only met Lady Sansa once when he had been greeted by the whole family in the morning, but he had to admit that he had had a hard time getting her out of his head afterwards.

One of the doors behind the group opened and a young lady stepped out into the courtyard. It was Lady Jeyne Poole, Lady Sansa's best friend as he had learned. She looked over to him, curtsied deeply while whispering a "Your Grace" in his direction, greeted Lord Stark and his sons with an equally timid "My lords" and then went directly to Daerons side. She did not curtsey for him though but instead directly took his arm and whispered something in his ear that made his brother smile widely.

Pretty intimate for the daughter of the castle’s steward, he thought before he was struck by the realization. He is bedding her! She was cute. That he had to admit. But she surely was not unusually beautiful or anything. Aegon had grown up in King's Landing, so he was used to the sight of beauty. Just about every lord from all over the Seven Kingsdoms with a daughter between ten and twenty had already sent her to the royal court. Every higher lord had always hoped that Aegon could choose his daughter as his favorite, perhaps making her the next queen, while every minor lord would have been happy already if his daughters had become his mistress, maybe giving him a bastard or two. But he had not done this favor either side so far. Jeyne Poole was … easy on the eye, but nothing more. And in the end, she was the daughter of Winterfell’s steward. Not exactly a match for a Targaryen prince.

Lady Jenye looked at Daeron with such a smitten smile as if their engagement had already been decided. If that really was what she was hoping for in the end, Aegon hoped that, in her own interest, she would quickly learn to live with disappointments. Then again, Daeron returned her look, seemed to be as entranced by her as she was by him. And given how important such terms as honor and loyalty had always been to Daeron – he really could not deny his Stark blood – Aegon somehow doubted that Daeron just wanted her as a bed warmer. Still, that wouldn't happen. Their father would never give his permission for such a union. Of course, there had been precedents. But she was no Jenny and he certainly was no Duncan. No, wherever this would lead them, it would certainly not end in a sept before an altar.

Again the door behind the Stark men opened and this time Lady Catelyn Stark entered the courtyard, closely followed by her daughter Sansa.

The sight of her struck him like a thunderbolt.

She wore a light blue dress, made from the finest silk from across the Narrow Sea. For a short moment he was surprised that so far in the north such fine silk was worn, but he directly scolded himself for it. This is the North, not beyond the Wall. Silver wolves were elaborately embroidered around the seam of her dress, thin lines made of silver trouts ran across it and met at the height of her waist, where they merged into a narrow silver belt. The long sleeves of her dress were made of white silk and adorned with blue wolves that seemed to chase up her arms. Her dress was much more tame than the dresses he was used to from the South and yet it truly was a feast for the eyes.

What really caught his eyes though was not the dress, however beautifully and elaborately decorated it might have been, but the young lady who wore it. The dress emphasized her perfect stature in the best possible way. She was tall and slender, yet womanly and irresistibly graceful. She wore a silver pendant with a tiny direwolf around her beautiful, slim neck. Parts of Sansa's hair had been braided into elaborate plaits that framed her head like a crown, while most of it fell over her shoulders in thick curls. She was a natural beauty as Aegon had never seen one before. High cheekbones, large and vivid blue eyes, blooming lips and thick, ravishing, auburn hair … he found no words for it.

Aegon hadn't noticed how long he just must have been staring at her. It must have been quite a while though, because he noticed Lady Sansa getting restless under his gaze as if she feared something was wrong with her. Immediately he went over to her and bowed.

"Lady Sansa, you look beautiful, absolutely breathtaking."

"Thank you, Your Grace", she said curtseying and blushing deeply at the same time.

Aegon couldn't help but think that this made her even more irresistible. He offered her his arm, which she immediately took without another word. Her hand lay so softly on his arm that Aegon hardly even felt it. The others had taken their positions behind the two of them and so Aegon walked towards the Great Hall with Lady Sansa on his arm.

He knew of course that the protocol demanded that he would look straight ahead stubbornly and regally, at least until he would have taken his place of honor in the middle of the dais, and yet he could not help but look over to her every few steps to take her sight further into himself; a sight any man would want to keep in his memory for the rest of his life. To his great joy she seemed to feel the same way. Every second or third time, their eyes met for the time of a heartbeat. Both of them turned their eyes away immediately then, but the adorable blush and the soft smile that surrounded her beautiful lips every time this happened, only enchanted him even more.

When he had been introduced to the Stark family that morning, the only things he had been able to smell were smoke, fresh bread and horse manure. Now there was no smoke or bread or manure left in the air.

By the Seven, she even smells wonderful. Sweet, after young flowers and honey.

If it had been like this for his father when he had laid his eyes on the Lady Lyanna for the first time, suddenly Aegon could no longer blame him for running away with her. He feared, he would have to apologize to his father for some of the things he had said or just thought about him soon. For a brief moment, he had to fight with all his strength against the urge to immediately grab Lady Sansa, jump on the next horse with her and ride off to disappear somewhere in the Dornish mountains in a lonely tower with her.

As they arrived at the entrance of the Great Hall, all guests stood and the herald began to cite their names and titles.

"Aegon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne with the Lady Sansa of House Stark of Winterfell. Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North with his wife Catelyn of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell. Daeron of House Targaryen…"

Aegon stopped listening then and more focused on the spectacle around him. The Great Hall was great indeed. It was about half the size of the Throne Room in the Red Keep and was therefore still massive. Numerous banners of the lords and ladies attending the feast tonight hung from the walls. At the head of the hall hung a row of banners of the House of Stark, seven banners for seven Starks. Above them however flew the royal banner of the three-headed dragon, almost thrice the size of the Stark banners below.

I guess it’s a good sign that Lord Stark would own such a giant Targaryen banner in the first place, Aegon thought.

Apart from the numerous banners, the Great Hall was decorated with evergreen branches and wreaths and garlands of fresh flowers, of which Aegon could not even imagine where Lady Stark might have gotten them. And here and there he even thought to recognize the white bark and blood-red leaves of some Weirwood branches. He knew that for a feast in King's Landing such a decoration would have been too ordinary, too peasant... Not for the first time, Aegon reflected on what a strange people these northeners were. He found it absolutely perfect.

Aegon and Sansa went up the small stairs to the dais and he led the lady to her seat, four seats away from his own. For a moment he wondered whether he should not just take a seat next to her. It would have been a strange sight for those present if the guest of honor had not taken his seat of honor in the middle of the dais, but Lord Stark would hardly have asked him to stand up to move away from his daughter if he indeed had done so. He decided not to though and instead gave the lady a warm smile and a gentle kiss to her hand before he turned around to take his own seat.

To his left Daeron would be seated and to his right Lord Eddard Stark. Next to Lord Stark would be his wife Lady Catelyn, next to her their son and heir Robb and next to him Sansa was seated. So she wasn't that far away. Nevertheless, he wished he could sit closer to her, if only to be able to smell her sweet scent again.

I need to pull myself together, he told himself. I'm not a green boy anymore with a crush on his first girl.

Daeron and the rest of the Stark family arrived at their seats, apart from the sick Lady Arya of course – although what he had learned of her so far, she seemed not to be much of a lady – and so Aegon sat, followed by Daeron and the Starks and then the rest of the crowd below them. It took a while for the murmurs to calm down, but then Lord Stark rose again immediately to now officially welcome Aegon in front of his gathered bannermen as well.

"Your Grace", he began addressing Aegon. "It is a great pleasure to welcome you here at Winterfell. You honor us by having taken the long journey from King's Landing so far to the North to now be here with us and to celebrate this feast in your honor with us. We drink to your health and well-being. May you feel as welcome here as you indeed are. And to the King, of course. To King Rhaegar. Long may he reign", he said, raising the large silver cup in front of him high in the air.

The crowd joined in, drinking cups raised as well. "Long may he reign."

Lord Stark sat down again and now it was Aegon’s turn to stand and speak.

"Lord Stark, I thank you sincerely for the warm welcome you and your family have given me here. The North may be cold and icy, but the hospitality I have experienced here in the North warms me like no fire in the world could." A few low voices rose from the crowd, soft words and murmurs only, but Aegon was sure to hear approval and appreciation. "I'm happy to in return drink to your well-being and that of your family. May House Stark continue to be a strong pillar for the crown and the Iron Throne and to be a most trusted bannerman of my father, the king. To House Stark of Winterfell."

Again the crowd joined in, this time much louder however. "To House Stark of Winterfell!" For a short moment, Aegon though about whether it had been his touching words or the love of the North for House Stark that had made the crowd cheer so much more passionately this time. He already had a hunch though and he was sure that not toasting to the king again had been a rather good idea. A servant appeared in front of him then, offering him bread and salt. He took both, ate it and washed it down with a small sip of wine from his own cup, which was so sour that it gave him goose bumps. But he did not let it show and sat down again instead. A short applause was given, as the Crown Prince now officially enjoyed the right to hospitality and the feast therefore now could begin.

Immediately musicians began to play and numerous servants brought in large plates of food and spread it all over the tables. The high table on the dais always got food first of course, after that the other tables were served. They served soup made of trout and mushrooms, salmon filled with little onions and garlic. That was followed by dark bread with duck sausages and soft cheese that was baked in honey. After that, the servants carried a stag in the hall that had been roasted as a whole and that was served to the guests in small chunks doused with a dark sauce made of heavy beer.

After a part of the stag had been served to all guests of honor, Aegon took a closer look to all the banners in the hall and he had to admit not to recognize many of them. He could make out the dead Weirwood tree of House Blackwood and the three trees of House Tallhart. And somewhere in between the ten white wolf’s heads of House Cassel and the blue plate on white of House Poole, he also spotted the black horse’s head of House Ryswell. But many of the other banners were unknown to him. If he had had to be honest, he would have had to admit that some of those banners didn’t even look real. They certainly did not look like anything he would proudly like to wear when riding into battle. Some more looked like they were made up to fill the blanks in between. But that certainly was nothing he liked to entrust to Lord Stark. Instead, he turned towards his host and simply asked to have some of the banners explained to him. Admitting that he didn’t know each and every banner of each and every house in Westeros was not a shame. That seemed to unsettle Lord Stark a bit as he leaned over towards Aegon and answered only whispering.

"I must apologize, my prince. Many of our bannermen, especially from further away, didn’t make it to Winterfell on time."

Aegon answered his insecurity with a smile. "No need to apologize, my lord. I very well know that announcement of my visit to Winterfell reached you terribly late. If anything, I'm the one who should apologize. I meant what I said, Lord Stark. I am very grateful for the kindness and hospitality your family has shown me so generously. And it is undoubtedly an amazing achievement what a wonderful feast Lady Catelyn has put together in such a short time. Please be so good as to convey my thanks and sincere appreciation to your wife."

Lord Stark seemed incredibly relieved about that as he smiled widely now and promised to deliver the prince’s words to his wife. He then indeed explained all the banners Aegon pointed to, but the names of those Houses oftentimes were as unknown to him as their banners had been shortly before.

At the end of the meal, a number of different cakes were served filled with different kinds of fruits, from apples to quinces to plums. The guests of honor on the dais were also served a plate of small lemon cakes. Aegon was surprised that they were served something else than the crowd below them but Daeron explained that they got those served at every occasion in Winterfell because those were the Lady Sansa’s favorites. Aegon decided to remember that.

"How come", his brother began after the meal, when the servants began to carry out tables and benches to make room for the dance that would begin soon, "that you are welcomed so much bigger and more opulent than I was when I came to Winterfell?"

"I don’t know. Probably because I’m better than you", Aegon said with a wry smirk. "But don’t worry about it too much. I get the larger feast, but you had the larger retinue."

"Aye, that’s true", Daeron said. "Two knights of the Kingsguard? I mean, that’s it? And you better do not think that the people in Winterfell have not noticed the same. I had almost hundred people following me on my way north. I was even surprised that father did not come along himself right away."

"You know father", Aegon said. But did he really? It had been three years since he had left the capitol and their father’s condition had changed quite significantly in those three years. "It was a hard enough fight to get his permission in the first place. At that time, father had thought it a good idea to appear as humble as possible at Winterfell and not with half an army behind my back. A week later he would probably have sent the entire court to the North or he would have simply forbidden me again. So I took what I could get."

The wry smirk was back on Aegon’s face but that didn't seem to lessen Daeron's anxiety. He will see father soon enough. No need to ruin this evening over him.

"So, Prince Daeron, are you excited about finally escaping the cold northern weather and to finally get back to the warm South?",Lord Stark asked. Daeron seemed to think about that for a second.

"To be honest, I always liked the weather here in the North. I've never been a great friend of heat."

"What a great dragon that makes you, brother," Aegon said.

"It seems you indeed have more Stark than Targaryen in you, son", the Lord replied with a heartfelt laugh. "You will sweat, but at least you'll see your family again. Your other family. Please remember that you will always have a family up here."

"I will. And yes, I really do miss my family, especially my sister and my grandmother."

But unfortunately you will have to face the rest of the family as well, Aegon thought but said nothing.

"I’m sure the king will be happy to have his son back. I wouldn't want to miss such a good son for too long." Both smiled warmly at that. "By the way, how is the king anyway, Prince Aegon? You haven’t talked too much about him so far."

"Oh, he's doing fine overall. The Lord Hand takes over most of the affairs of government, so that our father finds more time again to delve into his prophecies. He'd almost given up on that until the Red Priestess from Essos showed up and started putting fleas in his ear. Whenever he now gets his hands on such an old, burnt scroll from Valyria or an unreadable, silly handwriting from Qohor or Mantaris or from wherever, he disappears into his study with the red witch and is not seen for days." It was only when he fell silent that he himself noticed how dark his tone had become.

"I remember that you once mentioned this Red Priestess in one of your letters, but I did not think that she had so much influence on father", Daeron said.

"Well, it’s not as if she is ruling the realm, but … she seems to distract father. Instead of caring about the present, she draws him deeper and deeper into long dead worlds in old writings and possible futures in vague prophecies. This is not proper behavior for a king. I'm grateful that Mother doesn't have to see all this anymore."

Daeron’s eyes grew wide in shock at that.

"What about mother?"

"Oh, no. It's not that. Don’t worry. She is fine. It’s just that the Spring Sickness left her even weaker than before, so she decided to return to Sunspear. She is fine, she is just no longer living at court. Rhaenys is visiting her quite often. I would love to as well, but most of the time father doesn’t allow it."

They went on drinking for a while, chatting about nothing in particular, while the servants were still busy freeing the middle ground of the Great Hall where the dance would soon begin. In between Aegon caught himself again and again trying to catch a glimpse of Lady Sansa. She seemed to have eaten very little and immediately this pleasant restlessness returned when he noticed that she had looked over at him again and again as well, blushing softly and smiling lovely every time.

Finally the servants had managed to free the room completely of tables and benches – even the large table on the dais had now been removed – and all the lords and ladies had lined up at the sides of the large square space in the center of the hall. The musicians had taken their new places as well at the side of the dais and now waited for the dance to begin. Aegon was expected to open the dance now. So he stood up, walked over to Lady Sansa, who was already waiting or him, eyes lowered and cheeks blushed again in a lovely light red.

"May I ask for the honor of this dance, my lady?" he asked her, offering his arm.

She said nothing but stood up gracefully and took his arm. They walked down the stairs from the dais and to the middle of the dancing floor. Aegon bowed deeply to her, she curtseyed just as deeply as a signal for the dance to begin. The music began to play again. Aegon and Sansa encircled each other for a short time in the slow tact of the music before he stepped closer and took her hand.

How soft her skin is.

She smiled at him, still blushed like the Maiden herself. She danced wonderfully, moved as graceful as a swan. He knew he was a good dancer as well but it still surprised him how perfectly they aligned in their movements. For a moment, he forgot that there were people around them, watching every move they made. He forgot the music even, because all he needed was the sight of this young lady in front of him, moving around him, just to end up even closer to him each and every time. He had not expected to ever lay his eyes on a lady that really could match the otherworldly beauty of his sister, but here she was, dancing with him, smiling sweetly at him, blushing wonderfully whenever their hands touch even for a moment.

He felt like he could have danced with her like this for the rest of his life, but then he again heard the tact of the music getting slightly slower. The end of the song was near and so was their dance. Lady Sansa must have heard the same, as he thought to find a slight sadness in her smile. Her eyes left his for the first time, wandering around the guests surrounding them. He followed her gaze when her eyes finally stopped and he found Roger Ryswell standing there with a sour expression on his face, seemingly ready to rush forward as soon as the prince would have left Sansa’s side.

"Your next dancing partner?", he whispered.

"It seems so, Your Grace", she whispered back.

The music was over and both stopped dancing, but kept standing close together. Probably too close to be appropriate, but Aegon couldn’t care less in this moment. He took a short look at Lady Catelyn. She was looking at her daughter with an overly proud smile. Other couples were beginning to form around the two now, waiting for the music to start again.

"If you don’t want to dance with the horse guy, you don’t have to." She smiled at horse guy but the sadness didn’t leave her face.

"I’m afraid I cannot deny him a dance. Father allowed him to court me."

"Well, he can only ask you for a dance if nobody else has asked you for it first", Aegon said. He smiled widely at her, bowed deeply and offered her his arm again. "May I ask for the honor of this dance, my lady?"

"Your Grace, what are you doing?", she asked. The sadness had left her face and a smile as wide as the world, shining brightly as the sun itself had taken its place.

"I was raised to be knight, my lady. And what kind of knight could I ever hope to be, would I not do everything in my power to rescue a beautiful damsel in distress?"

Her smile grew even wider and her cheeks blushed again when she took his arm. Aegon wasted a short look to Roger Ryswell, only to find him standing there with a not just sour but openly angry expression, his face red like an overripe apple.

And so they danced again. Lady Sansa seemed to be freed of a burden for the whole time of the dance and just before the uncertainty and sadness could come back to her wonderful face, Aegon asked: „My lady, may I ask for the honor of this dance?”

Aegon didn’t miss the unsettled look on Lord Stark’s face after he had asked his daughter for the third dance in a row. But after Lady Catelyn had leaned over to him, whispering something in his ear while nodding in the direction of the still waiting Roger Ryswell, a knowing expression and a small but pleased grin had found his face. When they danced for the forth time, an older man with sandy blonde hair and the sigil of House Ryswell on his doublet – probably Roger Ryswell’s father – stepped up on the dais, talking angrily with Lord and Lady Stark. Aegon couldn’t hear what Lord Stark was telling him and in that moment, he really was not all too interested in it anyway, but when the man turned around and left the dais, he was looking even angrier than before.

They danced a total of six times in a row, ignoring the whispers and the gazes of the lords and ladies around them and every time it felt more wonderful and more perfect than the last time. After the sixth dance however, he saw how tiny droplets of sweat had formed on Lady Sansa’s exquisite neck and neckline and although she did her best to hide how warm she must be in her dress by now, it was clear that she needed to rest.

"I fear I’m a bit exhausted, my lady. Hopefully it does not disappoint you too much but I would propose a pause from the dancing now", Aegon said to save her from having to ask.

"No, of course not, Your Grace."

He led her back on to the dais where she took her seat again, thankfully accepting the cup of cold, watery wine her brother offered her. He just wanted to sit down on his own chair as well, when Roger Ryswell approached Lady Sansa.

"My lady Sansa, may I ask for this dance?", he asked politely but still sour-faced. Immediately Lady Sansa had a resigned look on her face but, being the lady she was, she was just about to accept his arm as Aegon came back and intervened.

"My lord Ryswell, I believe you have very well seen that the Lady Sansa has just danced six times in a row. I’m sure you will understand that she is in dire need of a pause now. But do not worry, there are plenty of other ladies here that would love to be asked for a dance by you."

Without anything to answer, Roger Ryswell turned around and left the dais. Aegon followed him with his eyes for some moments. Instead of asking another lady for a dance, he went to his father and both left the Great Hall as if the Black Dread itself was on their heels. Aegon sat down then, also accepting a cup of cold wine from his own brother.

"What was that?", he heard Lady Catelyn ask in a hushed tone.

"He saved me", Lady Sansa answered equally hushed.

What a sweet voice she has, Aegon thought. Soft but wonderfully melodic. Her singing must be absolutely beautiful. He hoped that one day he would actually hear her sing. For him, just for him.

The dancing continued for some time, and although he noticed the looks of the other young ladies in the crowd hoping that he would ask them to dance as well, he had no desire to do so. Daeron, as quiet and shy as he had been when he had left King’s Landing, definitely was not picky. He danced with Jenye Poole before he asked a total of five other girls as well. At the end and after a short pause, Daeron danced with Lady Jeyne again.

The night was getting late and so Aegon decided that he could no longer delay what he had to do. He nodded towards the herald standing next to the dais and rose from his seat. The herald knocked on the ground a few times with his ceremonial staff until the music finally stopped and all voices were silent. Everybody, including the Stark family and his own brother, was now looking a him with an asking expression what was to come now.

"My lord Stark", he finally began addressing Lord Eddard. "This has been a wonderful feast so far, and I would like to thank you and your family again for making this possible." Small applause came from the crowd, but Aegon went on. "But as you probably have guessed already, I did not only come north to drink your wine and plunder your stocks. Of course, I have also come to take my beloved brother back to King’s Landing as you know. And again I am grateful that you have taken so good care of Daeron. But there is even another reason for me to be here now." He could see how Lord Stark’s expression began to become unsettled again. "I came here to officially invite you and your family to the celebrations of my twentieth name day in King’s Landing that will take place as soon as I have returned to to the capitol … in my name and in the name of the king."

Lord Stark’s expression became even more unsettled, shocked almost. Lady Sansa began to shine like the sun again, smiling and clapping, while Lady Catelyn and Robb looked almost as unsure about the whole thing as Lord Eddard himself.

"I understand this comes as a surprise to you, My lord. But please give me the honor of accepting the invitation."

Lord Stark stood, shortly looking to his wife, before he answered.

"Your Grace, it is an honor for me and my family to be invited by you personally to this most important celebration, and of course I gratefully accept the invitation", he said but his expression never changed though. Aegon could very well understand Lord Stark’s suspicious, uncertain tone. It was easy to see that he would have preferred to be able to politely but distinctively refuse the invitation. He himself knew that something was just off about all this. Yes, there would be a feast to celebrate Aegon’s twentieth name day. Several actually. Yes, there would be a grand tourney. And no, it was not unusual to have lords and ladies form all over the realm to attend to such dynastically important events. It was not even unusual to expect all the Lords Paramount to personally come to King’s Landing for such an occasion.

What was unusual however was that the king – known to have lost any interest in feasts and tourneys and celebrations years ago already – would organize a name day celebration for his son larger in scale and cost than anything that had ever taken place in Westeros. And what was even more unusual was that the king had not simply sent ravens to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, not even messengers, but instead had sent his first born son and heir almost to the other side of the continent with no more retinue than two knights guarding him just to invite – or better order – the Lord of Winterfell to King’s Landing. Something was going to happen there. Something big. Aegon felt it in his guts and given the look on Eddard Stark’s face, he felt it as well.

Notes:

So this was chapter 3. It got waaaaay longer than I expected, but that just happened while writing.

Also, I have added the Aegon/Sansa-tag now. All of you crazy kids are probably already pretty aware of where this is supposed to go with these two. I originally planned to stretch the whole thing out a bit more, to some chapters after the arrival at King's Landing, but ... well, it went all a bit differently and a bit faster now. ;-) Hope you still like it.

Let me know your thoughts in the comments. And of course: thanks for reading!

Chapter 4: Eddard 2

Summary:

This chapter will cover the last days in Winterfell before they leave for King's Landing and the first part fo their journey.

Notes:

Hi everyone,

forth chapter is here. Again, this got way longer than expected while writing it. Hope you don't mind. ;-) Hope you all have fun reading.

The air was cold that morning, way colder than he had expected at this time of year. But Ned liked the cold. He had always liked it. The white cold of the North was a part of him, flew through his veins like the red of his blood. Still this cold was unusual, though not unwelcome. He tightened his fur-trimmed coat a little more before leaving their sleeping chamber.

Cat was still lying in bed sleeping, naked as the day she was born, and he decided to give her this rest. His eyes lingered on the bare backside of her body for some moments and he felt the urge to undress again and go back to his wife. But again he decided to give her this rest instead. The days and weeks before the prince’s arrival had been horribly stressful for his wife, he knew. The time to plan the feast for Prince Aegon had been short, but still she had managed to organize a wonderful grand feast that would be remembered for years. After they had gone to bed the night after the feast, she had been filled with energy, excited like a young girl about the evening. She had been very proud of the feast and rightfully so. But she had been even more proud of Sansa, her perfect looks, her courtly manners, her beautiful dancing…

"Have you seen her? Have you seen what a perfect young lady she was?"

Of course he had. Just as everybody else had, including Prince Aegon. But if there was one thing he had not wanted to think about any further that night, then it had been Sansa’s dancing.

Six times in a row.

Now, more than a week after the feast, it still caused him pain in his stomach to even think about that. So instead of starting an argument about it, he had decided to compliment his wife more on the wonderful feast. That had been well deserved. How delicious the food had been, how wonderful the music and how they all had enjoyed the evening. After that, they quickly had stopped talking. Only then had he noticed that Cat had come to bed completely naked. In this night and the following nights, she had been more passionate than she had been in years, unbridled and willing. She had made him take her every night, sometimes even twice a night.

Her passion had completely overwhelmed him until he had had trouble focusing on anything at all during the day. All he had been able to think about was her, her body, her long legs and full breasts and the roundness of her firm bottom and he had thought of nothing else but going to bed with her in the evening to take her. He had been surprised that he had also found in himself the wildness of his youth again. On some of the mornings after, he had discovered traces he had left on her body. He had tried to apologize for being too rough, but when he had wanted to speak to Cat about it, she had simply kissed him and said that the only thing he had to apologize for was the fact that she didn't have such marks more often. Last night, after he had rolled off her, she had even talked about giving him another son while half asleep. He wasn’t sure if she had already been sleeping or not – he wasn’t even sure if she was still able to bear a child anymore – but the thought alone had made his heart beat faster with joy.

Maybe we should have festivities like this more often.

Although her excitement for him had thankfully not lessened, the excitement for Sansa definitely had the days following the feast. As she had told him, Sansa would not stop talking about the prince from dawn till dusk.

"Handsome, gallant, beautiful … that’s all she is saying. This morning when breaking the fast, the has spent almost an hour talking about how wonderful his doublet had been shining in the light of the fires. His doublet", she had said. "You better not ask me how much she talks about the rest of him."

The days after the feast there were indeed no other subjects for Sansa to talk about than him, the golden prince. Thankfully she had a friend in Jeyne Poole with whom she could talk about his hair, his smile and every of his moves to her heart's content all day long. Ned wasn’t sure if that was for the better or the worse, but as long as Sansa could chatter with Jeyne about him, she would not bother her mother with it too much. Instead Septa Mordane now had to suffer through listening to the girls’ chatter the whole day and although he actually liked the woman, he couldn't help but slightly grin about it. The only times Sansa stopped talking about Prince Aegon was when he was within earshot. Then she was silent as if she had swallowed her tongue, clinging to every word the prince spoke but offering very few in return.

He stepped out into the courtyard where it was even colder still. He was glad that he had picked his thick woolen doublet and the coat with the wolf’s fur. It was still early and he wasn't sure if breakfast was ready. He could see some servants running around already but fewer than normal. Winterfell was still asleep but since he was hungry already, he decided to go see if maybe he would get something to eat now. After a short walk in the morning cold he went back into the Great Keep. He entered the Small Hall in which they broke their fast every morning. It already smelled of bread and hot spiced tea and he was thankful that he obviously would not have to starve any longer.

To his great surprise, he found the two princes there with his son Robb, already breaking the fast with fresh bread, dried meat, cooked fish and steaming hot tea.

"Good morning, Your Graces", he greeted them bowing slightly. "Robb."

"Good morning, my lord" and "Good morning, father", the three of them said in choir.

"Why are you up so early? After having seen you up so late the other night, I didn't expect to see any of you on your feet until noon today", Ned said with a smile. He grabbed a plate, a piece of bread and some fish. A servant came in, placing a cup of hot tea next to him.

"I told you we were going hunting today", Robb said. That was true. He had indeed told him about this some days prior.

"Aye, true. I remember. And where are the Sers Gerold and Lewyn? Surely Your Graces won’t go without those two?"

"No, no need to worry", Daeron said. "Both are up already as well, seeing for the horses."

"Yes, they definitely need to protect us from every rabbit and every squirrel crossing our path", Aegon said. He smiled widely – as always – but he sounded slightly annoyed.

"There are other animals in our forests than just rabbits and squirrels, Your Grace", Ned said in a serious tone. "We have stags and packs of wolves here. Usually the animals avoid being seen, but they can still be dangerous if you are not careful."

"My brother was just joking around, my lord. We have wolves and stags in the South as well as you know and he is well aware of how dangerous they can be."

"True, I was just making a joke, my lord. I'm sorry if that was taken the wrong way."

"No need to apologize, Your Grace", Ned said, smiling again.

After some more tea, the boys got up, said their goodbyes and left the Small Hall. Ned took another cup of tea and some more fish. He still had plenty of work before they would depart from Winterfell, but for the moment, he was just happy to sit here and wait for the day to begin.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the door finally opened and Catelyn entered the room closely followed by Sansa, Arya and Jeyne Poole. He heard his eldest daughter gaggling something about that a crown of Valyrian steel would certainly go better with Aegon's white hair than a golden one. Jeyne disagreed and so their discussion began. He saw Catelyn roll her eyes as she entered and so he stood up, whispered an apology in her ear and kissed her goodbye before he took his leave.

When entering the courtyard again, he caught the last glimpse of his son, the princes and their guards with their flowing white capes passing the Library Tower in the direction of the Hunter’s Gate. Maester Luwin approached him from somewhere, holding a bunch of messages in his hands.

"Good morning, my lord."

"Good morning, Maester Luwin."

"We have received word from King’s Landing, from White Harbour and from Riverrun."

"I see. I won't be bored this morning then."

He nodded to Maester Luwin and turned around. He loved the morning cold, but for this, he wanted to sit in his study. So he walked through the Great Keep, Maester Luwin shortly behind him, entered his study and sat down on the large chair next to the cold chimney. He would need to have a servant light a fire soon if he wanted to get things done today.

"What do they say?", he finally asked.

Master Luwin sorted the messages in his shaky hands and opened them as if he had to read them again to know what was in them. Slowly he unfolded the first small piece of paper and Ned recognized the small broken seal in the shape of a three-headed dragon. It took Maester Luwin quite a while and Ned was already getting impatient but he did not want to push the old man. So he waited, even though the bad feeling in his stomach grew stronger and stronger with every heartbeat.

"It’s from the Lord Hand", Luwin finally said. At least not from the king himself, Ned thought relieved. "In the name of the King, Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name, king of the-"

"Just the important parts, please", he interrupted the old man. Thankfully, Maester Luwin just smiled at that. So he again read the message, quietly this time, before he began to speak.

"The Lord Hand confirms the timely arrival of the ships of the royal fleet in Widow's Watch."

"Widow’s Watch? I had hoped we were supposed to board at White Harbour."

"Apparently Lord Velaryon feared that the harbour basin might be a bit too shallow for the big warships and so His Grace had decided to anchor the ships nearer to the open sea off Widow's Watch."

The day had just begun and Ned was already annoyed, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Of course Lord Velaryon must know that the basin in White Harbor was deep enough for warships. They had some of their own, after all. The king wants me in King's Landing, but he wants me to come to his terms. He knew that the morning after the welcoming feast, Prince Aegon had sent word to King’s Landing to inform the king of his arrival in Winterfell and his acceptance of the invitation to attend to the prince’s name day celebrations. The prince had then informed him that instead of making the whole journey on the Kingsroad, they would be picked up by three ships of the royal fleet to make their journey not only shorter but also much more pleasant. Ned had been happy about that, because even if he had been twenty years younger, two months or more on horseback would not have been a pleasant prospect for him. This way, the journey would take them two weeks, three at most, depending on the winds.

He had however hoped for them to board these ships in White Harbour, so that – with the prince’s approval – they would have been able to stay there for some days to settle a certain matter with Lord Manderly. Now Catelyn would have to take care of that alone.

"What does the letter from White Harbour say?", he finally asked. Again Maester Luwin took his time to unfold and re-read the letter.

"Lord Manderly hopes for your presence and that of your son Robb in the celebrations for the twenty-first name day of his daughter Wynafryd in two moons turns, my lord."

He had expected that. Lord Manderly had already hinted that he would propose a marriage between Robb and his eldest daughter Wynafryd in the past. A marriage Catelyn and he had already talked about and that they had planned to agree to. The Manderlys were not only the richest and most influential house of all their bannermen, with old connections in the South and a strong army at their disposal, but also one of the most loyal. They had certainly earned that marriage and Wynafryd would by all accounts make a fine bride for his son and heir. She was of the right age, was good looking, strong and smart. She would make a great Lady of Winterfell one day, Ned was sure. He had just hoped to reach an agreement with Lord Manderly himself instead of leaving this to Catelyn. Not that he didn't trust her to do it, but there were things that a father wanted to do himself.

"That won’t happen, I’m afraid. I will already be in King’s Landing at that time and Robb will be needed here in my stead. I will talk to my lady wife about it. We will formulate an answer to Lord Manderly."

"Yes, my lord. Just let me know when the answer is ready. I will send it on its way then."

"So, the last message. What does Lord Tully write?"

This time, Maester Luwin didn’t have to read the letter again.

"The letter is not from Lord Tully but his brother, Ser Brynden. He is asking when he can expect young Lord Brandon to be back at Riverrun."

He had almost forgotten about that. Bran was squiring for Ser Brynden for three years already, a fact that Ned quickly tended to forget whenever his boy was sent back to Winterfell for some days. Normally this only happened so that Bran could attend to the harvest feast every year, but this time he had additionally been sent back because of the Crown Prince's presence. He knew that Ser Brynden didn’t like it that he had to send his squire away every once in a while, but Cat had insisted on it and even a man as stubborn as the Blackfish apparently could not refuse his favorite niece such a request.

He would have to talk to Cat about it. Bran was two-and-ten name days old. He was not a man yet but he certainly was not a child anymore as well. Bran needed to grow up now, needed to become a man soon. Before the next harvest feast, he would not send word to Riverrun, he decided.

"Write back a message that we will soon be saying goodbye to Bran and that from now on he can expect to see him in one week, two weeks at most."

"Yes, my lord. Do you have any need of my service now?"

Ned denied and so Maester Luwin bowed and left the room. There were still some things to do before they could leave Winterfell and so he turned to his table and began to write some letters. He could have let Maester Luwin do it for him of course, but he felt that there were important letters that could only come from the Lord of Winterfell himself.

He had to inform his most important bannermen about his departure to King’s Landing. In this time, Robb would be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North and so he would command those lords to Winterfell to swear their fealty to Robb. First, he made a list of the Houses he needed to write personally. The minor houses however could just as well receive letters from Maester Luwin, he decided. Karstark, Bolton, Manderly, Umber, Reed, Glover, Ryswell, Hornwood… The list was long but he thought he had to do it and so he spent half of his day writing those damned letters.

Don’t forget a letter to the Nightswatch, he reminded himself. He didn’t really need to do this as the Nightswatch was not sworn to Winterfell, but the connections between Winterfell and Castle Black have traditionally always been close and just as the Lord Commander informed him about all and everything happening at the Wall, he liked to have him informed about Winterfell as well. Also this would be a good opportunity to have some greetings sent to his brother Benjen.

The sun had not yet quite begun to set when he looked through his window and saw his son and the princes returning from their hunting trip. None of them seemed to be transporting any prey, so they either hadn't hunted at all or were just very bad at it. He guessed the former. He decided to be done with writing letters for the day as his right hand hurt horribly and left his study. There were not many letters left to write anyway and those could be done tomorrow.

He stepped out in the courtyard again. Just as he was approaching the three young men, still standing there talking loudly, Prince Aegon left the group and headed inside the Great Keep. As he passed by, he gave Ned a friendly nod, which he returned with a quick "Your Grace". Ned stepped closer two Robb and Prince Daeron, the two knights of the Kingsguard waiting in some distance.

"So, how was the hunt? What will we have for dinner tonight?"

They both smiled at that, seemingly a little embarrassed. After some moments, it was Daeron to answer.

"Well, if we will only be eating what we have hunted today, this is going to be a meager dinner. We almost got a stag, but he got away in the last moment."

He had seen already that they indeed hadn’t hunted anything at all.

"And where is Prince Aegon going so quickly?"

"He is cold", Prince Daeron said with a smirk.

Ned smiled at that as well. He looked at Daeron for a moment. He really looks just like one of us, the thought. When Prince Daeron had come to Winterfell three years ago to be fostered here for a while, he and Catelyn had already been afraid of how Sansa would react to him. She had always been a little lady, dreaming about knights and princes and a courtly life in the South. Even more than she still did. And so, considering how much she had enthused about the Prince from King’s Landing coming north even before Daeron's arrival, they had been worried about how Sansa would react.

Luckily she had not reacted to him much at all. She had been friendly to him, courteous and attentive, as befits a lady. But that had been it. Ned had wondered at that time if Sansa may have grown up so much already that she had given up her somewhat childish dreams, but Catelyn had only laughed at that.

"Oh my love, you really don’t know young ladies, do you?", she had asked him. "Sansa will always be a little dreamer. It’s just that marrying a younger version of her own father surely is not one of her dreams."

That had taken him aback, but considering what a fine young man Prince Daeron had already been when he had arrived at Winterfell, he had decided to take it a compliment. Now things were not only a little different. Prince Aegon, with his Valyrian colors, his undeniable Targaryen beauty and his fine manners, worthy not only of a knight but truly of a prince, had turned his daughter's head completely around. And the fact that he saved her from having to dance with Roger Ryswell, something Ned was not entirely disappointed of, surely hadn’t made it any better. When Sansa spoke about that – what she did a lot – it sounded almost as if Aemon the Dragonknight personally had saved her from the greedy claws of a Dornish bandit. She was head over heels in love with him and even if he liked to see his daughter that happy, it made him anxious.

If he was honest with himself, he had hoped that the prince would be a spoiled little brat. They would have had some hard days with him at Winterfell, but after taking his leave, Sansa would have quickly forgotten about him again. To his disappointment however, the prince was nothing like that. He was exceptionally agreeable even; open, friendly, kind, smart as it seemed, with fine manners and a through and through good character.

The Targaryens indeed had fire in their veins, but where that fire often enough was destructive and all-consuming, in the case of Prince Aegon it was of a completely different nature. It was not Wildfire, but rather the flame of a candle or the fire in a chimney, warming and inviting in the dark of a cold night. Under other circumstances he would have jumped for joy to offer the hand of his daughter to such a young man. But with Prince Aegon, that would not happen. He knew Sansa wanted it, be it out of childish infatuation or sincere love. And he at least had the feeling that Prince Aegon had a similar interest in her. But still it would never happen. He didn’t know King Rhaegar well enough to know what he was up to, but according to what he had heard about him and what Aegon himself had said, the king was still absolutely obsessed with his prophecies, with bloodlines and the purity of Blood of the Dragon.

He hadn’t really understood everything Prince Aegon had told him, but it sounded like his father was hoping to bring forth some sort of magical savior from his bloodline. Whatever he was supposed to save. So Ned was sure that the king had by no means abandoned the idea of marrying Prince Aegon to his sister Princess Rhaenys, even if he wandered why that had not happened yet. But even if that were different, it would still be impossible. Too many still remember what had happened the last time a Targaryen prince had taken a liking in a lady from House Stark. Too many had bled, too many had suffered losses. The realm remembered.

He had only seen Catelyn again that day when they went to bed together. They discussed whom of their children Ned should take with him to King’s Landing. He would have preferred to just leave them all here in Winterfell, but Cat had convinced him that this was not a good idea and had only agreed to leave Robb as the current Lord of Winterfell here and Rickon, who they both deemed to young.

"Arya has the Wolf’s Blood. That’s what you say yourself all the time. You can't keep her locked up in Winterfell until the day some young man comes to marry her, only to have her locked up in another castle for the rest of her life. That’s not her and you know it. Isn't it better for her to have this little adventure now, with you at her side, than to run away one day and find an adventure for herself?", she had asked. And of course, she had been right. "And Sansa … she is dreaming of a Southron life ever since the day she was born. She would never forgive you if you denied her this and left her here. She would probably throw herself off the Bell Tower the very same day", she said with a smile, but Ned knew how serious she was. So they agreed that Ned would take both girls to King's Landing with him while Cat would stay behind in Winterfell with Robb and Rickon.

"I'm not sure I want to go."

"It’s not for long, my love", she told him. "Just some hard months and then you will be back here, back with me." She kissed him then and before he could say even a single more word, her hand had already found its way down his body and between his legs, readying him for what was to come now.

In the following days the situation with Sansa and Prince Aegon had not really improved. Robb had had the idea to invite Sansa to play cards with himself, Daeron and Aegon. Robb had said that Aegon had promised to teach them a game that was played in Essos in all the towns and cities along the Rhoyne and that he had learned from his Uncle Oberyn. The name translated to something like Three Turtles and a Boat apparently. But for that they needed a fourth player. Ned had suggested asking Jory Cassel instead, since Sansa had always hated card games. She had replied indignantly however, that this was not true at all and that it depended entirely on the game. Probably more on the players. The fact that, whenever the prince was nowhere near, Sansa was no longer speaking of Prince Aegon or the Prince but of Aegon did not make him feel any more confident.

Two teams were formed in this game and, as luck would have it, Daeron and Robb almost always ended up in one team while Sansa and Prince Aegon formed the other. According to Robb, Sansa was a terrible player, but fortunately Aegon took it sporty and just enjoyed their time. At their second-to-last breakfast before their departure, Prince Daeron then revealed to him that – although he knew the rules better than the others and had taught them the game in the first place – his brother himself was an absolutely miserable player and that it by no means always was Sansa who was to blame for her very frequent defeats. They had all laughed heartily at that and when Prince Aegon had promised that today they would get the shock of their lifes when Sansa and him would surely put them in their pockets time after time, he was once again happy that at least Robb and Daeron were there all the time so that Sansa had no opportunity to spend time with Prince Aegon alone. The wonderful smile and the soft blush she gave the prince was enough for Ned. She truly was a lady through and through, but if the temptation was strong enough, eventually even the strongest lady would give in.

He didn’t want to imagine what that would have meant exactly. Of course, to be fair, it would have greatly depended on whether Prince Aegon would have wanted to exploit this theoretical weakness of Sansa or not. And rather reluctantly he had to admit that he did not believe the prince would have behaved in such a way.

In the afternoon of that day, the family gathered in the courtyard to bid Bran farewell together. The boy was dressed in one of his finer doublets with large, snow-white direwolves on the front and the back and a silver chain with a silver wolf’s head around his neck. A guard of ten men would be escorting him back to Riverrun where Ser Brynden was already waiting for his arrival. Catelyn kissed the boy goodbye far more often than he obviously wanted to, but he said nothing but endured it silently. Robb hugged him firmly as he left, as did Arya and Rickon. Sansa playfully curtsied in front of the soon-to-be knight, kissing him on both cheeks and made him promise to win a tourney in her name and crown her Queen of Love and Beauty once he had received his knighthood.

Sansa had taken that promise from him every time Bran had left Winterfell for Riverrun, but this time it made him feel uneasy. It was the thought that Sansa would want to stay in the South once she had experienced courtly life for herself. Surely she was exceptionally beautiful, not only by northern standards but by any standards imaginable. Every man in the Seven Kingdoms would willingly give his left arm for a lady like Sansa. He was sure of it. And once the matter with Aegon had failed – whether that would happen by the doing of the king, the court or whoever – there would be plenty of other suitors from Southern houses at court for Sansa's hand. He doubted, however, that this would make her truly happy then.

Finally, Ned bid Bran farewell himself with a short hug and pat on the shoulder. At least he wanted to make his son feel a bit more adult. He was sadder than usual when he sent his son to Riverrun, not knowing when he would see him next. Maybe he really was a knight then already, Ned thought. The two princes were also there, but their farewells were limited to good wishes and the promise that Bran would definitely be invited to the next tourney in King's Landing in a few years, once he was a man grown.

That evening, Ned finally spoke with Catelyn about the letter to White Harbour. He had wanted her to attend Lady Wynafryd’s name day celebrations alone, but she had declined.

"It is not the Lady of Winterfell they want at the feast, but the current and the future Lord of Winterfell."

She was right of course. Again. They then wrote a short letter to Lord Manderly to apologize for not being able to attend the celebrations and instead to invite him and his wonderful daughter to visit Winterfell as soon as their time allowed in return. The phrase that Robb and Wynafryd were about the same age and would therefore get along very well was horrible to Catelyn as it sounded more appropriate for small children than for young adults. But in the end, she agreed to leave the phrase in the letter. Lord Manderly was a clever man and he would certainly take the hint, even if it was a bit too direct for Catelyn’s taste.

Finally the day of their departure had arrived and now there was only one thing left to do before they would saddle up and make their way to Widow’s Watch. He had hoped to leave Winterfell on a somewhat happy note, but this would certainly not be possible anymore now. Last night a band of men had come from Last Hearth to escort a prisoner to Winterfell. Northeast of Long Lake, soldiers had captured a deserter of the Nightswatch.

The sun had not risen yet when the group departed from Winterfell, heading towards the place of execution, where the Lords of Winterfell had always spoken and executed justice in the name of the king and before them in their own name as the Kings in the North. Eddard was in the lead of the group, closely followed by Robb and Rickon, Rodrik and Jory Cassel, the princes Aegon and Daeron and five guards. After a ride that took them the better part of an hour, they arrived at the small holdfast in the hills where the king’s justice would be done. The deserter had been bound to the wall of the holdfast on hands and feet. At a nod from Ned, the guards cut him down from the wall and dragged him to the middle of the place of execution. He was a small, elderly man named Aldred, with very little hair and only one thumb left, sunken cheeks and cold eyes, who had been sent to the Wall from somewhere in the Reach about ten years ago for raping and gutting a young girl and her even younger brother, as Ned had been told last night when he had arrived.

Robb stepped closer to him then, carrying his family’s ancestral sword Ice, ready to hand it over to him. He looked at his son then, the man he had become and he thought about what was lying on front of him, what he soon would have to do once he himself had left Winterfell for a feast and a tourney in the South by royal decree.

"You will do it", he finally said.

Robb’s eyes widened in shock and surprise.

"Yes, father", was all he said though. Ned stepped aside and waited. Robb really was a man grown already. Winterfell would be in good hands, now and once he would really inherit it. It made him unbelievably proud to see his son standing there. He hadn’t noticed at first that Prince Aegon had stepped closer to him, only after he began to speak in a whispering tone, not to disturb Robb as he dutifully interrogated the prisoner.

"Lord Stark, I see no headsman."

"Because there is none", Ned answered equally whispering. "In the North, we hold the belief that the man who passes the judgement should swing the sword, Your Grace. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. If you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

Ned looked over to the prince now. His mouth stood slightly open in astonishment, his eyes fixed Robb, who had raised the ancient sword Ice above his head. He recognized the young prince's deep fascination for the old ways of the North in his gaze and he was proud to have shown him a way of justice, a way of ruling and maybe even of living that he probably had not even imagined still to be there in the world. When it was done shortly after, he went back to Robb and patted him on the back, proud of him even more than before. This was a day of pride.

When they arrived back at Winterfell again the better part of an hour later, the sun had finally risen fully over the horizon. Horses had been prepared for the men and a closed carriage for the young ladies – Sansa, Arya and Jenye Poole. Three wagons followed them, all packed with clothes, money, some jewelry for the ladies and some weapons for the men. Ned had wanted them to take tents and equipment with them as well, so that they could spend the nights beside the road, but Catelyn had insisted, because of the girls, that they would take the somewhat longer route on which they would be able to spend the nights either in the castle of one of Ned’s bannermen or at least in one of the better inns near the larger roads.

He was surprised to see how much they had to bring with them to King's Landing. Of course, it was almost a complete household. So it shouldn't have surprised him. But still he wondered what one might need for this journey or later in King's Landing that did not already exist there. Rodrik Cassel was already waiting on his horse, ready to leave Winterfell behind him, although the departure could still take a good hour. Ned suspected that the old bear just didn't have the stomach for a big goodbye from Jory. The princes had prepared their horses already, both wearing riding garments made of dark wool and dark leather, which looked surprisingly plain at first glance, until one looked at them more closely and recognized the clean and artfully embroidered dragons on their chest, back and arms. Aegon seemed wide awake and excited, while Daeron could hardly keep his eyes open as it seemed. Robb stood beside them to bid them farewell after he had stowed Ice in one of the large, iron fitted oaken chests on one of the wagons. Again Ned was pleased to see how close Robb and the two princes had come, however much or little time they had been able to spend together.

Catelyn just left the Great Keep with Sansa, Arya and Jeyne Poole following closely. Sansa was perfectly dressed and coiffed, as always. Jeyne looked well enough, but she seemed to have gotten very little sleep last night. He was surprised that Jeyne seemed to have slept less than Sansa because of her excitement. Probably Catelyn had simply been right – as always. He simply did not understand young ladies. Arya gave a less good picture. It had been a struggle for Catelyn last night to get Arya to take a bath before she left. Ned had tried to mediate and said that a bath would probably not be worth it anyway, because at the latest at their first stop Arya would have to wash off the dust of the road again anyway. Catelyn hadn't been very enthusiastic about his help at all and had kept talking to Arya until she had given in more out of tiredness than conviction. Now Arya stood there, half-heartedly wrapped in a dress that obviously wasn't fresh anymore, looking around grimly as if she wanted to murder someone for having to leave her bed so early.

After Catelyn had said goodbye to her daughters at length and the girls were sitting in the now locked carriage, she finally came over to him. She also looked as exhausted as if she hadn't slept all night, but she tried hard not to let her exhaustion show. He noticed immediately that she had applied her Myrish scented water. Ned had bought it for her some years ago from a merchant in White Harbour. He had always loved this scent on her, the smell roses and lavender and sweet summer wine. Of course she knew that, and as she was standing in front of him now and he had that scent in his nose again, he would have loved to have everything cancelled immediately just to stay with her.

"Goodbye, my love", she said. "Come back to me soon."

"I will. I promise."

With that, he pulled her closer, kissing her and taking in her wonderful smell. He got on his horse and immediately the rest of the group saddled up too. He formed a silent I love you with his lips towards his wife as he drove his horse slightly. The other horses were now also starting to move, the carriage and the wagons following with a rumble. Shortly after that they had left Winterfell through the East Gate. Some inhabitants of Wintertown had gathered in the streets at this early hour to bid them farewell. Or probably rather to catch one last glimpse of the two Dragon Princes.

To Ned's surprise, they made remarkably good progress on the road. He hoped it would stay that way so that with a bit of luck their journey would shorten by a few days. After only half a day on the horse he already felt the pain in his back and bottom and by the evening of the first day, when they stopped for the night in one of the larger watchtowers near the Kingsroad, the young ladies looked much less enthusiastic than in the morning. The ground was still frozen hard in most places and the Kingsroad itself was little more than a beaten track so far north so that the ladies’ carriage had been rumbling over hill and dale all day.

In a few days they would meet with Howland Reed about halfway on the road to Window's Watch, if all went well. He was looking forward to seeing his old friend again and even more to having him by his side in King's Landing. After that it would only be a short distance to Widow's Watch. The rest of the trip went well and they indeed made good progress. Only a broken wheel on one of the wagons stopped them for half an afternoon, but after the wheel had been replaced by his men, they continued their journey without any further problems. After six days on the Kingsroad, they finally reached The Blue Hare Inn, where they would spend the night and where they would leave the Kingsroad the next morning for the even smaller road to Widow's Watch.

The horses were immediately taken to the stables by his men and a local servant. He saw Prince Aegon and Prince Daeron dismount from their horses and immediately go over to the carriage to help the young ladies get off. Arya pushed past the two princes like a farmer on market day while Daeron looked after Jeyne and Sansa was only too happy to let Aegon hold her hand as she got out gracefully as a queen. Again his uneasiness returned but he decided not to say anything, because in the end he wouldn't have known what to say anyway. To forbid the princes to help two ladies to get out of a carriage was unfortunately not a real option.

So he left it with a slight shake of the head and entered the taproom of the Blue Hare. To his delight, he immediately recognized the face of his old friend Howland Reed, sitting at one of the long tables, bent over a large tankard of beer. Howland saw him entering the room as well and immediately stood up, rushing towards him. He stopped shortly before Ned and bowed deeply.

"My lord", he said.

"Howland, it is good to see you", Ned answered with a wide smile, taking his friend into a tight embrace.

The rest of their group now also entered the inn and after short introductions – Howland hadn’t seen Sansa since she was no more than some moons old and he certainly had never met the two princes before – they sat down, ordered food and beer and some wine. The princes, Sansa and Jeyne had soon sat down at another table away from the rest of the group and began to teach Jeyne this card game from Essos. Daeron and Jenye played against Aegon and Sansa, round after round. Ned would have preferred to have shuffled the groups at least a couple of times, but the four of them seemed very happy with it.

However, they were all tired from a long day on the road so the evening didn't get very long before each of them retired to their rooms one by one. The next day began early. He wanted to leave at an early hour, so shortly after sunrise he came out of his small chamber and entered the taproom where the innkeeper had already prepared tea and a sparse breakfast for everyone. The two knights of the Kingsguard were already waiting there, together with some of his men and Rodrik Cassel. To his surprise, Arya was also already awake as well. She just jumped over one of the tables while she fought with a boy about her own age, who must have been the innkeeper’s son, using two short broomsticks as swords. A stern look and a nod towards the door told her to continue these games outside. So the two left the taproom at a wild gallop.

He sat down and began to break his fast. Apart from brief greetings, there was not much talking and Ned was grateful for that. Shortly after, the rest of the group appeared one by one to eat something before they would set off again. Sansa and Jenye appeared last but ate and drank very little. The princes and the ladies left shortly afterwards to take a little walk together before the long day on the road. Ned decided to do the same and followed them outside. For wanting to take a little walk, Prince Daeron and Jeyne stopped again surprisingly quickly. Prince Aegon and Sansa went a little further.

"Lord Stark", the prince finally said. "The morning is wonderfully fresh. Won't you join us?" He caught Sansa's look, but she didn't say anything. Clever boy, Ned thought. He wants to lighten my worries. Sansa must have understood that too and smiled magically again after Prince Aegon offered her his arm which she took gratefully. Ned agreed and walked beside them on the other side of his daughter.

They walked along a narrow path through the forest that began on the eastern side behind the inn. They didn't talk much, but just now Ned was much less happy about it than he was at breakfast. Only now and then did the prince inquire what kind of bird was singing here or what wild berries were growing there. It was hard for Ned to dislike the prince, as he had to admit to himself again. He seemed genuinely interested in getting to know Sansa's homeland. A circumstance he doubted to find on many future suitors for her hand.

After a short while they reached the bank of a small creek. Arya and the boy from the inn had obviously retreated there to continue fighting with their broomsticks. They went closer without the two of them noticing them. They were so engrossed in their game. Ned knew that this was not a suitable game for a young lady, but as passionate as she jumped back and forth, parrying and dealing blows with the broomstick in her hand, he could not help but smile. Wolf's blood, he thought, and for a brief moment he became melancholic.

In their wild fight the two of them came closer and closer, waving their sticks wildly through the air. Arya seemed to stumble, but at the last moment she still staggered back. The boy seemed to notice the three of them now and stopped with big eyes as if frozen. Arya still didn't notice anything and struck a huge blow with her stick.

Ned saw the stick racing towards Sansa.

"Arya!" he cried but it was too late. Before the tip of the stick hit Sansa, the Prince had already pushed her aside and stood in front of her protectively. Arya turned when she noticed she hit something and dropped the stick when she recognized Ned's angry stare.

"You, get lost", he said to the boy. "You stay where you are", he said to Arya. He turned to look back at Sansa. She was unharmed, thank God. Instead of a shock she had a broad, almost dreamy smile on her face, probably because the Prince had saved her again. Her smile vanished in an instant when she looked in the face of her rescuer though. Instead of Sansa, Arya's stick had apparently hit the Prince right in the face. A gaping cut under his left eye bled down his cheek.

"By the Seven, you are hurt", his daughter breathed and tears welled up in her eyes.

"Are you all right, my prince?" Ned now asked. "We should go back. Here, take my handkerchief for the blood. I'm truly sorry. Please forgive my daughter. She's wild, but she means no harm." Panic rose in him when for a moment the prince did not answer but just looked at Arya with an expression that Ned was incapable of reading. Surely, she hadn't hurt him on purpose but who knew if he even cared at that moment. But before the prince could answer, Arya burst in between.

"That's not so bad. I've been hurt worse. He shouldn't make such a scene."

Ned looked at her in horror. Sansa turned to her, almost completely dissolved.

"Arya, you're spoiling everything!" she yelled at her.

Ned wanted to rush forward, wanted to grab her by the shoulders. He wanted to shake her, in disbelief of what he had just heard, wanted to shout at her whether he was going to make a scene in front of the prince or not. But before he could make a sound, he heard the voice of the prince.

"She indeed spoiled everything", said the prince in a serious tone. Sansa could no longer hold back her tears, her whole body shaking with sobs. "Her footwork was horrible and her middle hew was executed terribly. Once we are at King's Landing, and if your lord father agrees, I will instruct the Kingsguard to show you some basics to avoid further disgrace to your family name." His voice was still dead serious, as if he had just threatened her with a severe punishment.

Sansa stopped crying and sobbing, looking at the prince in wonder and admiration; Arya’s mouth stood open in astonishment. Ned tried to say something, anything, but again before he could, the prince offered his arm to his Sansa, his voice now was warm as always.

"My lady Sansa, I think we should go back now. Someone probably should take a look at my cheek before we take our leave, don't you think? Also, Daeron told me he hoped we would still have the time for a little game of cards before you ladies disappear in the carriage again for the whole day."

She wiped the last tears from her cheek with her own little handkerchief, shining all over her face again. Whatever she and Ned had expected to happen here now, this certainly hadn't been it. She gladly took his arm, walking next to him back to the inn. Arya still stood there motionless, but now with a broad grin on her face. Ned looked at her again and his shock gave way to his anger.

"I'm gonna learn how to sword fight!"

"Have you gone mad?" he shouted. "You're lucky I don't send you back home right now. You will apologize to the prince later, and you better do it as sincerely and as submissively as possible. From now on, you will behave like a real lady. No running around, no playing with sticks and stones! And whether these exercises with the Kingsguard will take place in King's Landing, I still have to decide. Do you understand?"

She just nodded, her grin wiped off her face. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back to the inn with him. Sansa and Aegon had already arrived and Prince Lewyn seemed to tend to the wound on his face.

"It's not so bad, but it might leave a scar", he heard him say. Ser Gerold stood beside him, next to Daeron and Jeyne and looked angrily in Ned’s and Arya's direction as they stepped out of the forest. He said nothing, but Ned already had an idea what he wanted to throw at him. Maybe that would come later.

They had no more time for a game of cards after Prince Lewyn was done with Aegon’s wound and so the ladies climbed back into the carriage while all the men saddled up. They left the inn and the Kingsroad quickly behind and continued their journey towards Widow's Watch. The next days they again made good progress. To his surprise, Arya indeed behaved properly. Ned knew she would never become a real lady like Sansa was, but at least she didn’t cause any more trouble on their way. After five more days on the road, they finally could see Widow’s Watch in the distance, rising out of the thick coastal fog in the evening light.

An hour later, they arrived at the main gate of the fortress. Widow’s Watch was small and ancient, the seat of House Flint for thousands of years already. He saw the banners flying high on the towers to the left and the right of the gate. On the left tower, he saw the banner of House Flint, a blue field strewn with whitecaps on a yellow chief with crested line a pair of blue eyes, and on the right tower he saw the grey direwolf of House Stark.

No three-headed dragon, he thought. He knew all too well what a stubborn folk his Northerners could be. Many of them held and cultivated well-worn grudges over what had happened – not only during the rebellion but even so far back as during Aegon’s Conquest three hundred years ago. Nevertheless, he would have preferred it if the Flints had not demonstrated their loyalty to House Stark at the expense of their loyalty to the Royal Family.

When they entered the courtyard, Lady Lynessa Flint and her son Robin personally welcomed them to Widow’s Watch. Next to them stood an older man with a stocky built and a prominent red beard, who eyed the group of arrivals suspiciously and was introduced to him as Ser Balon Falkner. The man looked all soldier and Ned suspected him to be the captain of the household guard, although nothing was said about this. They were all kind and polite enough, but Ned did not escape the skeptical looks Lady Lynessa, her son and the captain kept giving the princes. Thankfully, they either didn’t realize it, didn’t care enough or were too polite to say something.

After the introductions they were served bread and salt before being shown their rooms. In the evening there would be a small feast to welcome them all in Widow’s Watch. Ned promised Lady Lynessa that Sansa would love to dance that evening with her son Robin, which pleased her greatly. Of course, Ned knew that the lad, well-mannered as he might be, could never really distract Sansa from her dreams of Prince Aegon. But surely it couldn't hurt to remind her that there were other young men in the Seven Kingdoms as well. Sansa herself of course was not at all pleased at this prospect, for she had no doubt been looking forward to spending the entire evening close to the prince and absorbed in his eyes. It was only when Ned, to calm her down, told her that there would be more than enough opportunities at King's Landing to devote herself to the prince during the many feasts that would await them there, that she was comforted and began to smile again.

"You are right, father! Once we arrive at King’s Landing, there will be no more reasons to leave his side. So I'll get through this evening, surely."

That moment, Ned knew he had made a horrible mistake.

Before the feast began, he wrote a short letter back to Winterfell to let Catelyn know how far they had come and that they were all alive and well. He wrote about the incident with Arya and the prince and how glad he was that she had no consequences to fear from him. The cut under his eye healed well, even if there would be a pale scar. He wrote about their arrival in Widow's Watch, but withheld the rather cool greeting of the princes by Lady Lynessa. He did not know the Maester of this fortress and was not sure who else might read this message before the raven was on its way. He trusted Lady Lynessa, but didn’t know the others enough. 

When he had finished the letter and handed it over to the Maester, a young man named Lorick, the feast was just about to begin. Sansa indeed danced with Robin Flint several times that night, talked to him and laughed with him. He was not sure though if she really had fun or was just being courteous. It did not escape Ned's notice however how Prince Aegon, once again placed as guest of honor in the middle of the much smaller dais - compared to the one they had had in Winterfell -, hardly let his daughter out of his sight all evening and how each time their eyes met, they both smiled at each other in delight. Again he could only slightly shake his head with a sigh. It would be a hard-enough disappointment for Sansa in the end, he was sure. But he didn’t want to think about how complicated everything would become, should the prince indeed feel the same way for her as she did for him.

The feast did not last very long, as their ships would need to leave early in the morning the next day to catch good winds. So they said goodbye at the earliest possible moment, when it would no longer be considered an insult, and went to their rooms one by one.

The next day, just before sunrise, they went down to the harbor, accompanied by an armed escort, Lady Lynessa, Lord Robin, Ser Balon and a whole retinue of servants who loaded the last crates and boxes onto the ships before they were to set sail. Besides some fishing boats and a small merchant galley, three huge warships indeed took almost the entire harbor basin. All three were enormous in size, richly decorated and all of them proudly displayed huge Targaryen banners from their highest masts. The middle ship, on which they would travel as he had learned from Prince Aegon, even had a main sail in all black with a massive three-headed dragon on it.

They boarded the ship, welcomed by the captain who introduced himself as a Monford Velaryon, a handsome man with long, fair hair, wearing a doublet and trousers made entirely of sea-green silk with a white gold seahorse brooch on his chest. He bowed down deeply before Prince Aegon, telling him what an honor it was to be allowed to bring him home personally. Some of the soldiers who manned the ship showed them to their rooms below deck. While on the road to Widow’s Watch, Prince Aegon had already told Ned about the ship that was to bring them to King’s Landing, the Sea Dragon.  

"Not a very creative name, I know. But the ship will convince you. I'm sure it will", the prince had said.

Now Ned was on board the giant vessel for the first time. It was a warship for which his father had spared no expense or effort to equip it with luxury befitting their royal status. King Rhaegar had massively expanded the Iron Throne's relations with the Free Cities in recent years, especially with Lys, Myr and Volantis, and had probably felt the need to make a similarly ostentatious impression in Essos as some of the nobles from Essos had done in Westeros lately, according to Prince Aegon.

He had never been a man who loved or even needed luxury. Twenty years ago, after the end of the rebellion, when he had been at King's Landing for the first and only time in his life to bend his knee before the newly crowned King Rhaegar, he had seen the royal carriage standing there in one of the courtyards of the Red Keep. A ridiculously huge thing that had to be pulled by at least eight horses to even move from the spot. He had never imagined that he would ever see – let alone experience – a way of travelling that could be even more extravagant, even more pleasant, than this carriage.

Now he was standing in the middle of his cabin, filled with a large bed, two large chairs, a large table with a large basket of fresh fruits and more cushions and furs and blankets he knew existed. The first thing he did, was to take off his boots and his cloak and let himself sink into the giant, soft bed while he heard the sailors loosen the ropes of the ship and began to set the sails.

Maybe this will be a pleasant journey after all, was his last thought before he sank into a deep sleep.

Notes:

That was it! Thanks for reading and as always, let me know what you think in the comments.

P.S.: I'm not sure how quickly the next chapter will come, because I'm about to hopefully start a new job in a new city soon. This is of course all very exciting, but also it's going to be horribly stressful. So please bear with me. I will keep up this pace as good as I can, but I can make no promises. :-)

Chapter 5: Daeron 2

Summary:

This chapter is covering the rest of the journey to King's Landing, beginning with a bit of “sexy-time” between Daeron and Jeyne. I’m not planning on doing this too often in this story - first and foremost because I don't think I'm particularly good at writing it - but since they are both young and don’t want to hold back, it thought it fitting for them.

After that, we finally arrive in King’s Landing where, after a short welcoming, Aegon and Daeron are brought to the throne room for a little ... "disappointment".

Notes:

Hi everyone,

chapter 5 is here. It's shorter than the last two chapters but, honestly, this is about the length I was planning for my chapters to have anyway. Hope you like it still. Have fun. :-)

The weather on their journey had been excellent, windy but sunny, almost completely without rain. The first day or two had been hard for Daeron as he was not used to travel by ship and his stomach had made it very clear to him that he certainly never would become a great seafarer. Lady Sansa and Lord Eddard had suffered from the same fate but had adjusted to it just as quickly as Daeron himself. Still he would be happy to find his feet again once they would have arrived in King’s Landing. The nights weren’t better in the beginning. It had been a struggle for him to adjust to the constant rocking of the ship, forward and backward, left and right without a pause. But after some attempts and a bit of experimenting, he had managed to adjust to it.

Daeron was resting on his bed as he heard a soft knock on the door. Without waiting for him to say anything, the door was opened and Jeyne entered his room. She looked beautiful with her hair in a wild mess from the heavy wind on deck. She had that smirk on her face again, the smirk that told him what was to come now. He stood up and went over to her, grabbing her by the waist and kissing her deeply. While they were still kissing, he already felt her hands on his trousers, busy opening the breeches. He smiled while kissing her further and his hands easily found her soft breasts. He was just beginning to open the fastenings of her dress to get access to her teats, when he felt his trousers falling to the ground. He was already hard her. She pulled back from him then and he was a bit surprised at that.

Normally he would just grab her, throw her on the bed and use her body all the ways that pleased him; which normally were the ways that pleased her as well. But now she was standing there, an arm’s length away, looking at him with his trousers down and hard as a rock for her. Her eyes wandered deeper to his manhood when she began to open the fastenings of her dress herself, faster than he would ever have been able to. The dress fell on the floor, so that now her feet were the only part of her body hidden form him. She stepped out of the dress finally, came back closer to him but just as he was about to grab her again, she knelt down in front of him. Jenye swung her arms around his body, firmly grabbing his buttocks and pulled him towards her. His body obeyed willingly when she opened her mouth and took his manhood deep inside.

Some years ago, he had read about this in a book in of the libraries of the Faith near the Great Sept of Baelor of all places. He had told Jenye about that some time after they had begun to share the bed regularly, but she had been shocked and had seemed somewhat disgusted by the idea. Now … she didn’t seem to be disgusted at all anymore. The sensation that was now flooding his whole body had been unknown to him until then and so it didn’t take long for him to finish. To his ongoing surprise, Jenye still kept him in her mouth after that for some time, almost greedily taking in everything from him.

Without a word, they laid down on the bed together after she was done with him, her delicate, naked body nestled against his. Her head rested on his shoulder and his left hand caressed her round butt when she fell asleep. Never before in his life had he felt so satisfied and perfectly happy as he did in that moment. He fell asleep then as well and dreamt of the first night they would spend in King’s Landing together. It was a wonderful dream, not only of her body but also of the dancing and laughing they would share.

Daeron had no idea how long he had slept when he finally awoke, but since he could still see sunlight through the window of his cabin, it could not have been that long. Jenye was still sleeping on him. He looked at the sleeping girl for some time, watched how one of her breasts invitingly rose and fell in the tact of her breathing, he examined the shape of her body all the way from her breasts to her hips, along her legs all the way down to her tiny feet. He felt his arousal returning immediately. So he moved away from under her, leaving her lying on her belly. For a moment, he just sat there on the edge of the bed, looking at her wonderful ass before he leaned over her, spread her cheeks with his left hand and pushed into her from behind. He was already inside her when she woke up from it, but after a short, surprised shriek, she realized what was happening and willingly offered him her backside. He took her fast and hard and came quickly; quicker than he had wished for.

He kissed her then, caressing her body a bit more and then got dressed. Jeyne remained naked and pleased in his bed when he left his cabin. When he stepped outside on deck, he found Lord Stark and Aegon standing at the rear end of the ship talking to Lord Velaryon. He walked over to them and stood next to Lord Stark.

"That’s god to hear", he heard Aegon say when he finally was in earshot.

"What is good to hear?"

"We are fortunate with the winds. Our trip will probably be a day or two shorter", his uncle answered. Daeron wasn’t sure how fortunate that really was, given how well he had settled in on board with Jeyne. But still he smiled and nodded to that.

At the front of the ship he could now see Sansa standing, talking to one of the maidservants who had come on board as well to take care of all their physical needs. She wore one of her light blue dresses and her hair loose to let it fly freely in the wind. On one of their first days on board, the heavy wind had completely messed up one of her elaborate hairstyles. Her hair had fluttered in the wind like a wild mane. Aegon had seen it and had quietly remarked to Daeron how beautiful it had looked. "Like a flame dancing on the horizon", he had called it. Daeron had mentioned this to Jenye the same night after she had shared his bed and from the very next morning on, Sansa had not bothered to braid her hair again, but had been happy to let it fly open in the wind from then on, especially whenever Aegon was near to see her.

All in all, their trip was quite pleasant, even if the food, which almost always consisted only of lukewarm stew, left a lot to be desired.

It had quickly become a beloved routine that in the evening, when the winds had died down, they all sat on the deck of the ship and talked, drank wine and played some music together. Lord Velaryon had had a lyre on board, a magnificent instrument made of dark, almost black wood, decorated with artistic carvings and inlays of gold and silver, which he had acquired on one of his voyages in Pentos. He had offered Aegon to give it to him for the duration of their journey, but Aegon had declined at first. Daeron knew that he did not like to play in front of others, even though he was quite good. Undoubtedly he would never achieve fame and fortune as a bard with his playing, but he was good nevertheless. It was only after Sansa had promised him to sing the songs when he played them, that he had finally agreed. They played The Bear and the Maiden Fair and Six Maids in a Pool at least once each night, often followed by The Day They Hanged Black Robin. However, when Aegon had tried to play The Dornishman's Wife, Septa Mordane had jumped in quicker than Daeron would have thought possible and insisted on handing the lyre back to Lord Velaryon immediately.

He had almost forgotten that she was also on board. Daeron had wondered why Lady Stark had insisted on sending the Septa along in the first place. No doubt King's Landing could be a juggernaut at times, especially when traveling in the shady parts of the city. But in the home of Baelor's Sept and the High Septon himself, there were undoubtedly enough other septas and septons who could have protected her daughters’ innocence.

One and a half days before their planned arrival in King’s Landing, the three ships got into some rough waters when they passed Dragonstone, the ancient stronghold of their Valyrian ancestors. All the Starks on board stood lined up at the railing and looked at the old fortress with a mixture of awe and admiration, but also unease. He could not blame them. Dragonstone was impressive, richly ornamented and adorned with depictions of countless giant dragons and basilisks and all sorts of other creatures that may or may not have existed once. It was built by the Valyrians of old with arcane arts, fire, and sorcery long forgotten. It was a grim place, cold and forbidding.

When they were children, Aegon and Daeron had spent some time on Dragonstone together to get to know the ancient seat of their House and to get a feel for how the Aegon I. must have felt, looking outside his windows to the shores of Westeros, a whole continent ripe for conquest, as their father had put it. He had always hated this place, with its dark and cold rooms and even darker and colder corridors as well as the whole stony and windy island it was sitting on. He looked over to his brother, who stood only a few feet away from him and judging by the look on his face, he felt the same way. A massive Targaryen banner flew high on the highest tower of the castle and on the shore, he could see people standing and waving in their direction. No doubt they had recognized the huge, three-headed dragon on the main sail of their ship and had immediately known that there must have been at least one member of the royal family on board. The people of Dragonstone loved their Dragonlords but as much as that may have pleased him and his brother, they were still glad not to have to make a halt there.

Still standing at the railing, when Dragonstone already disappeared from her sight again, Arya spotted a few boats in the distance. The men on board, who were little more than small blurry spots at first, were constantly pouring buckets into the sea. Arya noticed that they apparently did not carry any rods or nets but only long lances with iron tips.

"Kraken fishers," Aegon said as if that was enough of an explanation. But at the questioning gazes of Arya, Sansa and Jeyne, he continued. "There are only very few animals on Dragonstone. The island is too rough and rocky for much cattle. But when an animal is killed, a goat or a sheep or even a chicken, the blood is collected in buckets. Nothing must be lost. What they pour out into the water there, is that blood. They lure krakens to the surface with it. The beasts cannot resist the taste of blood. And when they show themselves, the men kill them with their lances. One could make sausages or soup from the blood of course, but that would not feed the people here for long. A few days, a week at most. A full-grown kraken can feed them for a month or even longer."

"You lie," Arya shouted. "There are no krakens. It's only a fairy tale."

Just as Sansa was about to admonish her for her tone, Aegon nodded again in the direction of the small fishing boat.

"Oh, are they?"

They were all looking back over to one of the boats when suddenly first four, then five long, snake-like arms rose from the water. They clasped the small boat, pulled and tore at it, and the men on it began to angrily shout orders to each other. They grabbed their lances and drove the iron tips deep into the flesh of the strong arms, which were constantly pulling and tugging at the little nutshell. One of the men lost his footing and went overboard. Another pulled him back in, but in doing so lost his lance, which was stuck in the flesh of the creature and was now swinging wildly around like the tail of a mad dog. The screaming of the men became louder, more terrified and panicky.

Arya watched the scene with eyes wide open in amazement while Sansa and Jenye looked horrified, hands before their mouths. For a moment it looked like the tiny boat would break or be torn apart before one of the men finally managed to thrust his lance forcefully into a spot of water next to the boat. After a short twitch and rebellion, the arms went limp. The men cheered loudly, then grabbed iron hooks and drove them into the flesh of the dying creature. Together they pulled it out of the water on board and what appeared there was a being like none of the ladies could probably have imagined even in their nightmares. Three more, ridiculously long arms hung from a deformed, flaccid body. There were no fins or hands or feet, no ears or eyes to be seen. Just a mass of slobbery flesh and blood, which the men immediately began to cut up while some of the arms still offered weak resistance.

After some more moments, the scene finally got out of sight behind a big rock in the sea. Sansa and Jenye briefly excused themselves and quickly left Daeron, Aegon and Arya. They looked green around their noses and so it was no surprise for Daeron when they didn't get a bite down at dinner that evening.

About one day later, in the morning sun, King's Landing finally came in sight. Their three ships entered Blackwater Bay in a row. Smaller ships tried to make way as fast as possible for the huge warships that entered the harbor straight into the direction of the docks, where the rest of the royal fleet of King's Landing was anchored. They earned some angry shouts from the much smaller merchant ships as they passed by, which could only barely avoid a collision, but the louder and ruder the shouts became, the more amused Lord Velaryon seemed to be about it.

On their right glowering down from Aegon's High Hill was the Red Keep. Its iron-crowned battlements, massive towers, and thick red walls gave it the aspect of a ferocious beast that hunched above the river searching for easy prey. The bluffs on which it crouched were steep and rocky, spotted with lichen and gnarled thorny trees. Daeron had known the Red Keep all his life, but never before had it seemed as menacing to him as at that moment. He knew Winterfell was bigger, much bigger even. And yet the Red Keep, though surrounded by the realm's by far largest city, looked more like a fortress ready for war than Winterfell had ever done in his eyes. Where Winterfell, however massive and fortified it was, welcomed travelers, invited them to a warm fire and a place to sleep, the Red Keep was the demonstration of the king's unbridled authority and the threat that awaited anyone who tried to resist this power.

Even after the rapid entry into the port, it still took almost an hour for the sailors on board to anchor the enormous ship and lay out the planks. The Starks and their retinue as well Daeron and Aegon with their two knights of the Kingsguard had gathered on deck and were now waiting impatiently to finally have solid ground under their feet again. Aegon expressed his thanks and said his goodbyes to Lord Velaryon when the planks were finally laid.

Forty Gold Cloaks and two other knights of the Kingsguard – Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Jonothor Darry – in bright white had cleared the area immediately in front of the planks and now surrounded two women, waiting for them. Daeron didn't have to go any closer to see who was waiting for there. He immediately recognized the royal, elegant stature of his grandmother. Queen Rhaella may have grown old, but still Daeron could not imagine anyone looking more regal and sublime than his grandmother. The woman next to her, almost a head taller, with olive skin and a waving mane of dark hair, undoubtedly was his sister Rhaenys. She wore a flowing dress in red and yellow, the colors of her mother’s family, that made her look as if she were on fire and Daeron could see even from a distance that this dress undoubtedly revealed inappropriately much of her exquisite skin.

He had expected Aegon to leave the ship first, but with a nod and a smile, his brother let him go first.

"You are the son who has finally returned home, not me."

So Daeron stepped on the plank and left the ship, closely followed by Aegon, Ser Gerold and Prince Lewyn and finally Lord Stark, his daughters and their household. His first step back ashore was surprisingly shaky, but his grandmother's waiting hands held him upright. She pulled him close, hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks.

"It's good to have you back home, child."

"It's good to be home, grandmother," he said honestly.

"I hope you know how much we have missed you."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Aegon reaching out his hand to Sansa to guide her safely down the plank when Rhaenys pulled him towards her and hugged him as well. Her dress indeed revealed far too much skin, and if his relationship with his sister had been any different, he would almost have taken this as an invitation.

"Good to have you back, little brother," she said. He could however tell that – although she was honestly happy to see him – she seemed more likely to wait for her other brother. Aegon was now also welcomed by Grandmother Rhaella, was also hugged and kissed on the cheeks.

"My dear boy, you have brought your brother back safely. We're all proud of you."

"Well, it wasn't much of an achievement," he admitted while Rhaenys was already approaching, taking him in a tight embrace, kissing him on the cheek. "But I am glad to be back. Though I have found that the North … certainly has its charms."

As if on command, Rhaenys glanced over to the Starks who waited silently, lined up to be greeted as well. Her gaze found Sansa and suddenly became so icy that Daeron feared Sansa might freeze to death the next moment. When Rhaenys released her brother from the embrace and looked him in the face then, at once her eyes were warm and friendly again and a beautiful smile adorned her face.

Aegon smiled back at her, obviously also happy to have his big sister back. Neither of them said a word, but Aegon took her face into her hands and placed a kiss on her forehead, which made her smile even wider. After that, Daeron and Aegon stepped aside to present their guests to their royal grandmother and sister.

"Grandmother, sister," Aegon began. "May I introduce you? Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

Immediately, his uncle sank down to one knee, his head down.

"Your Graces, I am honored to be here", he said.

"You may rise", Queen Rhaella said in her regal voice, only to immediately shine a friendly smile and continue speaking in a warm tone as if to greet and old friend. "It’s good to see you alive and well, Eddard. So tell me, who are these two lovely ladies you have brought with you?"

Did grandmother just call him Eddard?

"My daughters, Your Grace. Sansa and Arya", Lord Stark said, now also smiling warmly at Queen Rhaella.

Thereupon Sansa curtsied in perfect grace while Arya ... at least tried, probably a little overwhelmed by the situation and still looking like she'd rather be somewhere else.

"They are truly gorgeous. Well done, Eddard. And tell that to your lady wife as well. I do hope to see you two for tea very soon."

"With pleasure, Your Grace", Sansa answered for both of them.

"I will let my wife know that you have approved of our daughters", Lord Stark said with a wry smile.

Daeron looked over at Rhaenys again, who had meanwhile clung to Aegon's arm as if she feared he might be stolen at any moment. She didn't say a word but fixed Sansa with her eyes like a predator. Aegon did not seem to notice but smiled in Sansa's direction. They finally decided to make their way to the Red Keep.

Saddled horses were provided for the men and a large, richly decorated carriage for the ladies. The Gold Cloaks already started to clear the way for the group towards the River Gate. Daeron saw Aegon tempted for a moment to hurry to Sansa and help her into the carriage but obviously abandoned the idea when he saw one of the Gold Cloaks already doing so.

It would probably have been quite a struggle to free himself from Rhaenys' grip, Daeron thought. Their sister was the last to get on the carriage after reluctantly leaving Aegon's arm, so now Aegon could get on his horse as well. They rode into the city through the River Gate then, crossed the Fishmonger’s Square and turned right along the Hook on a direct route to the Red Keep. They passed merchant stalls and little shops whose owners were more often than not dressed in exotic garments, hair and beards in weird shapes, dyed in all colors known to the eye. More exciting than the men's clothes however was the women's fashion, which was worn for display. Ladies that looked like wives or daughters of Essosi princes or rich merchants wore dresses in strange cuts that were so revealing that even Rhaenys almost looked like a septa in comparison.

The street towards the Red Keep was steep and curvy but gave a great look over almost the whole city. He felt a little sad that he could not see the wonder in the faces of the girls now, seeing this massive and overflowing, dirty and stinky and wonderful city for the first time. Only now did he realize how much he really had missed King’s Landing. Daeron was now riding next to Aegon while the Red Keep got bigger and bigger on front of them. He let his gaze wander over the city, which had changed so enormously since his departure three years ago.

He could now see that parts of the city between Flea Bottom in the north and the Guildhall of the Alchemists in the south were completely gone. New buildings had been erected, in styles and forms that Daeron had never seen before and painted in all colors known to the eye. Houses, completely overgrown with plants and flowers; houses that seemed to float freely in the air, held only by enormous columns in the shapes of naked women and men, animals and dragons; even a half-finished pyramid could be seen almost at the center of this wild confusion. Aegon must have seen his questioning gaze.

"The Valyrian Quarter, they call it. Nobles and rich merchants from the Free Cities, mostly from Lys, Volantis and Myr, have built their new palaces there", he said. "Father had everything torn down; granaries, storehouses, taverns, brothels … all gone, so that they could really live it up. Too bad really."

"Why? I think it looks incredibly impressive."

"Yeah, sure. It does. But do you see that palace over there? The one with the marble sphinxes above the big bronze gate?"

"Yes."

"That’s where the Golden Horseshoe was."

The Golden Horseshoe. Daeron remembered well. It was in this tavern that the two of them had gotten drunk together for the first time when Daeron had just been three-and-ten and Aegon four-and-ten name days old. Jaime Lannister had burst in suddenly – only the gods knew how he had managed to find them – and had dragged them out through the tiny back door faster than any of them could react. Aegon had then thrown up in the pond in front of the little Sept right next to the tavern for the better part of an hour before Jaime had quickly and silently carried them back to their rooms.

Father never knew.

It had been that night that Jaime had finally become their most beloved and most trusted white knight.

The morning sun was still hidden behind the massive form of the Red Keep as they rode directly towards it, which made it seem somewhat ... unreal as if it were just a dream. For a brief moment, Daeron wasn't sure if all this couldn't just be a dream really. Somehow everything was too perfect in this moment. He was home again, Aegon was at his side and even Jenye was there and would no doubt be awaiting him again tonight. Aegon finally tore him from his thoughts and he could hear the mocking smile in his voice.

"Don't you recognise it? You've been here before, remember?"

They reached the massive main gate of the Red Keep, where a group of Gold Cloaks stood guard. One of the soldiers gave them a sign to stop and came to their side. More soldiers joined them immediately, all bowing before the two princes, merely nodding towards Lord Stark who had come to a stop right behind them.

"My Lord," one of the soldiers said to Lord Stark. "You'll be shown to your chambers now. The king will greet you later. The princes are expected in the Throne Room at once."

They all unsaddled. Daeron and Aegon went over to the waiting carriage to help the ladies out. Daeron helped his grandmother and Jenye while Aegon first took the hand of his sister and then the hand of Sansa. It didn't escape Daeron how disapprovingly Rhaenys looked at the two when Aegon breathed a light kiss on Sansa's hand as a farewell. He himself again did not seem to notice. Rhaella was smiling warmly while Sansa and Jeyne beamed all over their faces. Apparently they had had a good conversation.

The gate was opened and Daeron and Aegon both walked inside while the Starks and their household were left behind with Rhaella and Rhaenys and their Kingsguard. They had just crossed the gate when a group of servants rushed towards them to pick up the waiting guests and escort them to Maegor's Holdfast.

"I wonder if the Starks will like their chambers."

Aegon looked at him with a frown.

"The chambers are in Maegor's Holdfast. They're going to live like kings. What's not to like about that? Or are you more concerned about how your Lady Jenye is accommodated? If you don't like her room, you can always take her to your rooms at night. I'm sure she'll like it better anyway."

Daeron looked at him in shock.

"You know about this?"

"Everyone knows about it. Well, except maybe Lord Stark and that Septa... Morad?"

"Mordane."

"Mordane, whatever. But yes, I know about it. I'm neither blind nor a fool, you know, little brother. I'm just surprised you haven't started shaking yet, now that we've been off the ship for almost an hour. Not having been between Lady Jenye's thighs for so long must be hard for you."

Aegon grinned all over his face. Surely, he and Jenye hadn't been very careful lately when they had … met. But he hadn't expected it to be such an open secret.

"And what about you and Sansa?"

"What about us?"

"How long can you go without getting between Sansa's thighs?"

Immediately the grin disappeared from his face as if Daeron had slapped him. His brother looked at him seriously.

"Don't talk like that. I haven't even kissed Sansa, let alone done anything else. I would not dishonor her."

Daeron deliberately ignored the slight criticism of his dealings with Jeyne. Aegon seemed to really like Sansa, honestly and sincerely. Otherwise, he would have tried to do more with her by now. A feeling of pride filled him for a moment. His brother had become a good man and one day he would become a good king, Daeron was sure. They had just passed the gate and were stepping out into the sun in the outer courtyard when Daeron stopped as if rooted to the spot. In the middle of the courtyard, a massive obelisk had been erected, at least eight or nine man-lengths high, made entirely of a single jet-black stone and covered with what Daeron could only assume were Valyrian runes.

"What in the seven hells is that?"

"Don’t you like it? Father bought it in Volantis about a year ago. You should have seen how they got it here. Took them almost a week to get it through the main gate and it nearly broke in half a dozen times. Father had gotten hectic spots every time."

"What in the seven hells is that?", Daeron asked again.

"It's from an old temple in Valyria. Or so they say. Father is convinced that this is the key to his ridiculous prophecy. At least, once he understands what it says."

"Sounds like you're not convinced."

"Not really. Maybe it is the key to something, but as far as I'm concerned, it might just as well have the recipe for Valyria's favorite duck pie carved into it. I for my part preferred the pear tree that stood there before."

"Perhaps we should suggest to father that we travel to Valyria to find out more. Could be fun. I just doubt that he will allow us to do that," Daeron said with a grin.

"I do not know. Undertaking insane efforts to understand some old nonsense that nobody cares about anyway... sounds very much like something Father would have the uttermost understanding for," Aegon said and then went on towards the throne room without another word. The guards opened the doors to the giant hall and a herald announced their coming immediately.

"The princes Aegon and Daeron of House Targaryen," he shouted and all the voices died instantly. They both walked further towards the Iron Throne, their gazes fixed on the foot of the iron monstrosity. It had been three years but he remembered well that their father preferred only to be seen in the eye once one stood right in front of the throne - of course after having knelt down - and not when entering the giant hall from two hundred feet away already. On both sides stood countless courtiers, lords and ladies, knights and petitioners, for whom it seemed more important to be seen at court than to do anything useful. Daeron tried not to pay attention to them and just looked straight ahead. Now that he was back at King's Landing, he would have to deal with them soon enough. They finally arrived at the foot of the throne and were just about to kneel when they heard a voice coming from above.

"You have been expected back earlier."

Daeron already was down on one knee at that but Aegon stopped his movement in the last moment and immediately pulled him back on his feet as well. Both looked up now to the top of the throne as they both realized that this was not the voice of their father.

"What’s the meaning of this?" Aegon asked in an annoyed tone.

"You are welcomed back to King's Landing. That's not so hard to understand," Jon Connington said.

"We are here by order of the king. Why are we not welcomed by the king then?", Daeron asked. He had never been particularly fond of Connington - a grumpy man who had always had silly quarrels with Queen Elia for some trivial reason - but at least he had valued his unconditional loyalty to their father as one of his qualities.

"I am the Hand of the King, and I speak in his name. A greeting from me is as good as a greeting from the king himself."

"You may be the Hand of the King, but you are not our father. So where is he?", Daeron asked.

"Occupied with important matters of state concerning the future of the realm. But since you, Prince Daeron, will never ascend the throne, you probably never developed the necessary understanding for such matters."

"But I will be king one day," Aegon said. "And I don't understand it either."

"Then you have still much to learn before you may sit here one day as it seems. Now, let's put an end to this childish drama and come to your official greeting."

"Did you summon us here?" Aegon asked.

"Your official greeting from me, the Lord Hand, may then be-"

"Did you summon us here?" Aegon asked again, louder this time. Daeron saw the veins in his forehead swell.

"Indeed, in the name of the King as it is mine to command."

"You, Lord Connington, should remember one thing and you better listen well, for I tell you this only once.” Aegon was almost shouting now, his face reddened with anger. “You may be Hand of the King, my lord, but as sure as the sun rises you are not the king. My brother and I, we are the king’s sons. We are princes of the House of Targaryen and whatever little brooch you have pinned on your chest, you stand below us and you always will. From now on, Lord Connington, you will summon us nowhere, not to the Throne Room, not to the Council Chamber, not even to a dog fight!"

With that, Aegon turned around and stormed out. Daeron followed as fast as he could, almost as if he was on the run.

It seems that things have indeed changed quite a bit here in the last few years.

Notes:

So that was chapter 5. We finally arrived in King's Landing. Yaay!

I hoped you liked it. I always love to hear our thoughts, so let me know what you think in the comments.

Thanks for reading. :-)

Chapter 6: Sansa 1

Summary:

Hi all,

chapter 6 is here. So first we see the welcoming of the Starks by the king, then Sansa has her first meeting with Rhaella, a breakfast with Margaery Tyrell and after a short encounter with Rhaenys, there is a little surprise waiting for her. Hope you enjoy it. :-)

The throne room was full of people. Next to surprisingly many men and women that looked like mere merchants, she recognized the coats of arms of many noble houses, mostly from the Crownlands, the Reach and Dorne. She had the feeling of trembling all over her body and was happy to be able to hold on to her father's arm while slowly walking down the aisle towards the Iron Throne. Most of the time, her gaze was directed to the ground but she could feel the eyes of all the people around on her like insects crawling over her body. Only now and then she looked up and immediately discovered the wonderful smile of Aegon waiting at the foot of the giant throne. His smile gave her strength and it was this smile that kept her going, more so than the prospect of officially being introduced to the King and the court for the first time.

They had spent the rest of the first and the entire second day in King’s Landing in their rooms, waiting for being called to the king. Bread and salt had been waiting for them in their rooms when they had arrived, so that they had immediately been under the protection of the right of hospitality. Nevertheless, her father had become more nervous with every moment they had to wait for the announcement to be brought before the king, and by the evening of the second day he had even spoken of how it would have been best if they had not come to the capital at all. But then the announcement had finally come and now they were on their way to meet the king.

She wore a dress of grey silk with embroidery in the shape of white wolves on which Sansa had worked for weeks. The dress was tightly cut but still virtuous and chaste, as befits a lady. She had tied her hair into a single thick braid in which a grey silk ribbon matching her dress was woven in and which now hung over her left shoulder. Her father, Jeyne and Septa Mordane had told her how gorgeous she looked. It was only the enormous warmth that bothered her and she hoped fervently that it would not be seen.

Arya walked on their father's other arm. Father had even somehow managed to force her into a grey dress as well but it looked much less elegant on her. Besides, she had already managed to make it dirty, even if only a little bit. Sansa had no doubt that others had long noticed this as well and that the dress would be completely ruined by dinner at the latest. She was glad that their introduction to the king and the court took place so early that day. They had had just enough time for a small breakfast – not that she would have been able to eat a lot anyway – before they all had to change and had been picked up by some Gold Cloaks and brought to the Throne Room.

Aegon and Daeron were waiting on the king’s right, standing next to each other on the first step of the flat stairs leading up to the throne, both elegantly dressed in red and black, and it struck Sansa how wonderfully Aegon's clothing emphasized his muscular figure. Never before had there been a nobler prince, Sansa was sure of it. Queen Mother Rhaella was sitting on a large wooden chair on the other side of the steps. She was wearing a wonderful, fiery red dress of fine silk. Her back was straight as a spear, and the same friendly smile with which she had greeted her family in the harbor was on her face. She looked as regal as she could possibly look, but at the same time she seemed warm and friendly, almost motherly. Next to the Queen Mother, in a red and yellow dress, was Princess Rhaenys, also seated on a wooden chair, although a noticeably smaller one. She wore her hair open and it framed her gorgeous face like the black mane of a lion. It would probably have been even more gorgeous if she had looked down on them with such cold eyes. Sansa took another quick look at Aegon, who was still smiling adorably at her.

Only a few feet away from the small stairs the three of them stopped together. Her father sank to one knee while Sansa curtsied as elegantly as she could. Arya did something between these two things and she felt the tension in her father's arms that he was not satisfied with that either. Aegon then stepped forward, gave her another one of his captivating smiles and then turned to the king.

"Your Grace, it is my honor to present to you Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, along with his daughters, the beautiful maidens Sansa and Arya of House Stark."

"You may rise," the king's voice echoed throughout the hall. Their father rose. Arya and she did so like him, now their eyes fixed on the king. He was indeed a beautiful man and if there was any doubt about where Aegon got his looks from, they were gone at the latest with one look at his royal father. "Lord Stark, welcome to King's Landing. I am pleased that you have accepted my invitation to celebrate the twentieth name day of my heir, Crown Prince Aegon, with me and the entire realm. And of course I am very grateful for how wonderfully you and your family have taken care of my dear son Daeron over the past three years. I can't wait to hear all about his time at Winterfell."

"Thank you, Your Grace. It is an honor to be welcomed by you here at court."

"So these young ladies are your daughters. Sansa and Arya."

"Indeed, Your Grace."

Sansa curtsied again while Ayra remained as stiff as a pole as she could see out of the corner of her eye.

"I've already been told of their loveliness." Sansa blushed slightly at that but said nothing. She was thankful that Arya as well kept her mouth shut. "I'm sure they can hardly wait for the festivities to begin. So you'd better watch out, Lord Stark. No doubt there will be quite a few young lords and knights to beg your daughters' favor for the coming tourney."

With this the king gave a sign to one of the servants in the hall, whereupon the herald repeated their names and titles in a loud voice. It was the sign that the welcoming ceremony for them was over now. Immediately Sansa and Arya took their father's arms again and turned with him to join the crowd of waiting people at the sides of the Throne Room. She could get another glance at Aegon, who was smiling proudly at her now. She had not done much, but she had done it well and undoubtedly made a good first impression at court. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment with relief.

The next guests were announced to be officially welcomed by the king. First was Lady Rhea Florent, accompanied by her oldest son Ser Baelor Hightower. Once again she could catch a quick glimpse of Aegon, who still looked friendly but now much more serious and regal towards the entrance to the throne room. His smile was for me only. But then they had to line up a bit further in the back rows, so that she unfortunately couldn't see her prince anymore. After Lady Rhea and Ser Baelor, the representatives of some other of the houses from the Reach had their turn. Redwyne, Tarly and Costayne, followed by the Dornish families Santagar, Fowler, Yronwood and Uller.

The ceremony lasted the whole morning. After all guests of the day had been welcomed, the king, the Queen Mother, the princes and Princess Rhaenys left the hall through a side door. Sansa was already on her way to the exit when her father stopped to talk to a man who introduced himself as Ser Cortnay Penrose. The man's gaze told her very clearly that he didn't want her standing there listening, so she curtsied briefly and then said goodbye.

"I'll see you in our rooms," she heard her father say. She walked around a bit in the huge, gradually emptying hall. Wherever she looked, she saw the coats of arms of high houses, which she usually only knew from books and stories. The tingling sensation in her belly increased. It was an incredibly euphoric feeling to actually be here now, among the lords and ladies whose families – just as her own – had ruled and shaped all of Westeros for centuries or even millennia. She felt like she was in one of the stories she had loved so much as a child.

Arya had disappeared somewhere in the crowd and she had no interest in looking for her. She was old enough to take care of herself a little bit, even if Sansa had the bad feeling that Arya would do something stupid again, making her and her family the subject of every gossip in the capital for days. So far she had behaved surprisingly well – as far as she could at least – and had not caused a scandal yet, but she knew her little sister well enough not to know that this would only lead to an even bigger disaster in the end. She also turned towards the exit and was just about to leave when a young lady joined her.

She might have been two or three years older than herself, with long brown curls and big brown doe eyes in a pretty face. She wore a green sleeveless dress with golden embroidery in the shape of roses and tendrils. She smiled sweetly as she spoke.

"Lady Sansa, how nice to meet you in person. It's a pleasure. I am Margaery."

"The pleasure is all mine."

Without waiting for an invitation, she hooked up with Sansa and pulled her out of the Throne Room with her.

"It is always wonderful and so exciting to see a new face at court. And one so lovely as well. We should get to know each other better, don't you think? I think it would be wonderful if we could be friends."

"That would indeed be wonderful, Lady Margaery."

"Please, Sansa, call me Margaery. May I call you Sansa?"

"Of course, gladly."

"How lovely. Why don't you come to our rooms in the old Kitchens for breakfast tomorrow? We could talk and get to know each other better. And I'd be happy if you bring your sister as well. Arya, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'd love that. But I don't think Arya will be able to come. She ... isn't feeling well, I’m afraid."

"Hmm, she looked very well earlier when she snuck out of the hall following the Kingsguard.  Well, feel free to invite her. If she would like to join us, I would be delighted. If not, I look forward to seeing you."

With that, she released Sansa Arms and walked away with swift steps. Before she disappeared behind the next corner, she stopped once more.

"Oh, but please remember to put on a fresh dress. This one is very pretty, but it smells of dust and road," she called to her. After that she disappeared. Sansa stopped for a moment, uncertain of what had just happened. But whatever it was, she was looking forward to meeting Lady Margaery in the morrow. Not Lady Margaery, just Margaery, she remined herself and smiled.

She immediately went back to her rooms quickly then. Later that day she had an appointment with the Queen Mother for tea and it seemed that she urgently needed to change her dress. When she arrived in her chambers, she took off her grey silk dress, began to wash herself and told Jeyne all about the ceremony. Of course Jenye herself would have loved to be there herself, but unfortunately they had not been able to reserve a seat in the Throne Room for the daughter of the steward of Winterfell. Afterwards they chose a dress together that Sansa could wear for the rest of the day.

It was not an easy decision, but in the end they chose a rust-brown dress that would go well with her hair, with a corsage of beautiful brocade that her father had bought for her some time ago from an Essosi merchant who had briefly visited Winterfell. Jenye then helped her braid her hair anew to make it look perfect for her visit to Queen Rhaella. Whatever impression she had made so far, she had to perform perfectly again for tea with the Queen Mother. She was already late when she finally left her rooms again to go to the Queen Mother. She literally flew through the corridors but had to stop several times and ask for directions. The Red Keep was not as big as Winterfell, but it truly was a maze, she found. Finally she found a Gold Cloak who would take her directly to Queen Rhaella.

At the foot of the White Sword Tower a small garden had been laid out with a wonderful view over the bay. At the edge of the garden was a small table under a shadowy pavilion, where the Queen Mother was already waiting.

"Your Grace," the soldier said. "The Lady Sansa is here."

"Thank you," she said quietly. She rose and turned to Sansa. Again there was this beautiful, motherly smile on her face.

"Your Grace," Sansa said curtsying. "Please forgive my lateness. The Red Keep is still new to me and-"

"It's all right, my dear. I'm old and don't have much time left before the Stranger will come to me, but I'm not in such a hurry that I can't wait a little for my guest.”

She reached out her hands to Sansa who accepted happily. Queen Rhaella looked magnificent, especially for her age. How beautiful Aegon will be at this age if he ages as well as his grandmother. She was still wrapped in the fiery red dress of the welcoming ceremony, but now her hair was open and the long silver mane fell on her back. She led Sansa the few steps to the table and told her to sit down with a nod.

"I know the Red Keep is a mess," she went on. "If I hadn't grown up here, I would probably get lost in it every day. Sometimes it happens to me anyway but don't tell anyone," she said, giving Sansa a wink. A servant approached to pour tea for Sansa and Rhaella, but Rhaella waved him off and told the young man he could leave. They had no further need of his services at this time. Queen Rhaella herself then grabbed the small teapot and poured them both some.

"Forgive me, I could have done that," Sansa said quickly. But again, the queen smiled.

"You don't have to be nervous, dear. This is not a test. I just want to meet you in person. How gorgeous you look. Aegon indeed did not exaggerate."

Sansa felt the blush rise to her cheeks.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"The view is lovely, isn't it?"

"It is, Your Grace."

"Please, call me Rhaella when we are alone. I never liked this courtly tomfoolery. I personally ordered this little garden laid out. Rhaegar and Lord Connington were not pleased at all. They felt it would weaken the defenses of the fortress. But I said, should King's Landing be attacked and this little garden be the weak spot that leads to the fall of the fortress, they're very welcome to blame me. And once I'm gone, they can tear it down again anyway."

"That would be a pity, Your … Rhaella."

Sansa took a sip of tea. It was sweet, smelled delicious and tasted of lemons and plums.

"So, dear, tell me everything. I hope you had a good trip and my boys have been well-behaved."

So Sansa told of her time at Winterfell since Daeron's arrival, the time Daeron, Robb and she spent with Aegon since he came north and of their journey to King's Landing after that. The Queen asked many questions about Winterfell, a place she had never seen herself but had always wanted to visit. She told her as well that half her life she had dreamed of travelling to the Wall to visit a relative, Aemon Targaryen, who must have been the Maester of Castle Black for decades already. Sansa doubted that this man could really still be alive but chose not to say anything about it. After that it was up to Sansa to ask questions. And she had questions. About the Red Keep, about King's Landing, about the court and the royal family. And the Queen Mother was only too happy to answer all her questions, as it seemed.

The afternoon went by quickly. They talked wonderfully about this and that, about the festivities and the upcoming tourney. Who was going to be a favorite in the melee and the jousting and who would certainly be unhorsed in the first rounds already. Sansa did not know much about the knights' abilities yet, but she listened attentively and with every word the Queen Mother said, her excitement grew.

"And has any young knight already asked for your favor, dear?"

"No, not yet. But we've only just arrived."

"Still, you are such a lovely young lady, I expected the young knights would be throwing themselves at your feet at the docks already."

They both laughed heartily about it.

"Just think carefully about who you want to give your favor to. Don't just pick the first one who asks you. Unless of course the first one is my Aegon." She winked at her again. Sansa felt the blush rising in her cheeks again but was not sure if it was from what the Queen Mother said or the warmth in her dress. She was thankful that she could spend the whole afternoon in the shadows, otherwise she certainly would have melted away.

"How do you know my father, if I may ask?" Sansa then said.

"Of course you may, dear. I first met him at the Tourney at Harrenhal in … 281 it was, but I didn't really get to know him until the end of the rebellion. Your Lord father was brought to the capital in chains after the rebels had been defeated at the Trident, together with Jon Arryn and a number of their surviving bannermen. There were many voices demanding their heads at the time."

The Queen now looked out into the bay, lost in thought and memory. She paused for a moment, but Sansa said nothing and waited to speak again.

"Me and some others worked hard to convince Rhaegar to deal with him and the other rebels differently, however. In the end, he himself was largely to blame for the rebellion. He was sad and bitter at that time due to your aunt’s death and I had to remind him of that fact at least a dozen times a day. I don't think he would have done the realm any favors by ascending the throne just to pick up almost exactly where my Lord husband had left off. Thankfully, I was able to assert myself and so your father kept his head. We became friends during the time he spent here. Did you know that we wrote to each other regularly for several years after he had returned to the North?"

"I didn’t know that … Rhaella."

Again the Queen Mother smiled at Sansa.

"If you're uncomfortable with that, you're welcome to call me Your Grace, dear. It's fine if you need time to settle in. Just know that you are more than welcome to call me Rhaella whenever you are ready."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

They talked about the letters for a while and how it was a pity that their friendship, as difficult and unusual as it may have been, fell asleep at some point. The Queen was all the more pleased to have her father back in King’s Landing and to see what wonderful daughters he and his wife had given birth to, she told Sansa.

"Since I saved your father's life back then, I am so to speak jointly responsible for your existence. So I am relieved and delighted to see what a perfect young lady you are."

The afternoon was almost over and the sun began to set as Sansa finally had the courage to ask the Queen Mother what was bothering her all day already.

"Your Grace, the afternoon was wonderful, but I must ask you one thing. Why did you invite me here today? Surely there are more young ladies at court than one can count who would be more than happy to spend an afternoon with the Queen Mother. And surely you didn't invite me here just because you knew my father from twenty years ago."

The Queen Mother looked at her for a long time afterwards, didn't say a word. After a time that felt like an eternity to Sansa, she suddenly started laughing out loud.

"Wonderful, dear."

Sansa said nothing, but just looked a little confused. Had she said something wrong or was her question so inappropriate? She was just about to apologize for her words when Queen Rhaella began speaking again.

"You are right, dear. I didn't invite you here just for your father and there are more than enough young ladies at court who would be more than willing to commit a murder to be in your seat now. I am glad to see that you are smart enough to realize that and also brave enough to ask about it. Most other young ladies would have drunk their tea, smiled nicely and then been happy to leave the old hag sitting here to get back to their chattering friends.”

Sansa had to laugh at that and immediately Queen Rhaella laughed with her.

"You're no old hag, Your Grace."

"Of course I am, but it's nice of you to say otherwise. Even if it's a lie. The reason I wanted to meet you is because Daeron told me about you and your dancing with his brother in his letters before you left Winterfell already and my dear Aegon has spoken of little else since his return. Glad to see my grandson has good taste."

She could hardly remember the goodbye from the Queen Mother and her way back to her rooms after that. The wonderful feeling that had spread throughout her entire body simply overshadowed everything at that moment. It was only when she sat at the dinner table in the evening with her father, Septa Mordane, Jeyne and Arya that she gradually regained consciousness. Her father asked some questions about Queen Rhaella, about her health mostly, but it was almost entirely Jeyne who questioned her about every detail of her conversation with the Queen Mother. So Sansa told her everything, from the greeting and the taste of the tea to everything they had talked about in as much detail as Sansa could remember. It was remarkably easy for her to ignore Arya's annoyed looks and unwanted comments even.

"The Queen Mother has given me a message for you, father."

"A message? What message?", her father asked.

"She said that with this message she is giving you the official order to write to her again regularly as soon as you are back in Winterfell. By royal decree. If she doesn't receive any letters from you then, this would be treason," Sansa said with a grin.

After the dinner, she and Jeyne went to Sansa’s rooms, talked a bit more about the afternoon with the Queen Mother and how they were excited about the upcoming festivities. But soon she was overcome with exhaustion from the exciting day and they fell asleep together. The next morning, she was invited to break the fast with Margaery Tyrell. This time, Jeyne would accompany her. So as soon as they got up, they chose dresses for one another that fitted nicely together and set off immediately. Sansa also decided to put on one of the brooches that her mother had given her. It was a silver wolf with shards of sapphire for eyes, of which her mother said that they beautifully brought out the Tully-blue of her own eyes.

They quickly found their way from Maegor's Holdfast to the old kitchens of the Red Keep, which were no longer used as kitchens but had been rebuilt into a luxurious guest house. She wondered why the Tyrells were housed in the Kitchens, while her own family was housed in Maegor's Holdfast, a place normally reserved exclusively for the Royal Family. Jeyne had learned from Daeron however that the Queen Mother had personally seen to it that House Stark was treated differently, better.

In the courtyard of the old Kitchens a small garden had been laid out, where a group of young ladies sat together and talked loudly and laughed, tea and pastries on the table in front of them. In the middle of the group sat Margaery Tyrell, dressed in a beautiful dress of green silk with golden rose petals, similar to the one she had worn yesterday, but still significantly different in cut. Her long brown curls fell openly over her bare shoulders. They all had blond or brown hair, long and curly, big, observant eyes in brown and green, and all wore beautiful dresses of the finest fabrics, elaborately embroidered with roses and tendrils and all kinds of flowers and plants. All the dresses were gorgeous, though rather revealing, for Sansa's taste. The warmth, which was already draining and would undoubtedly turn into real heat during the day, made her wish to wear a little less fabric herself as well though.

As they approached the group, Lady Margaery noticed them immediately and jumped up to welcome the new guests.

"Sansa, how wonderful that you are here. Come and sit with us. There's tea and biscuits as much as you want," she said with a smile as bright as the sun. "Your dresses are wonderful. The embroidery is gorgeous. Is that what they wear up in the North?"

Sansa was unsure how to respond. But before she could answer, the other ladies already made two seats available for her and Jeyne near Margaery, which they quickly took. They asked a lot about Winterfell and the North, if flowers grew there at all and if they didn't find the south much nicer. They told them about Highgarden with its gigantic gardens and how the air always smelled of fresh rose petals.

"In comparison, the stink of King's Landing is rather ... difficult to bear", said one of the ladies who had been introduced to her as Alla.

After all the pastries were eaten, a servant came immediately to put new trays on the table and carry away the empty ones.

"You should try these, Sansa. They are little apple pies with honey and nuts. Do you also have bees and apples in the North?" asked one of the girls with straw-blond hair.

"Of course we have apples," Sansa replied. She noticed how the ladies made fun of her. Unfortunately, Jeyne was not of much help, because whenever she wanted to say something, one of Margaery's ladies-in-waiting already fell into her mouth and babbled some nonsense.

"Yes, of course. But I mean real apples, not ones you make from snow and ice."

Everyone laughed out loud. Only Sansa and Jeyne were not in the mood for laughter.

"That's enough now," Margaery finally said. "Please don't be angry with the girls, Sansa. They're only joking. And they've never seen a lady from this far north before."

They ate and drank and talked for a little longer, but Sansa didn't have much fun anymore. And looking at Jeyne's face, she felt no different. It was almost noon when they finally said their goodbyes. Margaery walked with them for a little bit to escort them to the exit.

"I'm really sorry if the girls offended you. I wanted this to be a beautiful day for you. I still hope we can be friends. Next time we meet at your place and I'll come without those chatty chickens. What do you say?"

Sansa's smile finally returned. Margaery had been nice all morning, not making jokes about her or her home. Yes, she'd love to be friends with Margaery.

"That sounds wonderful."

So they said goodbye and headed back to Maegor's Holdfast. They were just about to cross the drawbridge which parted the outer from the inner courtyard, when a procession of Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard came towards them with Princess Rhaenys in the middle. Again she wore a flowing dress of yellow and red that showed her long legs with every step, her dark mane barely held together by some orange silk ribbons. They stepped aside to let the group pass, but right in front of them the princess stopped. Immediately they curtsied and looked silently at the ground.

"You, move on," the princess said to Jenye in a tone that did not allow any opposition or hesitation. Immediately her friend curtsied again and literally fled in the direction of Maegor's Holdfast.

"Good day, Your Grace," Sansa finally said, her eyes still fixed on the ground.

"So you are the one half the court seems to be talking about." Only now did Sansa dare to raise her eyes again. As beautiful as her face was, there was no trace of even the smallest smile on it. For what felt like an eternity, the princess simply stood there, scrutinizing Sansa from head to toe.

"You should be careful, little wolf. Too much attention can have ... unpleasant consequences for such a gentle creature as you. And after all, you northerners typically don't do well this far south."

"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you."

The princess was about to turn as she stopped once more and put one of her elegant fingers on the brooch Sansa wore.

"The brooch is very pretty, girl."

"Thank you, Your Grace. It's a gift from my mother. And she got it from her mother."

"What a pity it makes you look so pale."

With that she finally turned and left, the Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard following her closely. Sansa stood still for a while like rooted to the ground. She felt like she wanted to throw up immediately. As if half asleep, she finally continued on her way. She had just crossed the drawbridge when she was suddenly stopped by someone standing right in front of her. At first she wanted to apologize and walk around the man, but then she looked up at the ravishingly smiling face of Aegon. Immediately she had to smile as well.

"Your Grace," she greeted him curtsying.

"My lady," he said and bowed. "May I ask if you have any plans for the rest of the day already?"

"No, not yet."

Without another word, he held out his arm, which she took immediately. He led her back across the drawbridge, turned left and led her past the kitchen and Grand Hall to a large gate, protected by two gold cloaks.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked excitedly.

"I thought you might like this," he said as the Gold Cloaks opened the gate and allowed them in. Behind it was a beautiful garden with countless trees, almost a forest. Between the trees, she recognized a small lake and countless birds seemed to be singing in a contest.

"What is this place? A forest in the middle of the Red Keep?"

Aegon smiled happily, obviously glad she liked what she saw.

"This is the Godswood of the Red Keep."

"There's a Godswood here?"

"Yes ... well, there's no Weirwood tree unfortunately, only a very old oak. But I thought it might remind you of home a little."

Her smile grew wider and wider and she felt small tears of joy rising in her eyes. They walked through the beautiful forest together for a while and listened to the singing of the birds, her hand on his arm all the time. Aegon asked her how her days in King's Landing had been so far and Sansa loved to tell him about her breakfast with Lady Margaery and yesterday's tea with Queen Rhaella. She left out the meeting with Princess Rhaenys however.

"I hope my grandmother was kind to you."

"She was wonderful," Sansa said honestly, with the widest smile on her face.

Sansa asked him about some of the trees she did not recognize, and he happily explained that some of the trees had been brought here from the eastern parts of Essos, some even from the shores of Sothoryos. They continued walking through the forest until they finally reached the old oak tree in the middle. It was huge and surrounded by a flat meadow where wild flowers grew in all colors of the rainbow. Beautiful and peaceful. But what immediately caught Sansa's eye was the small table and the two chairs that had been set up in front of the huge tree in the shade of its branches. On it stood a carafe, two silver cups and a tray with pastries.

"What is this?" she asked and could not help but shine all over her face.

"I thought we might spend the afternoon here together. The wine is cold, straight from the cellars under the Red Keep, and the lemon cakes are fresh from the bakery."

She would have loved to cry with joy, but thanked Aegon instead and moved a little closer to him as he led her to the table. They sat down, ate some of the lemon cakes and drank cold wine, sweet and delicious, thinned with some water.

She could not count how many times Aegon apologized that there was no Weirwood Tree in this Godswood. She found it absolutely adorable. She told him a bit more about her meeting with Queen Rhaella and he was very happy how well they got along. He admitted that the Queen Mother had already told him about the meeting and he just wanted to know if she had enjoyed it as much as his grandmother had. He talked about his first days in King's Landing after his return and how much he was looking forward to the upcoming tourney. For a moment she thought he was going to ask her for her favor, but then he didn't. Her disappointment disappeared as quickly as she had come however, after he had poured her some more wine with his adorable smile and handed her another lemon cake.

She felt as if she could sit there with him forever. But at some point the day had progressed further, the wine had been drunk and the cakes eaten down to the last. Unfortunately, he still had duties this evening, he apologized when he offered her his arm again to guide her to the exit. She assured him that she had enjoyed the day immensely and was more than grateful to him for this wonderful welcome. At these words, Aegon was once again beaming all over his face.

He walked her to the exit, where he said goodbye to her again with a perfect bow and a light kiss on her hand. A Gold Cloak then followed him towards the Throne Room as she made her way back towards Maegor's Holdfast. Everything inside her felt like it was in motion, as if she had swallowed butterflies. The way to her rooms flew past her. She did not notice the other people, but rather floated through the corridors of the fortress as if walking on clouds, still with the widest smile on her face.

She was just arriving at her chambers when her father showed up and stopped her, looking at her angrily.

"Sansa, where on earth have you been? You should have been back after breaking the fast with Lady Margaery. I've already sent guards out to look for you."

Torn from her comforting, perfect state of mind, she didn't know what to say. For a moment she was silent, thinking of an excuse, but before she could say anything, Jeyne appeared behind her and placed herself protectively in front of her. Her hair was a complete mess and her dress was sitting awry, as if she had taken it off and put it back on in a hurry.

"My Lord, please forgive me. It is my fault. Sansa and I were with Lady Margaery but after the breakfast I convinced her to explore the Red Keep with me for a while. We got lost and only just found our way back."

"Why didn't you ask for directions, girl?"

"We were embarrassed," Sansa finally said. "Please forgive us, father. We'll take better care from now on."

That seemed to comfort her father. He accepted her apology and sent them both to Sansa's chambers. When asked if they wanted to have dinner together, Sansa declined. The day had been exciting and now they were both so exhausted, she told him, that they would go straight to bed. At least that is not a lie, she thought.

So they disappeared into Sansa's chambers, took off their dresses and got into bed. It was not really late yet, but they indeed both were exhausted from the day. When Jeyne then asked where Sansa really had been the entire day, she told her all about her day with Aegon and immediately the butterflies returned to her belly. She wanted to ask what Jeyne had been doing all day, where she had just come from, but the wonderful feeling inside her was stronger. All she could think of was Aegon, with his silver-white hair, his ravishing purple eyes and the most beautiful smile a man could ever have. All she could think of was her perfect prince. Then she fell asleep.

Notes:

So, that was it. As always, let me know what you think about all this. I would love to hear your thoughts on her time with Rhaella, Margaery, Rhaenys and Aegon. So comments are very welcome.

The next one will most probably be the first Rhaenys-chapter. See you there (hopefully). :-)

Chapter 7: Rhaenys 1

Summary:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is already here. The writing went faster than expected, mostly because my new job has not started yet. It's a bit shorter again, but I hope you still like it.

Rheanys first is having her breakfast with Rhaella, then meets with Aegon and Daeron and finally attends dinner with Rhaegar and his guests, where a little suprise is waiting. ;-)

The heat had gotten worse these last days. Even for her with her Dornish blood, this weather was nothing she appreciated. Surely, it was a good excuse to wear somewhat more openhearted dresses in Dornish styles at court, but in the end she would have worn those anyway. A little excitement here and a little scandal there kept the good mood going. And as long as she was famous at court for her extravagant dresses only, this was a situation she could live with, a situation she enjoyed even.

Rhaenys now was on her way to her grandmother. She had promised to break the fast with her. They had used to do this almost every morning, but lately they have been doing it less and less. The day was still young, and so she met hardly anyone except a lot of servants and pages running around nervously making breakfast for the Lords and Ladies and preparing the Red Keep for the troubles of the day.  Here and there some knights were already on their feet, but only a few lords and ladies had got out of their beds at this time.

Everyone greeted her politely and humbly, jumping aside quickly when she approached. Some knights, who she did not know by name, even held out their hands to her, probably in the hope of being allowed to kiss hers. It's not that easy to get close to the king's daughter, she thought amused. She gave them a smile, but nothing more. The warning looks of the Sers Jaime and Jonothor, who were following her, at the very latest made even the most daring knight leave discreetly and not bother her further. She finally reached her grandmother's small, lovely garden and she was not surprised to find her there already. Her grandmother was always up early. A quality Rhaenys had undoubtedly inherited from her.

Jaime and Jonothor respectfully stopped at the entrance of the small garden, while she herself continued on to her grandmother. She was one of the dearest people in the world to her and to see her smile when Rhaenys sat down with her was worth more to her than anything in the world. Well, almost anything.

"Good morning, sweetling," she was greeted.

"Good morning, grandmother."

"Are you already excited about the tourney? Just a few more days, then it finally will begin. I can't wait, I tell you. And there are many young knights in the city who would certainly sell their own mothers if you would grant them your favor in return. Have you been asked already?"

It was adorable, downright cute to see how excited her grandmother was about the tourney. In such moments she seemed like a young girl again and Rhaenys could vividly imagine how gorgeous she must have been as a young woman.

"A few asked, but no one worthy. I am not interested in the candidates so far and even less in their mothers," said Rhaenys and both laughed at that. It was wonderful to hear her grandmother's laughter, a sound of her childhood, which unfortunately had become so rare in King's Landing lately.

"That's all right. It's good to think carefully about who you want to grant your favor. But don't wait too long, sweetling. You can't delay it forever or there won't be a knight left at the end."

"I'm just waiting for someone who's really worth it," she said with a wink.

Aegon.

They talked a little bit more about the knights and young lords who would compete in the tourney, while the servants brought them food and fresh, strong tea. Rhaenys would have preferred some cold wine, but she knew that her grandmother did not think much of drinking so early in the morning. They also talked about those who would not participate in the tourney. Some surprising cancellations had reached King's Landing recently.

Loras Tyrell would compete, while his older brother Garlan had refused the invitation. For all she knew, Ser Loras was the better jouster anyway. Rhaenys was sure however that Aegon and Daeron would both have loved to measure themselves against the famous Ser Garlan in swordplay in the melee. Furthermore, several houses from the Vale and the North had refused the invitation as well. All of them in the politest manner and with good reasons, yet this had upset her father in the utmost degree, even if she could not exactly say why.

"I recently met with Lady Sansa. You know, Eddard Stark's daughter."

Of course she knew.

"I heard about that," said Rhaenys, hoping that her tone of voice would be enough to make it clear to her grandmother that she did not want to talk about this girl of all people. Her grandmother however seemed to either not notice or simply ignore it. Rhaenys went for the latter. She had been in such a good mood that morning and all of a sudden it was wiped away.

"She is absolutely lovely. Smart and brave. Probably smarter and braver than she knows herself. She still needs a little shaping, but with the right guidance, she'll make for a truly great lady one day."

Rhaenys had her doubts. She had already seen her and spoken to her, even if only briefly. She had gotten a completely different picture of the girl. She was quite pretty, fair of face. She had to give her that. Still the girl was pale and quiet, always looking scared like a little rabbit facing the fox.

"Then I pray that she will find the right guidance in the North once she leaves again."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I was thinking of asking Lord Stark to let Lady Sansa stay in King's Landing permanently. As one of my ladies-in-waiting, so to speak. I'm sure Sansa would like that and I'm sure Aegon would too," she said, winking again as if sharing a secret with her.

Rhaenys frowned at that.

"Certainly. I just don't think Lord Stark will leave his beloved daughter alone in this snake pit. From what I've heard, he doesn't have a very high opinion of life at court."

"No, he probably hasn't. But if I promise him that we'll both look after his precious, he might change his mind."

We. Great.

Rhaenys thought for a moment about what she should answer. She could think of nothing suitable that would not upset her grandmother and so she remained silent. This might even have been the best answer, she decided for herself.

Would the other Stark girl also stay at court then?

She hoped not. The other one, the one with the horse face, was even worse. A horrible child who had apparently never enjoyed even a hint of proper upbringing. Where the older girl was at least still pretty and polite, the younger girl didn't even have that to offer. Sure, Aegon had no particular interest in her. That was at least the one good thing about her, but that was in no way enough to raise Rhaenys' opinion about the younger Stark girl significantly.

The little horse-face was a tomboy, constantly running and jumping around like an ill-mannered brat, always as dirty as if she couldn't avoid a single puddle or cesspit in the entire city. Even when she had been presented to the king, her dress had been dirty as if she had been working as a stable boy. The northerners might wear fine garments and bear noble titles, but deep inside they were still savages who had no place at court. And certainly not at the side or in the bed of her Aegon.

After they had eaten and her mood had already plummeted anyway, Rhaenys said goodbye to her grandmother with a kiss. She would still have to choose the dress for tonight and she feared that she would once again get into a fierce fight with her tailor about what was appropriate and what not. So she left the small garden and made her way back to Maegor's Holdfast.

However, instead of returning directly to her rooms, she decided to take a small detour, descended the serpentine steps of the lower courtyard and made her way to the Maidenvault. Perhaps her Uncle Viserys could lift her spirits a little. They had never been close, she and her uncle. But at the moment she simply did not want to see anyone who did not belong to her family. She climbed the steps of the Maidenvault and in fact she found Uncle Viserys in what he called his study. It was a wild jumble of shelves and tables and too few chairs, piled up with writings, voluminous folios and all sorts of rubbish that Viserys and Rhaegar had bought over the years from merchants from the Free Cities. Rhaenys was sure that in the Free Cities they were already laughing up their sleeves at how easy it was to sell the King of the Seven Kingdoms and his brother any piece of trash that one could find in any gutter in Essos, as long as it looked old, for outrageous prices.

"Uncle Viserys," she greeted him with a small nod when he entered.

"Rhaenys," he answered without looking up.

He was bent over something that looked like a piece of rotten wood with carvings in to. Or perhaps it was a stone. She wasn't sure, but she wasn't really interested either. Much more exciting than the rubbish on his table was the clothes he wore. It was a mossy green robe without trousers, floor-long but with cut-outs on the sides that let his pale skin shine through. His left shoulder was completely exposed, and his hair was shaped into an undoubtedly ornate yet rather silly-looking figure as if a wild animal had nested in it.

"Do you want anything?"

"Nothing in particular. I just wanted to look after you. You are wearing a new robe, I see."

"Yes."

"It's ... interestingly cut."

"It's old Valyrian style. One of my good friends from Essos gave it to me. If it weren't for the Doom, we'd all be wearing these."

Then at least the Doom was good for something.

"I expected you to spend more time in the Grand Hall. Have not new guests arrived from Volantis this morning?"

"Yes, I think so. But I can choose my wives later."

This hit Rhaenys unexpectedly. Wives? She had already heard that her father was planning to marry Viserys to the daughter of a family from Essos with Valyrian roots. The blood must be kept strong and pure, he had said. But more than one? Viserys had his merits but he surely was no match for Aegon, neither the first nor the sixth. So why more than one wife?

"The prince now must continue his work."

She was startled for a short moment at the sound of that voice. From one of the dark corners of the room, which she had not paid attention to until now, Boros Blount suddenly stepped out of the shadows. He was a brute, an ugly man with a broad chest and short and bandy legs, an utter craven from what she had heard and probably the most unworthy man to ever wear the sublime White of the Kingsguard. She still could not comprehend why her father had raised such a man to this noble rank. Men like Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne or Jonothor Darry must have felt insulted by his mere presence, but these men, true knights, loyal and devoted unto death, would rather have their tongues cut out than to say this to their king's face. She knew full well Viserys had persuaded her father to do it. Blount was his creature, completely and solely devoted to him. Even though, from what she knew of him, she doubted that Blount would willingly throw himself on a sword for anyone. Not even for her uncle.

But what might have persuaded Viserys, who never trusted anyone but his own brother further than he could spit a plum stone, to speak up for this man of all people, was completely incomprehensible to her. This man was a disgrace and though she wished her father a long life, she almost couldn't wait until one day Aegon would take the throne and remove this creature from the Kingsguard. There would certainly be plenty of reasons to do so.

Now however, he still stood there and stared at her with his cold eyes. She had always loved the attention of the men at court and even – or perhaps especially – the looks of the knights of the Kingsguard, who always made every effort to look everywhere in her presence, except at her body. It had always been fun for her to confuse men and to feel their eyes on her as she was soaring through a room. Desirable but forever out of reach for every man except one. But the looks of this man sent a cold shiver down her spine. It was disgusting how obviously he was constantly undressing her with his eyes whenever he was close. He made no secret of his dirty thoughts when he looked at her and did not even try to hide his lustful stares.

Maybe it was good that he had put on the White of the Kingsguard and had sworn an oath never to marry and father children. This way at least no woman would ever have to suffer from being given to this man in marriage.

She quickly left her uncle's study and the looks that Ser Jonthor and Ser Jaime, who had been waiting for her at the entrance, cast at their sworn brother confirmed her suspicion about how little they thought of him. She went straight to her rooms and in fact already found her tailor waiting for her, who was to help her choose a dress for tonight. Lothar was a short, pointy-faced man with hanging shoulders who had always reminded her of a little mouse. But as little as one might think of a small man like him at first glance, there was no question that he had magic fingers when it came to cutting and sewing the most wonderful dresses. And he was probably the only man in front of whom she could completely undress herself without having to fear that she would become the talk of the town afterwards.

There would be no real feast tonight, not so shortly before the start of the great tourney in honor of her brother, but her father had nevertheless invited a number of lords to dine with him and the royal family. The evening would not be long. Yet she wanted to shine, wanted to make an impression. So she chose something provocative in the Dornish style, which would probably have caused a stir even in Sunspear. As expected, they got into an argument about whether such a dress would be appropriate for a princess of the realm or whether it would better fit a pillow slave from the Free Cities. She knew his views on some of the dresses she liked to wear. Even though he himself was by no means prudish, she knew that he always feared that her choice of dress might cause a scandal at court that would fall back on him and earn him the wrath of the king.

In the end, they came to an agreement and decided on a black, tight-fitting dress which would emphasize her legs wonderfully, with dark red applications in the shape of small flames and a deep cleavage at the back. It was less provocative than she had planned, but still exciting enough to make Lothar grind his teeth.

Aegon will love it.

Half the day lay still ahead of her and Lothar would need a few hours to finish the last changes to the dress, so she put her regular dress back on and left her rooms to meet Aegon and Daeron for lunch. The two of them had spent the entire morning in the practice yard, as she knew, and could certainly use some distraction from swords and shields and lances before they had to behave like princes again tonight when dining with their father.

She found them by the kitchens, loading trays with food and drinks. They had apparently decided that they would rather dine undisturbed in Daeron's chambers. So they went into Daeron's room together and sat down on the piles of pillows and blankets that were arranged around a ridiculously low table. It was surprisingly comfortable, even though Rhaenys couldn't find a proper position in which she could still sit reasonably ladylike. After some failed attempts she finally gave up and just lay down as comfortably as possible.

They talked about today’s sword exercises and about the upcoming tourney. Daeron had apparently decided not to compete in the jousting but only in the melee, which surprised both Aegon and Rhaenys. Jousting was the crown discipline of every tourney. But for whatever reason he simply did not want to participate in the jousting and unfortunately they did not manage to dissuade him. She herself then told her brothers about the breakfast with her grandmother that morning, but did skip the part of the conversation about the northern girl. She did however tell them about her brief meeting with their uncle Viserys.

"Have you seen how he is walking around lately?" Aegon asked. "I mean, to tell the truth, he has always been a little odd."

"He says this is old Valyrian style."

"Valyrian style my ass," Daeron said. "He's making a fool of himself. And us with him. I don't get why father lets him do this."

"You've been away too long, little brother," Aegon said with a serious expression. Rhaenys nodded in agreement.

"Indeed," she said. "Have you spoken to father these past few days, apart from a short chatter after the welcoming of the guests in the throne room? He has ... changed."

"What is that supposed to mean? He seems a bit absent, yes, and to be honest, I would have wished for a somewhat warmer welcome than an official ceremony and then days of silence. But other than that..."

"I'm just saying that he has changed," Rhaenys finally said after a long pause. "By the gods, he doesn't burn people, but he's no longer the same as when we were kids. That’s for sure. I can always see the disappointment in his eyes when he looks at one of us. His three heads of the dragon." She laughed bitterly at her own words. "He is disappointed that we did not become the ones he had hoped for. But instead of letting it go and living his life as best he can, he gets lost more and more in scriptures and prophecies. And the red witch does the rest."

"I haven't seen her around here so far," Daeron said.

"She's always in father's study," Aegon replied.  "She practically lives there. I don't think she even has any rooms of her own."

"And Father?"

"He too," said Rhaenys. "Constantly with his nose in books or scrolls. He does not leave his study for days, sleeps and eats in it. It is almost always Connington who sits on the throne these days."

"You think he'd take advantage of that?"

"Connington? Overthrow father?", Aegon asked in surprise and almost laughed about how ridiculous that must have sounded to him. "No way. The man is so absurdly devoted to father, one could almost think he's in love with him."

None of them were particularly keen to talk about their father or Jon Connington any further, so Rhaenys was grateful for the change of subject when Aegon asked whom Daeron would ask for her favor for the tourney. For a moment she hoped Aegon would ask her for her favor straight out but was torn from her thoughts when she heard Daeron's answer.

"Jeyne, of course."

"You can't be serious," Aegon said, lowering his face in his hands in dismay.

"Why is that? She is wonderful," he snapped back.

"Aegon is right. You can't do that."

"And why? What about you and Sansa?"

"What about us? I haven't asked her for her favor yet, but even if I had... she is the daughter of one of the most important lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Jeyne is the daughter of... what, Winterfell’s cook?"

"The steward," shouted Daeron now. "She is of noble birth."

"What you call noble these days," said Rhaenys and immediately regretted it. Daeron suddenly seemed to be beside himself, jumped up and ran up and down the room. Rhaenys wanted to calm him down, rose as well to go to him.

"You can't, because it wouldn't be fair to her," she said calmly.

"Of course it's fair. We are in love!"

Faster than Daeron had been able to react, she had slapped him in the face. Finally he stopped, eyes wide open in shock. Aegon looked similarly surprised but said nothing about it.

"Don't be a fool!" she yelled at him. "There are enough of those in this city already. She is the daughter of the steward of Winterfell and you, you are the son of the king, the Blood of the Dragon. You can’t honestly think about marrying her. Start fucking thinking with your head, not your cock."

Daeron seemed to think about it for a moment, but before he could answer anything, Rhaenys continued.

"If you dare to say that you don't have to marry her, you will get another one from me! Have you taken her maidenhead? Tell me!"

"Yes," he said sheepishly.

"And what do you think is going to come of this? Do you honestly think father will allow you to take her as your wife? You might as well try to convince father to let you marry the next miller's daughter. Or how about little Dalia? Her mother works in the royal kitchens. She doesn’t know who her father is but it’s probably the bald fat fuck who takes care of the horses in the Gold Cloaks' stables."

One could see that Daeron would have been happy to sink into the ground. If a hole had opened up and pulled him down into the deepest circle of hell, he would probably have thanked the Seven for this grace.

"So," Rhaenys continued, still angry and in such a loud tone that half of the Red Keep must have heard her. "What exactly do you have in mind? Maybe you want to keep her as your mistress so she can give birth to some bastards? Is that a future that this girl deserves? Or that your future wife deserves, whoever she's going to be?"

"No," he returned, still as sheepish as a whipped kid.

"You will end this," she yelled, pointing a finger in his face. "Do you understand me? You will end this before the tourney begins. There's no way I'm going to let you continue this folly at this girl's expense."

With that, she turned away from him and stormed out of the room. With quick steps she went back into her rooms. Lothar was still busy with the last changes, but she told him to go and finish the work somewhere else. On her small table next to her bed was fortunately still half a carafe of watered wine from the previous evening. She drank her first cup, then the second.

She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes for a moment. Her head began to hurt, whether because of the weather or the turmoil around Daeron she could not tell. But she did not want to know that either. She tried to relax, think of nothing. Soon she would have to change for dinner with her father and his guests. She would have loved to cancel, but her Aegon would be there too and she didn't want to leave him alone with it.

Besides, she reminded herself, I have a new dress especially for the evening. Aegon will love it.

She must have fallen asleep, because she was startled a bit when she was woken by the knock on the door. At her request Lothar stepped in, the finished dress in his hands. She told him to put it on the bed and then leave her alone. She thanked him quickly when he left the room and then took a small sip of the wine to clear her head.

She took off her dress to put on the new one. In between she washed herself briefly. It fitted perfectly. No doubt all eyes would be on her tonight. She sat down in front of the mirror and thought about what to do with her hair. However, she found that they looked particularly gorgeous now that she had just climbed out of bed. So she simply brushed a few of her thick locks here and there and apart from that let her dark mane fall freely over her back the way it was. She decided she wasn't even going to wear jewelry. Satisfied with the result, she finally took her leave. She did not know exactly what time it was, but judging by the position of the sun, she was already late.

The dinner would take place in the Small Hall, so she went straight there. As expected, most of the guests already had arrived and were standing around the big table, which had been set up there especially for this evening. As also expected, her appearance was a spectacle for the guests. None of the young and old men in the hall could take their eyes off her for at least half a dozen heartbeats, and the partly envious, partly disparaging looks of the ladies also proved to her that she had done everything right. There was – that much she had already learned beforehand – no fixed seating arrangement for the evening, but of course the royal family would sit together at the broad head of the table.

Aegon was already there, dressed in dark linen that beautifully emphasized his strong body. He was truly a sight for the gods. She went directly to him and found that Daeron was already there as well and had taken a seat next to Grandmother Rhaella. Only their father was still missing.

"Brother," she greeted him.

"Sister," he said with a wonderful smile. "You look absolutely ravishing."

"Thank you. This is just for you, my love."

He laughed at this and was just about to move her chair to help her sit down when their father entered the room. The herald announced his coming and immediately all guests went to the seats at the table and the royal family rose. With the exception of their grandmother however who was of course allowed to get away with such a breach of etiquette. Her father went to his place at the head of the table and sat down. Now the guests and the royal family also sat down again. He gave a sign to the servants, who quickly snuck around the table like weasels, handing a cup of the finest wine to everyone present. As everyone held a cup in their hands, their father rose again.

"My Lords and ladies, I thank you all for accepting my invitation to spend this evening with me and my family," her father began. He began to talk about how happy he was to be in the company of his most loyal and highly respected bannermen tonight. However, a quick glance around the table did not tell Rhaenys what might have given her father the idea that the people present might be most loyal and highly respected bannermen. A glance to the side however revealed to her that Aegon was at least as astonished about this announcement as she and obviously quite a few of the guests themselves as well.

Apart from the Lords and – if there were any – Ladies Connington, Darry, Tyrell, Hightower, Velaryon and Oakheart, she mainly saw Lords and Ladies at the table, who two decades ago had fought a war to overthrow their grandfather and with him the entire House Targaryen. Stannis Baratheon with his donkey of a woman sat at the table, not far from Lord Hoster Tully's eldest son and heir Edmure, who with his stupid face looked as out of place as an elk in a henhouse. She saw representatives of the houses Glover and Reed, Corbray and Waynwood, Frey and Royce and of course the Starks almost in the middle of the whole bunch. Luckily, the horse face wasn't there – maybe her father had finally possessed some sense and had grounded her for something, anything – because she surely would have been dirty as a wild dog and probably also smelled like one. But of course the older sister shone out of the crowd with her auburn mane and her big blue eyes. She was once again dressed like a septa, her gaze down as if in prayer and only now and then she glanced furtively at her brother.

Her father's speech went on for quite a while, but Rhaenys did not really listen. He said something about the importance of solidarity and a united realm. It reassured her to see though that none of the guests seemed to be shocked or surprised by what her father was saying. So whatever it was he was talking about, at least seemed appropriate. If there was anything she didn't want to experience today, then it was an unpleasant surprise because her father had another one of his moments. When he was finally finished, she smiled regally, raised her silver cup like everyone else and took a sip of wine. It was no longer as cold as she would have liked it, but it was light and sweet and easy to drink.

The courses of the meal were served then one by one; a milky soup made of herbs and leeks, which tasted unpleasantly like rancid cheese, goose stuffed with fruit in a light sauce, baked rabbit with onions and mushrooms and small pies of singing birds filled with nuts. At the end there were hot cakes fresh from the oven, which were doused directly on the tables with a thick sauce made of honey and red wine. There wasn’t much talking during dinner. Here and there some of the guests asked polite questions about father's health or the health of Queen Elia, about boring things like new trade contracts with the Free Cities or whether more money would be invested in the expansion of the merchant fleet or the maintenance of the war fleet. Only Lord Reed's question about the future of Dragon Shield briefly caused big eyes among the guests and a sour look from her father. But Lord Stark's apology for this remark of his bannerman was immediately followed by the usual, boring chatter that was common on such evenings.

If there was at least a dance afterwards.

The evening was almost over and Rhaenys was looking forward to finally go to bed. She and Aegon had had a lovely evening at least, had eaten and drunk well most of the time, and had made delightful jokes about the tense faces of most of the guests whenever their father had started a longer monologue. Probably everyone here had been afraid that he would pull some mean thing out of his sleeve to further punish or humiliate the former rebels even twenty years after the end of the war. Nothing like that had happened however and so the evening had been remarkably harmonious. As was clearly seen, the first guests were already making themselves ready to leave and were about to thank their father for the evening and then disappear when the king rose once more.

Immediately, all conversations died away and all eyes lay tense with anticipation on her father’s lips.

"Lords and ladies, before this wonderful evening ends, I have an announcement to make."

Oh, here it comes.

"As we all know, our trusted advisor and long-serving Master of Coin, Lord Ardrian Celtigar, came to an untimely end a few weeks ago."

Well, the man was already in his seventies. Not exactly what one would call untimely. Most people will hardly miss the sour old crab anyway.

"But a realm cannot function permanently without a Master of Coin, and an empty seat on the Small Council, which remains vacant for too long, not only causes unrest but, if you believe my esteemed Lady Mother, also brings misfortune."

"It does. You'd better believe me, son," her grandmother interjected and at least on some of the faces a cautious smile could be seen. Others were probably only just beginning to realize that her father was about to appoint a new member of the Small Council and began to move excitedly back and forth in their chairs. Her father, who had not been able or willing to smile the least bit, finally went on.

"It is therefore with great pleasure that I announce that from the morrow, the position of Master of Coin will be filled by Lord Eddard Stark."

Rhaenys almost spit her wine over the table in shock. Aegon also seemed surprised for a moment, but quickly caught himself as befitted a future king and raised his cup to the health of the new Master of Coin. Most of the lords and ladies at the table expressed polite congratulations at best, whereas the former rebels all seemed to be seriously pleased. Only Lord Stark himself looked so shocked as if the king had just announced that he would banish him to the Wall.

He didn't know, Rhaenys thought and could not hold back a slightly amused grin.

Lord Stark stood up and Rhaenys could see it in his eyes that he was struggling with whether or not to refuse. She doubted however that this man, so taken by surprise and not really known for his ingenuity anyway, would be able to come up with an acceptable reason for a refusal so quickly.

"Your Grace, I thank you for this great honor."

Immediately he sank back into his seat. If there had ever been a weak acceptance speech, they had just listened to it. Involuntarily her grin widened a little bit more. Gloating was not something that suited a princess well, she knew, but at that moment she allowed herself this little nastiness. She simply trusted that the guests would see it as her happiness about this wonderful but surprising conclusion of the evening. She looked over at Aegon who was smiling as well towards the other side of the table. Quickly her gaze wandered over to the northern girl, who was also beaming all over her face.

Wait, so that means she'll be staying here permanently. Seven Hells.

Notes:

That was it. As always, feel free to let me know what you think, what I have done good or bad, what you liked and what not.

Thanks for reading. :-)

Chapter 8: Eddard 3

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is ready. We will see Ned in his first meeting of the Small Council and how he starts to unterstand his new duties as Master of Coin. After that we have yet another very small celebration - and Ned is as unhappy about it as your all probably are by now ;-)

He sat on the table in his rooms, staring at a blank piece of paper. At the first evening in King’s Landing, he had written a letter to Cat, telling her about their journey and their arrival in the capital, how they had had good winds, about his short meeting with the Queen Mother and of course about how much he already missed her and Robb and Rickon. Some days later and surely long before the first letter had even arrived in Winterfell, he had written another one, telling her again how much he missed her and that he would be all too happy to be back at Winterfell with her as soon as possible. Now he was sitting there again, quill in hand and wanted to write his third letter to his wife.

He had already stared at the blank page for almost an hour, had started four letters but had always torn them to pieces again after the first few lines. How was he supposed to tell her that he would not be coming back to her? Not in the foreseeable future at least.

The doors of his chambers were thick and heavy, made of old oak similar to the doors in Winterfell and yet he could clearly hear the giggling of Sansa and Jeyne in the next room. He heard them talking about how they would really be living at court from now on, about the countless feasts and dances and tourneys that were still to come and the knights and lords who would regularly compete for their favor and would want to dance with them. To his displeasure however he also heard Sansa say how no man would ever be able to compete with Aegon – again not with the Crown Prince or with Prince Aegon but simply with Aegon – and how she would probably never want to dance with anyone else again. The king could probably not have made the two of them any happier even if he had wanted to, but as much as he tried to be happy for his daughter, he did not succeed. He felt terrible. Terrible, because he did not want to be here. Terrible, because he did not want to stay here. Terrible, because he did not know how he was going to tell Catelyn of all this. And of course terrible for his daughter, who would sooner or later experience a bitter disappointment when it came to Aegon.

Prince Aegon, he reminded himself.

The capital even had his other daughter firmly in its claws by now. After some restless days and minor difficulties, Ned was sure that Arya would never want to leave King's Landing again. At first she had been bored, as she had not interested in the least in feasts or dances or meetings with other ladies of her age or even the Queen Mother for that matter, so she had looked for her own activities. Ned didn't know exactly what Arya had been up to – Septa Mordane had tried her best but had never been able to keep her under control for more than a few hours a day – but every evening she had returned to her rooms dirty and hungry like a young wolf.

Now things were different. Prince Aegon had indeed kept his promise. In the wake of this day, when Arya had still been fast asleep, Prince Lewyn in his white shining armor had suddenly appeared at the door of their rooms. At the request of the Crown Prince he had offered to give dancing lessons to Arya, because Prince Aegon believed that the somewhat unconventional Dornish dances would suit such an impulsive child much better than the common courtly dances that were practiced in the rest of the realm. As if the hint wasn't already clear enough, Prince Lewyn had carried two small wooden practice swords in his belt very visibly.

At first he had not known how to respond. Arya could be difficult enough as she was but allowing her to learn how to wield a sword would certainly not make her any easier to control. On the other hand, may that was exactly what she needed. She would never be a proper lady, no matter how much Catelyn wished for it and how often Septa Mordane admonished her. There had been enough women in his family to prove this. For a moment he had to think of Lyanna and he got sad. His sister had also loved to wield a sword, to ride out, to hunt and to do all those things that the ladies from the South probably just turned up their noses at. Arya was so much like Lyanna. The thought was silly, but it comforted him to know that Prince Aegon at least had no interest in Arya whatsoever which would even be slightly comparable to his how father's interest in Lyanna had been.

Sansa, on the other hand...

After a brief hesitation, he decided to invite Prince Lewyn in and to wake Arya. At first she had fought back with hands and feet, but after whispering into her ear why Prince Lewyn was waiting for her in the next room, she had jumped out of bed and into her clothes as quickly as he had not thought it possible for her. She had given him a short kiss and then, without breakfast, had disappeared out the door at the knight's side. So now his younger daughter received lessons in sword fighting. Another thing he had no idea how to tell Cat.

He decided to deal with it later. After a short breakfast with Sansa and Jeyne, who didn't stop babbling and cackling even for a moment, he finally left their rooms. Today before noon would be his first meeting of the Small Council. Whatever he might think of his new role, he did not want to be there too late. Unfortunately, he had to admit to himself that he had no idea what he was actually supposed to do there. Or as a new Master of Coin in general. Yesterday, after dinner with the king, when he had digested the first shock, Grandmaester Pycelle had already briefly informed him about his new obligations.

At the end of the day, however, he still had little experience in dealing with money. Certainly, as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, he had been responsible for the finances of the North, but many of the tasks such as bookkeeping and collecting taxes had been done for him by others in Winterfell. In addition, the finances of the North had always been quite stable but also quite manageable. Now, however, he should not only take care of the finances of the king but of the whole realm.

He would have to meet with the King's Counter and the Keepers of the Keys in the coming days, that much he already knew. Traditionally, a new Master of Coin would fill these positions within his first year with men he trusted most. But it was hard for him to express his mistrust to the men who already had these tasks without even knowing them. Apart from that, he didn't know where to find new, trustworthy men for these posts here at King's Landing. But what probably caused him even more discomfort was the fact that without meaning to, he was already thinking about what he would do in King's Landing in a year's time, although he had originally hoped to be back home within a few months.

As he walked through the Red Keep towards the Council Chamber, he thought about what was to come. Maybe this assignment wouldn't be so bad after all. As much as he would have liked to turn around and go straight back to Winterfell, it would certainly be advantageous to be in such a position. He may not be the Hand of the King - the old and new gods may save him from such things - but it was a position of authority and power. There was no doubt about it. And in the end this could be helpful for his family and last but not least for the entire North. He would have influence at court, perhaps even on the king himself.

A year or two of good service, then he might be able to talk to King Rhaegar about Dragon Shield. He had thought about that last night already, just as so many nights before that and just as every other night, the whole situation had caused him pain in his guts. After the war, the newly crowned King Rhaegar had the ruins of the old fortress of Moat Cailin completely razed to the ground. In its place, a completely new fortress had been built by royal decree and with vast amounts of gold from King's Landing, but this new fortress no longer secured the Neck towards the South, but towards the North. The surrounding lands from one coast to the other had been declared crown dependencies by the king, and the new fortress had been equipped with a garrison two thousand strong, whose soldiers were recruited from the Crownlands alone, and who were solely and exclusively sworn to the Iron Throne.

King Rhaegar had called this fortress Dragon Shield, but in the North it was known only as The Strangler. This way, the Iron Throne was now in control of if and when an army from the North would ever again cross the Neck southwards, while the Crown could march into the North at any time and without hindrance.

Almost ten years ago, after the completion of the fortress, Ned had visited it at the king's request. A willful humiliation, no doubt. At that time he had been allowed to admire and praise the newly built fortress, which from that moment on would rob the North of one of its most important possibilities for self-protection from southern aggression. Although Greywater Watch, located south of the Strangler, was still owned by the Reeds, they raised so few men in wartime that King Rhaegar had probably not considered them a threat to begin with. Another humiliation, but this time for his friend Howland.

But maybe, yes, maybe this would be his chance to make some of the things right again. It was unlikely that the king would simply undo everything of course. Too much blood had been shed during the rebellion, too many people had been killed, too much damage had been done and, last but not least, too much money had been spent for the construction of this fortress to simply tear it down again after some years or hand it over to the Warden of the North, for putting him in chains had been the very reason for its construction. Only a fool would believe otherwise.

He had just finished his thoughts when he arrived at the Council Chamber. Two Gold Cloaks stood guard, opened the door for him and closed it immediately behind him again once he had entered the room. He stepped in and found the Small Council already complete as far as he could tell. At the head of the table sat the Lord Hand Jon Connington, who eyed him with a disparaging look as he approached the table. Around the table sat Grandmaester Pycelle, the Master of Ships Lord Velaryon, the Master of Laws Lord Tyrell and of course the Lord Commander of Kingsguard Gerold Hightower. Additionally, Ser Richard Lonmouth and Ser Myles Mooton, who held no official titles but were part of the Small Council as royal advisers, were also seated at the table. He had already learned that the Master of Whisperers, Prince Oberyn Martell, was not present as he had insisted on personally escorting his sister Queen Elia from Sunspear to King's Landing for the celebrations of Prince Aegon's twentieth name day. Ned sat down and was happy to see that everyone present, except Lord Connington, nodded and smiled friendly at him.

"You finally got here," said Jon Connington.

"I apologize if I'm late."

"You're not," said Ser Richard with a wry grin. "Don’t worry, my lord. Connington's just trying to make it clear that he's in charge."

"Can we finally get on with it, then?", ask the Lord Hand in an annoyed tone. Everyone nodded approvingly, but just as Lord Connington was about to start speaking, the Gold Cloaks opened the door again and Prince Aegon entered. He smiled all over his face as usual and walked towards the head of the table as if it was a matter of course. Ned could have sworn that Jon Connington's face had darkened a little more when the Prince came in. Then again, he wasn't sure if that was even possible.

The Prince stopped beside Lord Connington at the head of the table and looked at him expectantly. It took a moment for him to reluctantly rise from his seat. Pycelle, the Lords Velaryon and Tyrell and Ser Richard at the right side of the table also rose now to move up a seat. The Prince then sat down and took his place at the head of the table, Connington now on his right.

"My prince, I am surprised to see you here," Ned said, hoping that he sounded friendly rather than critical.

"The King has allowed it," said Connington, but fell silent when Aegon looked at him questioningly.

"What the Lord Hand meant to say was that I am here with my father's permission and at his explicit request."

"So," Lord Connington started again. "Now that all pleasantries have been exchanged, we can finally get started. The king has ordered new residences to be built outside the northern city wall."

"Residences for whom?" Ser Gerold asked.

"For more guests from Essos. The Red Keep and the city are already overflowing and His Grace expects to welcome even more families from Volantis and Lys to present their daughters to Prince Viserys."

"This is not going to be cheap. The nobility of Essos will hardly want to stay in wooden barracks," said Ser Richard. "So we'll have to build stone houses, roads, new wells, almost a whole new city outside the city."

"The many feasts and banquets that our most valued guests can enjoy are also slowly becoming an issue. It is getting more and more difficult to find new musicians and jugglers who have not already performed half a dozen times at the Red Keep for them, I fear. From what I have heard, some of the nobles are increasingly dissatisfied with their accommodation and the entertainment. They are pushing to be allowed to open small, private fighting pits in King’s Landing. We can only hope that the upcoming tourney will put their minds at ease a little bit," said Ser Myles, who made no secret of the fact that he obviously would rather see these guests leave today than tomorrow.

"We can only hope that the prince in his wisdom will soon come to a decision," Pycelle said. "There's trouble enough in the city with the honored guests from the Free Cities as it is. Especially with the High Septon and the Faith, since some of the nobles have begun walking the streets with their slaves openly."

"Slavery in Westeros?" Ned asked horrified. "This is unacceptable! The king must intervene."

"There is no slavery in Westeros," Connington said in an annoyed tone as if he had had this discussion several times already. "And the king is very aware of the situation. The King has decreed that our honored guests are free to follow their customs unmolestedly as long as they stay here at the king's invitation and under the protection of the Crown. But of course there is no slavery in Westeros and the king has made our guests aware of that already. These people are no slaves as long as they have their feet on the king's ground. If they still put up with being treated that way, it's not our problem. That should be enough of an explanation for the Faith."

Ned was stunned how all the members of the Small Council seemed to accept this situation. He wanted to protest again but did not know what exactly to say to that. From the way Connington had glanced at him, this discussion did indeed seem to have been held several times. Connington ordered some papers and then started talking again.

"Grandmaester, have some architects from the Citadel brought here. The planning and the construction of the new quarter shall begin as soon as possible."

"Of course, Lord Hand."

"The weather is troubling us," Lord Connington continued, changing the subject. "The heat is getting worse and worse. In the Crownlands, the Stormlands and Dorne, the harvest was once again poor. So food supplies in the capital are once again running low."

"That won't be a problem," Lord Tyrell interjected. "As usual, the harvest in the Reach has been plentiful. We'll be sending supplies to the capital immediately."

"Provided those supplies don't get snatched away from under your nose again," Ser Myles said. "We need to start taking this problem seriously."

"We have no problem," snapped Connington.

"We don't? How many supplies have been sent out from the Reach and how many did we actually receive? Food is running out and the celebrations in honor of the Prince will use up even more of it."  Obviously Ser Myles wasn't willing to back down. Ned had tried to follow the conversation as best as he could but, as short as it merely was, was already lost.

“How can low food supplies not be a problem for such a huge city?”, he asked. Lord Connington looked at him like a child who had just asked why he could not eat yellow snow. He was grateful it was Ser Myles who answered him.

"The stocks in the capital are low, but not yet critical. The problem is that new supplies are not even arriving. About half of all deliveries have been stolen from us so far."

"Stolen? By whom?"

"A man who calls himself the Smiling Knight. He's got a band of brigands and bandits surrounding him and is roaming through the Kingswood."

The Smiling Knight. Ned knew that name, but before he could ask, Ser Myles went on.

"Of course, it's not the Smiling Knight of old. Ser Arthur Dayne had kindly taken care of that one long ago."

"Perhaps a son?" Lord Tyrell asked.

"Perhaps. It doesn't really matter though, does it? He's a bandit and he's hurting us. Why he calls himself what he does, doesn't really interest me. If we should catch him alive, you are welcome to ask him before we hang him," Ser Richard interjected. Connington did not seem convinced.

"A filthy band of brigands in the woods is hardly an issue for the Small Council. Lord Tyrell is sending more supplies, with adequate guard, I assume. And we can still buy supplies from the Free Cities if necessary."

"We'll have to make haste with that." All their heads now turned to Lord Velaryon. "If the heat gets any worse, the Blackwater won't hold enough water for the heavy trading ships from Essos. It's already dangerously low. We can't even take our war fleet out of port without half of them running aground."

"Then send word directly to Pentos, Tyrosh and Myr. These cities are the fastest to reach, and by all reports, their storehouses are full. Lord Stark, how much gold can we provide to buy this food?" Lord Connington asked with a challenging look.

"I don't know that yet. I didn't have time-"

"Then you'd better tell me how much money you expect to spend and how much income you will get from the upcoming festivities," Connington interrupted him. "That would be important to know so we can plan how much gold we can send to Essos."

"Unfortunately, I do not know that either yet."

"Have you not looked into your books? Surely you have been shown the Master of Coin's chamber already, have you not?"

"Yes, but that was very late last night after the dinner with the King, and this morning I came straight here after I got up, so-"

"If I were you, I'd just get up a little earlier then. How can we plan ahead if we don't know how much gold we-"

"Don't be silly," Prince Aegon interrupted him. "Lord Stark just holds this position since last night and the royal treasuries are overflowing. What exactly is he supposed to tell you now, Lord Connington, except that there's plenty of gold?"

Lord Velaryon, Ser Richard, and Ser Myles slightly began to smirk, while Grandmaester Pycelle and Lord Tyrell didn't seem to know what to make of all this. Only Lord Connington looked at Prince Aegon so scowling as if he wanted to twist his neck right now.

"Don't worry, Lord Stark," Prince Aegon continued. "It took Lord Celtigar almost a full year to learn about the finances of the state back when he was the new Master of Coin as I have been told numerous times. No one in their right mind expects you to do it overnight. And until you get the hang of it, just trust that gold is the least of our problems."

"Thank you, my prince," Ned said, genuinely grateful.

"We should just skip all this fuss. That would be the easiest thing to do," grumbled Lord Connington.

"The festivities are being held in the manner and to the extent my father wishes, Lord Connington. But please do go to him and tell him that his heir's twentieth name day cannot be celebrated because the turnip harvest was not so good this year."

"The easiest thing would be to finally take care of this self-proclaimed Smiling Knight," said Ser Myles.

"I agree," said Ned, who felt he had to contribute something. "All justice flows from the King, and that such a band of outlaws is roaming the Kingswood of all places should not be tolerated by the Crown. Can't the King just send a band of knights to deal with this problem?"

"The King is engaged in larger, more important matters. Matters that will shape the future of the entire kingdom, perhaps even the world. Do you honestly think I'm going to stand before this man and weep in his ears over a gang of brigands and rapists?" Connington's face had become almost as red as his beard. "You'd do better counting coins than wasting our time here, Stark. After all, that's what the King has given you this most honorable position for."

"If that's so…" Prince Aegon threw in, smirking all over his face. "They say when the King shits, the Hand wipes him clean. When was the last time you wiped my father's arse, Lord Connington? After all, that's what my father has put you on this most honorable position for."

Ser Myles and Ser Richard could not hold on to themselves and started laughing out loud. Lord Tyrell looked a bit shocked, as if he hadn't expected the prince to know such words at all and the Grandmaester again seemed to have failed to understand what was happening at all. Ned almost expected Lord Connington to draw a sword every moment before he finally declared the meeting to be over, since there was obviously nothing more to discuss and then left the room in a hurry.

The others also left the room until only Ned and Prince Aegon remained. The Prince looked at Ned for a while without saying a word and Ned was unsure if he expected him to say anything first. Before he knew what to say however, the prince stood up. But instead of going to the door he went over to one of the big windows in front of which a small table with fruits and bread and wine was set up. He filled two silver cups, came back to the table, and handed one of them to Ned.

"I wanted to congratulate you on the honor of your new position, my lord."

"Thank you, my prince. A great honor indeed," Ned said.

"An honor you would rather have waived, I suppose. Don't look so surprised. Anyone with two good eyes could see how cold my father caught you last night. Well, I suppose even one eye would have been enough for that. A blind one."

Both drank their wine in silence for a while, red and sweet and heavy, before Ned began to speak again.

"I wanted also to thank you for your support earlier. But I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me, my prince."

"I wouldn't worry about that, my lord. Connington is, as much as I hate to admit it, actually a good Hand of the King. But he sometimes behaves as badly as a pair of open trousers in a brothel. He sees something he likes or hates and then there is no stopping him. He simply needs to be put in his place a bit from time to time. And besides," the prince said with a grin. "I love driving him up the wall. As children, Daeron and I used to make the occasional bet as to who would succeed in setting him on fire first. And as red as his face was a moment ago, it seemed like I was close to winning."

"Who would have thought that our Crown Prince could be such a sadist?"

"Only to people who deserve it."

Both laughed at that and then drank their wine together in silence. After that, Ned stood up, said his goodbyes slightly bowing to the prince and left the chamber. Connington may have behaved appallingly, but he was correct as he had to admit. Ned was Master of Coin now, and as such, he had responsibilities. No matter how much he would have preferred to return to his rooms to look for the girls or to find Arya to see what exactly Prince Lewyn was teaching her, he now had obligations.

But sitting in a dark chamber and reading books with seemingly endless rows of numbers was not to his taste at the moment. So he decided to ride into the city instead and visit the royal mint of King’s Landing. He picked up Howland Reed from his own chambers, sent him out to get some guards – of course he could have ordered some Gold Cloaks to accompany him, but somehow he preferred to have Norsemen at his side – and went out into the courtyard to the stables. Shortly afterwards, Howland appeared with a dozen men in leather and steel, who apparently endured the hot weather even worse than Ned and Howland. They sat up and rode out into the city.

Upon leaving the Red Keep, he quickly asked one of the Gold Cloaks in front of the gate where the royal mint was actually located in King's Landing. He felt a bit stupid leaving the Red Keep on horseback without even knowing where he was supposed to go. But now it had happened and thankfully the soldier didn't seem to think much of it when he explained the way to Ned. The soldier told him to ride towards the Gate of the Gods first. But he was to turn left halfway, shortly after the turnoff that led to the Great Sept. He would pass a number of smithies and stables, cross a small market and immediately after that turn right into a curvy alley with birch trees on both sides. There he would find the mint on the left side. Or on the right side, but probably on the left side. As soon as he would reach the crossing with the tanners' street, he would have gone too far in any case.

The description sounded feasible enough, but as soon as they had left the Red Keep and had dipped into the maze of streets at the foot of Aegon's High Hill, Ned had quickly lost his orientation. It was hard for him to find anything in this maze of streets and alleys, small and large squares, septs and shops, crowds and processions. The fact that the city was bursting at the seams with people due to the upcoming tourney certainly did not make things easier. Baelor's Sept had been easy to find, as the marble dome and the seven crystal towers could be seen from almost any place in the city. From there, however, neither Ned nor his companions were sure which way they had to go now. They finally decided more randomly than knowingly on a direction and, to cool off, took the shady path through the large gardens surrounding the Sept. In the end it took them over two hours to reach the mint, although Ned had hoped, based on the soldier's description, that it would take no more than the better part of one hour.

The mint was a rather low building with an unnecessarily wide looking bronze gate, surrounded by a stone wall as high as a man. A dozen Gold Cloaks stood guard at the entrance and chased away anyone who seemed to approach the building too closely. They had even built a nest for four crossbowmen on the roof of the mint, making the house look like a tiny fortress. Because that's exactly what it was, Ned reminded himself. When the Gold Cloaks saw him coming, they looked nervous at first. But when the Commander recognized Ned, he quickly barked orders and immediately the way to the entrance was cleared of people for him.

One side of the gate was opened and a tall, slim, middle-aged man with shoulder-length, red-blond hair stepped out of the building onto the street. He had a small chin beard, according to the imported fashion dyed in blue, which made him look more like a jester than a master craftsman. Around his neck he was wearing a massive gold chain, which stood out clearly from his expensive, colorful clothes, shining in the bright light of the day. Dangling from it was the large royal badge with which he could identify himself as a master of mintage.

"Lord Stark, it is my pleasure to welcome the new Master of Coin here."

Ned was surprised that man already knew who he was. Catelyn has no idea of my new position yet, but apparently the whole rest of the realm does, Ned thought bitterly. He had no idea what this man's name was, so he just nodded in greeting.

"I did not expect an inspection of the mint today, but it would be my pleasure to show it to you, my lord."

Ned had not intended to actually inspect the mint – if only because he didn't really know what he was supposed to be looking at in the first place – so the man who introduced himself as Botho Mans simply offered to showed him around. Ned agreed and Mans led him through the building, showed him the stored supplies of copper, silver and some gold and asked if Ned would like to inspect the books to make sure the quantities were right. Ned refused but assured him that he would come back some other time for this. He was led further through the building to the small smithy where a total of six workers, under the constant supervision of a number of soldiers, casted the blanks from the metals. After walking through several doors, again secured by soldiers, they finally reached a small chamber with four anvils. Each anvil had a recess into which – as Mans explained to him – first the negative of one side of the desired coin was inserted, then a blank and then the negative of the other side was placed, until a pestle was used to stamp the images on both sides of the new coin with a few firm hammer blows.

Ned found the making of the coins pretty interesting actually but did not really know what to ask or do. So he thanked Botho Mans for his time and said his goodbyes to return to the Red Keep. The way back would surely be easier to find than the way there. He had hardly left the building when he saw that another man had joined Howland Reed and his soldiers. He came closer and was about to ask who it was, when the man already bowed to Ned and introduced himself.

"My Lord, Lorgan Warth is my name. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you, but who exactly are you?"

"I'm in the grateful position of being called the King's Scale and, if I may be so bold, hope to continue to do so under the new Master of Coin."

The King’s Scale. Another one of his new duties he had no real idea of.

"And how did you know you'd find me here?"

"I did not, my lord. It was pure luck. I was on my way to the tourney grounds and happened to be passing by when I saw your men standing here. Would you perhaps do me the honor to ride with me to the tourney grounds and make the final inspections before the spectacle will begin tomorrow?"

Actually, Ned couldn't have been less keen. But that way, if Lord Connington should ask him again, he could at least answer what he had done in his new position, other than avoiding to inspect the books and look at how a few coins had been hammered.

"What exactly is there to inspect?" Ned asked as they had just left town through the Lion Gate. An almost unfathomable sea of tents and small stands and wagons, flown through by a crowd of peasants and merchants and knights had formed outside the walls of the city and took Ned's whole view. A city outside the city, only surmounted by the enormous wooden grandstands in the middle, inside of which the spectacle would begin tomorrow. Parts of this new city were obviously the camps of the knights and lords, who either could not be accommodated in the Red Keep due to lack of space or who were too low-born to even be considered. Other parts were wooden stalls and attached storages on guarded wagons. Everywhere flags were festively flying in the wind, proudly showing the coats of arms of smaller and larger houses from all over the realm. He was happy to also find at least some banners from northern Houses here. The most common coat of arms, however, was the three-headed dragon, red on black, which had been hung by order of the king not only along all four sides of the grandstands but also on poles along the sides of the widest paths towards the grandstands.

Lorgan Warth explained to him that at the moment the main task of the King's Scale was to check the measurements and weights that the traders would use for their sales. For the time of the celebrations extended market rights would apply on the tourney grounds. So if one bought three feet of fabric, one should also get three feet and not two and a half. If one bought a cask of beer or wine, the cask should neither be smaller nor narrower than the cask sold next door. However, he had already inspected most of it, so only a few merchants remained, but Ned was of course welcome to join him if he was interested. So Ned followed him through the maze of tents and booths and watched him ask for the weights and measures and compare them to counterparts he had brought with him. They had already inspected five merchants without complaint when Ned decided to return to the Red Keep finally.

"Well, everything seems to be looking very good. No scammers so far, it seems," Ned said, in the hope of saying goodbye with it.

That seemed to amuse the man.

"Oh, plenty. But they're smart enough not to get caught so easily."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, almost all merchants carry two sets of weights, if not more. One they're only too happy to show when inspected and at least one more for the actual sale, swindling the buyers."

"Then something must be done about that," Ned said decidedly.

"You're welcome to try, my lord. But I doubt you'll have much luck with that. If I may be completely honest, my actual purpose is not really to prevent fraud but to remind the scammers that they are under observation, so that they do not make their swindles too obvious. If we were to lock up all scamming merchants or send them to the Wall, the North wouldn't have much to worry about wildlings attacking anymore for sure, but there would probably be not a single free merchant left in the Seven Kingdoms."

"So these deals are just tolerated?"

"Small scams and plenty of taxes are better for the crown than no scams and no taxes, my lord."

He hadn't intended to directly replace the men who were now working for him, but a King's Scale who so easily overlooked swindles and fraud, he actually preferred not to keep. On the other hand, he had to admit to himself that the man's logic, as cynical as it may have been, was difficult to refute. He decided not to burden himself with it now and so Ned briefly said his goodbyes to the man, thanked him for his time and then headed back to the city and the Red Keep. Howland Reed and four of his men were still following him as he crossed the city on horseback and finally arrived at the Red Keep. The others must have been lost either in the confusion on the tourney grounds or in the confusion in the streets of the city.

The day had already advanced and Ned still had to wash and change. The King had sent a messenger yesterday after dinner to inform him that on the last evening before the start of the tourney he would like to give yet another little celebration. This time to celebrate Ned's new position as part of the Small Council. For a man who had supposedly lost all interest in feasts and celebrations, the King arranged a hell of a lot of them within a few days. Sansa and Jeyne would both attend, while Arya had already told him that she didn’t want to go. And since he himself didn't really feel like it either, but it was impossible for him to refuse, he at least let his daughter have her way and decided not to force her.

He entered his chambers and the first thing he did was take off his heavy boots. He had spent half the day on horseback, yet his feet were aching for whatever reason. For a while he just sat on the bed until he finally pulled himself up, took off the rest of his clothes and washed himself completely in the bowl next to the window. The weather had become hotter still and even though the water in the bowl wasn't really cold, it still refreshed him. Then he chose the clothes for the evening and decided to wear a grey doublet with a discreet light grey wolf on the left breast. In addition, he put on a black trousers and boots of soft leather to do something good for his aching feet.

He left his room and went to Sansa's chambers. After a short knock he was invited in by the voice of his daughter and found Sansa and Jeyne both already fully clothed. There was no trace of Arya but he could not worry about her now. In the end, she could hardly be any better protected than in the presence of a Kingsguard knight. Jeyne wore a light blue dress with white applications representing wolves and falcons. It was a beautiful dress that undoubtedly suited Jeyne well, but to display the heraldic animals of two of the four formerly rebellious Houses was still a strange choice even two decades after the end of the rebellion. Ned, however, did not believe that Jeyne had consciously made this decision and simply hoped that the other guests of the evening would see it the same way.

Sansa wore a dress in light grey that fortunately matched the color of his doublet perfectly. It showed small hunting scenes in red and green, which were artfully worked. Ned had no doubt that Sansa had embroidered them all herself. She had artfully braided her hair into a small tower that was held in shape by thin threads of red and green. She looked lovely.

Together they left their rooms and headed towards the Queen's Ballroom, where the small celebration was to take place. The Ballroom was decorated with richly carved paneling and silver hammered mirrors that spectacularly reflected the glare of the torches placed in iron brackets on the walls. About forty people were present, the hall was not quite half full. To Ned's surprise however, there were no tables and no chairs, only a small dais at the end of the hall on which musicians had already taken their seats and were quietly playing a tune that Ned could not really hear. They went in and were announced by the herald at the door, but in a much lower tone than last in the Throne Room. Ned recognized the members of the Small Council and their immediate families, as far as he had seen them before. Most nodded at him in a friendly manner, some looked at the three rather skeptically. On the left side of the hall stood Jon Connington, without a family around him and with only a few other guests who looked more like they wanted something from him. Once again he could not bring a smile to his face and only gave Ned a short nod and a dark look.

Most other lords and ladies were unknown to him. About half of the people present, however, did not seem to be lords and ladies at all. He saw fancy, colorful clothes in Myric and Pentosi style, hair and beards coiffed into wild horns and dyed in all colors of the rainbow. They were obviously rich merchants and noblemen from the Free Cities, who conversed animatedly in different dialects of Valyrian and did not pay any attention to Ned at all. He doubted that they knew or cared who he was.

It was only a few moments before some of the other guests came to Ned to congratulate him on his new position. He thanked them in as honest a tone as he could, even though every single word of thanks felt like a lie. Sansa and Jeyne stepped aside to make room for the congratulators and it didn't take long, as he could see, for his daughter and Jeyne to be surrounded by young men competing for their favors and attention, both young knights and lords as well as Essosi guests. It took quite a while before the crowd lessened and he got some air again. The king was still nowhere to be seen, nor the princes Aegon and Daeron or Princess Rhaenys. In fact, he was not even really sure if the king's children would be there at all.

He noticed servants running around with trays between the guests, handing out small pieces of food so tiny that you could devour them with a bite or two and almost just as tiny cups of wine. Lord Tyrell approached him, who had obviously noticed his questioning gaze.

"A new custom imported by His Grace from the Free Cities. No great banquet, just little pieces of food stuffed into your mouth with your bare fingers as you pass by. For thinking they are so civilized, the Essosi often behave remarkably like savages, don’t you think?"

He took a cup of wine and two pieces of food from one of the trays that were almost literally flying past, which immediately disappeared in his mouth; small pastries filled with fish and creamy cheese, as he found out while chewing. Lord Tyrell might think him a savage now too, but his hunger was greater than his shame.

"What's going to happen now?"

"Well," Lord Tyrell said. "We'll eat and drink ridiculously little, then at some point the King will say a few words and then there will be dancing. And from what I see, your daughter has no shortage of suitors for tonight."

Ned wanted to look for his daughter but before he could spot her or could answer to Lord Tyrell, he heard the herald's voice and immediately all voices fell silent along with the music. The King was announced, along with his sons and his daughter. King Rhaegar wore a precious red doublet of silk and linen with matching red trousers and a heavy golden chain with dragon heads, whose eyes seemed to be made of ruby splinters. But as regal as his clothes looked, in his face one could see exhaustion and – as far as Ned could tell – even disgust. He didn't really want to be here himself, but as much as he wished he could just lie down to sleep in his chambers, the king himself seemed to want to be here a hundred times less.

The whole thing was his idea.

Behind him followed the princes, both dressed in noble combinations of red and black, also made of silk and fine linen. Aegon smiled broadly, openly and friendly as he always did, leading his sister on his arm who wore a wonderful dress perfectly matching her brothers’ clothing in color and fabric. Daeron however looked almost grouchy. It didn't escape him how quickly the attention of his daughter and her friend broke away from the men surrounding her and rested solely on the royal children who followed their father.

The king crossed the hall without paying attention to any of the guests and climbed a small step up to the dais. The princes stopped in front of it and for a moment they looked as if they wanted to guard their father. Princess Rhaenys quickly took her place next to Aegon, clung to his arm and smiling happily and widely. The musicians bowed properly and made room for their monarch. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the king now, who looked as if he was thinking of leaving again immediately. King Rhaegar looked around the room and his eyes finally found Ned.

"Lords and ladies, I thank you all for your presence. We are here tonight to celebrate Lord Eddard Stark, who has graciously accepted the offered position as Master of Coin on the Small Council."

Offered position? Ned could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"As king, it is important to fill positions of power with good men. Loyal men. Men I can trust. And while I know that the trust of many lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms in one of the former leaders of the rebellion against their rightful King is not very strong, I can only say that I do fully place my trust in this man."

The king paused for a long moment and at first Ned was not sure if he wanted to continue speaking at all. Wouldn't there have been a way to congratulate him without dwelling on the rebellion again? Rhaegar knew better than most how it had come to all of this in the first place. And to talk about the rebellion against this rightful king as if it had been about something as trivial as power or gold, and not about the brutal killing of his father and his brother and a death threat of this very king against him and his best friend Robert Baratheon, made Ned feel downright sick. He was a member of the Small Council now. Sooner or later he would get the chance to talk to the King in private and he decided to tell him where he could stick the talk about the rebellion and this rightful king then. Rhaegar had won the war and had been crowned king, Ned and many others had bent the knee and had accepted that their side of the story would probably not end in the history books, but to twist the past in such a way was outrageous an insult not only on this special occasion. Finally, the king began to speak again.

"To Lord Stark, the new Master of Coin."

"To Lord Stark," the surrounding Westerosi tuned in raising their little cups to him, while most of the Essosi watched everything in silence.

"And to the king. Long may he reign," called Jon Connington from a corner of the room.

"Long may he reign," replied the crowd again, and this time he heard many of the Essosi as well.

The crowd had just fallen silent when the king left the dais, leaving the room through a small side door. For a moment, Ned was surprised. Even if he had wanted to, the king could probably not have expressed his disinterest in this evening more clearly. One more thing he would have to discuss with the king. He had not asked for the position of Master of Coin, nor for this celebration, but if he himself had had to endure both, the king would certainly have been able to hold out at least until after the first dance.

Lord Tyrell was still standing beside him, smiling all over his face, and now, despite his initially disparaging comments about this new custom, he had begun to take in rows of pieces from the passing trays. Ned was grateful the man at least didn't say anything. The music began to play again and the beginning conversations filled the room with an underlying murmur. Ned thought about how long he was expected to stay before he would be able to say goodbye. His eyes wandered over to Sansa and Jeyne. A stocky young man in green doublet stood next to Sansa and talked to his daughter, probably hoping to secure her first dance, while she seemed unable to take her eyes off Prince Aegon. The prince was still standing at the foot of the dais next to his sister, having a conversation with two Essosi. Here and there he heard the crystal clear laughter of Princess Rhaenys echoing through the room, filled with a few words of Valyrian, which Ned did not understand.

If there will be even more Essosi here at court in the future, I will have to learn that in the end. May the old gods protect me from that!

Jeyne's gaze apparently sought that of Prince Daeron, who stood next to his brother and still looked grim and brooding. The prince seemed to only half-heartedly want to participate in the conversation. His gaze wandered around, but never found that of Jeyne. For a moment, Ned wondered what was going on between them. He had noticed that Prince Daeron had always been extremely friendly with Jeyne. No doubt, Jeyne hoped that Prince Daeron would dance with her later, as he had done before. Judging by the expression on his face, however, he was not in the mood to dance at all. But before Ned could delve deeper into his thoughts, the herald already announced the opening of the dance by Prince Aegon and his sister Princess Rhaenys.

The dance floor of the ballroom was cleared and the prince and princess went to the center to wait for the music to start. Sansa and Jeyne came back at his side, greeted by a nod from Lord Tyrell whose mouth still seemed to be filled with pastries. Sansa and Jenye both nodded politely and smiled friendly. Sansa then stood right next to Ned and put her hand on his arm. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys had now taken their position in the middle of the dance floor and Ned couldn't help but notice how regal these two looked together. They looked like a younger version of their own parents, only so much livelier and full of energy.

He glanced briefly over to Sansa who had now fixed her gaze on the prince again. Jenye's gaze still hung on Prince Daeron, who stood on the edge of the room, completely uninvolved and who made no attempt to move away from there. Some young men, Westerosi and Essosi, came to Sansa and Jeyne and asked for the first dance after the prince and princess had finished, but were politely but firmly refused by both of them.

Sansa hopes that Aegon will ask her to dance, it went through his mind. But what is Jeyne waiting for?

Finally the music set in and Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys began to dance. Had they looked royal together before in their matching garments, this new image surpassed the previous one by far. They moved elegantly and in perfect harmony. Aegon smiled wonderfully while Rhaenys downright beamed at her brother.

"A marvelous couple, aren't they?" Lord Tyrell finally asked quietly from the side.

"Indeed."

"You’re wondering why the king hasn’t married the two yet, aren’t you? So many at court ask the very same thing, Lord Stark. The answer is of course known only to the king himself, but if you ask me, it's unlikely this will ever happen. If the king had wanted them to marry, it would have happened long ago already."

That might be true. It was strange that they were not yet betrothed, let alone married. Prince Aegon was old enough to have a wife for two or nearly three years now, and Princess Rhaenys was even almost two years older. He felt the grip of his daughter’s hand tighten around his arm for the time of a heartbeat.

"The king generally seems to have less and less interest in his children," Lord Tyrell continued whispering. "Some are already speculating that King Rhaegar's children may be the first generation of Targaryens to remain entirely unmarried. A tawdry joke, no doubt, but a concern that is spreading throughout the capital and the entire realm more and more. Well, at least the crown prince will hardly remain without a wife."

"You seem very sure of that, my lord."

"I am. I have suggested a possible union for his heir on several occasions to the king already and I know how to read His Grace's signals. I will offer the hand of my lovely Margaery to the King for Prince Aegon and His Grace will accept. Prince Aegon will take my daughter as his wife."

Ned gave a short groan as he felt his daughter's hand again, now seemingly clawing into his forearm like a bear trap. He glanced briefly over at her and recognized the shock on her face.

"Father," she said in a soundless voice without looking at him. "I do not feel well. I'd like to rest."

"Of course. If you prefer. But the dance-"

"I do not feel well," she said again as she let go of his arm and almost fled to the exit. He was sure that he had seen the tears coming to her eyes. Jenye stood there for a brief moment, looking back and forth between the vanishing Sansa and Prince Daeron, who still stood motionless in the corner of the room, before she followed his daughter out.

"Too bad Margaery cannot be here, but she has other obligations," Lord Tyrell continued undeterred. "Surely you could have seen Prince Aegon dance with her as well then. A couple at least as handsome as those two, I tell you."

Ned merely nodded in response, congratulated Lord Tyrell on his plan and then excused himself. He needed another drink. He knew Sansa would have to endure this disappointment. He had known it from the beginning. Yet he had banished the thought of that moment so far into the back of his mind that he was surprised and saddened to see his daughter like that after all.

He walked through the crowd surrounding the two dancers for a while and again had some of the guests congratulate him on his newly gained honor. Now some Essosi approached him as well, congratulating him in broken tongue. Apparently the foreign guests had finally learned who he was, what the reason for this whole celebration was and that from now on he held an important position at court. He accepted the congratulations, but did not stop anywhere long enough to be involved in a real conversation. The dance of the prince and princess was now over and more couples were now forming in the middle of the hall waiting for the next song. For a moment, he hoped to be able to exchange some word with either of the princes, but when he saw how many young ladies already surrounded both of them, he dismissed the idea. He drank two more small cups of the heavy wine that was regularly carried past him and observed the people around him.

After a while, nobody seemed to take much notice of him anymore. At any other celebration that would have been held in his honor, he would have taken it as an insult. But at that very moment he was more than happy about it. For a while he continued to watch the guests dance, before he finally decided to leave. He left the ballroom without anyone but the guards at the door taking notice. He passed through a small courtyard and noticed that it was apparently already quite late, even though he hadn't had the feeling of having been there for a long time. But the air was still warm and sticky. He hated it. He would have to wash himself again before he went to bed.

For a moment he thought about getting some cold wine in one of the kitchens to refresh himself, but then he decided against it. He had already drunk a few cups of the heavy wine at the celebration, however small they might have been. These would probably already give him a restless night. More wine would not do him much good. So instead he went directly back to the guest rooms. Outside Sansa's room he stopped for a moment and knocked gently on the door.

"Sansa, are you okay, sweetheart?"

It took a while for an answer to come.

"Yes, I'm fine. I just want to sleep now, Father."

He could hear in her voice she was crying. But he knew there was little he could do or say to ease the pain. Cat would know what to say now, he thought. He was glad that he could hear Jeyne's voice behind the door as well. At least Sansa wasn't alone.

He went back to his own rooms then, took off his boots again and sat down on the bed. A few servants had apparently been here during the course of the evening, had made his bed, cleaned his heavy boots from that morning and put them next to his closet in the corner of the room.

Gods, how he missed his home. He wished nothing more than that Cat was here now to go through all this together with him. He thought of her lying in his bed next to him now, waiting for him to come to her. He could have told her about his day, about how little he liked his new duties and that he still had no idea what might have moved the King to fill this position with him of all people. She would find words of encouragement for him and words of consolation for her daughter, would tell him that all would be well as long as the family would stick together. Then he would kiss her and they would love each other.

But Cat wasn't here. He didn't hear her voice, didn't feel her soft body under his hands and didn't look into her wonderful blue eyes when he would lie down on top of her. He was alone, in a room that wasn't his, in a city that wasn't his and had duties he didn't want to have. Still, he would get through this. Whatever he had to do and however long it took, he would do his duty and then one day – as soon as possible – return home with his daughters. To his wife, his other children, his home.

Now however, there was something else he had to do. So he stood up, walked over to the windows and sat down at his little desk. The light of the moon was poor, but he did not care. For a few moments he looked out of the window to collect himself and clear his mind. Then he grabbed the quill, dipped it into the small inkwell and finally began to write his third letter to Catelyn. He had a lot to report.

Notes:

That was it. Thanks for reading. As always, feel free to let me know what you think in the comments, what you liked or didn't like, what I could have done better and so on. :-)

The next chapter will again be from Rhaenys' perspective and that will be a chapter I am REALLY looking forward to write.

See you there (hopefully).

Chapter 9: Daeron 3

Summary:

The chapter begins with the welcoming of Queen Elia and Prince Oberyn in King's Landing. Daeron, Aegon and Oberyn will then do a short trip to the tourney grounds before the tourney will begin with the first joust. Then a short dance will follow after which Daeron will have to do "what's right".

Notes:

Hi all,

the next chapter is here. I know, I promised this chapter to be a Rhaenys-chapter, but I thought about how the things should unfold a little more and came to the conclusion to better change the order of some of the things slightly. That's why you get a new Daeron-chapter now. Hope you still like it :-)

Have fun.

The news that the Queen would arrive in time for the beginning of the tourney had reached them only yesterday late in the evening. Due to the very low level of the Blackwater, not even the flat Dornish coastal ships were still able to reach King's Landing without running aground. So the ship with Queen Elia and Prince Oberyn on board had only gone as far as Storm's End and from there the group had taken the arduous route north along the Kingsroad; an endeavor from which the Queen was supposed to be spared for the sake of her health.

The morning was still early and the air fortunately still somewhat fresh when a messenger had announced that the Queen and her retinue had been seen and would arrive at the King's Gate within the hour. A short time later almost everybody had already gathered in front of the King's Gate to welcome the Queen and Prince Oberyn. Daeron, Aegon and Rhaneys stood in the front row next to Grandmother Rhaella, while a number of lords and ladies, servants, knights and courtiers stood in the background and formed the scenery. Past the tourney grounds, in the morning light, one could finally see the Queen's carriage and a group of riders approaching the city.

"I can hardly wait," he heard Rhaenys whisper.

"We all do, sweetling. The capital has missed its queen," Grandmother Rhaella whispered back.

The first to arrive was Prince Oberyn. He rode a Dornish steed, smaller than the horses of the North but strong, agile and resilient. Just like Dorne itself, Daeron thought. Tall and slender as a spear, the prince swung himself from his horse with an almost dancing delicacy. It was not the first time Daeron wondered if Aegon might have inherited his elegance from his mother's side rather than from their father. His serious look disappeared the moment he saw his family and a broad, warm smile took its place. Immediately he approached them and gave Aegon and Rhaenys a hearty embrace, obviously without giving half a thought to etiquette. Both returned the hug and seemed to be unwilling to let go of their uncle. Oberyn then turned to Grandmother Rhaella and knelt down. She laughed heartily, pulled him back on his feet and embraced him in a warm embrace as well.

"It is good to see you, Oberyn," she said smiling as she embraced his face with her hands.

At the end he turned to Daeron, whom he also embraced, even if somewhat hesitantly. Daeron had never been as close to the Dornish as Aegon and Rhaenys. A situation for which nobody was really to blame. After the death of his mother in childbed, Queen Elia had raised him as her own son. Of course, they were not related by blood, yet Elia was Daeron's mother in all but blood. To her family however, he was a constant reminder of what Rhaegar had done to his wife, whether out of lust or serious conviction. He had always held Oberyn in high esteem for at least trying to treat him in the same way and to be as close to him as he had always been to Aegon and Rhaenys, even if he might not have always succeeded.

Aegon and Oberyn exchanged a few words about the coming tourney and Aegon's chances of winning the jousting when the Queen's carriage finally arrived. It stopped right in front of them and a soldier jumped to its side to quickly open the door. Queen Elia slowly and gracefully got out of the carriage and immediately the entire assembled court knelt down. This time Oberyn also sank to one knee immediately without hesitation. Rhaenys curtsied deeply and even Grandmother Rhaella bent down a little to pay her respects to her daughter-in-law.

"You may rise," she said in a loud and clear voice. Truly the voice of a queen.

The soldier who had opened the door of the carriage now handed her a small walking stick on which she had to lean heavily. At King's Landing it had always been said that living in Sunspear and the Water Gardens again was good for the Queen's health. Even after her last visit, Rhaenys had reported how much stronger their mother had become. But whatever strength she might have gained from it, the journey back to King's Landing seemed to have already robbed her of it again. His mother was smaller than Daeron remembered her. She looked weak and seemed to have difficulty holding herself upright, even with a walking stick. Her face was pale by Dornish standards, her cheeks sunken and under her big, otherwise shining eyes you could see dark circles as if she hadn’t slept for days.

Aegon did not wait for mother to approach him but rose at her words and immediately took the few steps over to her to take her in his arms. Rhaenys and Daeron followed shortly behind.

"Mother," was all Aegon could say when he embraced her.

One by one they hugged their mother and let her kiss them on their cheeks.

"Oh, my beautiful children. How good to see you. I missed you so much," she said and Daeron had no doubt that she meant him as much as Aegon and Rhaenys. Rhaella also joined and greeted her, the others present were content with bowing while passing by. Another, somewhat smaller carriage came towards them from King's Gate to bring the Queen together with Rhaenys and Rhaella to the Red Keep.

"I will need some rest now. Rhaella, Rhaenys, will you accompany me? I will see you later at the opening joust, my dear boys," the queen said with a smile. She tried to appear strong and confident but it was obvious she could hardly stand upright.

The three ladies then got into the carriage, leaving Daeron, Aegon, Oberyn and most of those present behind. The crowd quickly dissolved and the three of them decided to go to the tourney grounds together to see if there had been any surprising entries or withdrawals. Prince Oberyn had announced that he wanted to participate in the joust himself and so he too was curious to see who his possible opponents would be. It would also be a good opportunity to see if their equipment had already been prepared. Aegon had been given a new tourney armor as a gift from Sunspear three months ago and wanted to use it for the first time on this special occasion.

The small streets and paths and squares that had organically formed from the chaos of booths and shacks and tents around the grandstands were already overcrowded with people, although it would take another half day until the actual beginning of the tourney. The first joust, which of course Aegon would be doing with a yet still unknown opponent, would not take place until the afternoon. Daeron could not really share the enthusiasm of the other two for the masses of people, the loud voices, cross-played music and the stench of cheap food, even cheaper beer, sweat and horse manure. As much as he had always liked tourneys, it had always been the sporting competition that he had enjoyed rather than the whole fuss surrounding it.

They forced their way through the overcrowded pathways. Here and there they stopped for a little something to eat or drink. Oberyn joked a few times with a couple of travelling musicians from Pentos, with whom he was as amicable as if they were old friends. They took their time to get to the stables and the improvised quarters where Aegon and Oberyn would change and get ready before each joust. Daeron would not have minded if they had hurried a little more, if only because his new doublet, which he had put on to greet the Queen, was much warmer than he had thought. But to his misfortune both of them seemed to be in no hurry.

They reached the displays of the participants and studied the listed names and coats of arms. No matches for the first rounds had been drawn yet, but many of the names promised many exciting duels. There were no big surprises among the participants, except that now apparently Ser Barristan Selmy had decided to take part in the joust as well.

"I would have liked to take him on when he was young enough to get on his horse alone," Oberyn said with a wry grin.

"Better not let him hear this, uncle," Aegon replied, also grinning.

Daeron slightly hoped Oberyn and Aegon would both have to face Ser Barristan in the joust, if only so the old man would wipe the smug grin off their faces.

"And you really don't want to enter the tourney, little brother? It's the biggest tourney since Harrenhal, maybe even bigger. These days will be remembered."

"No, I've thought about it carefully. I would enter, but I don't want to steal away the attention from you. I know how much you need it," Daeron returned and grinned all over his face as well now. Aegon answered with a punch on Daeron's shoulder before he put his arm around him and pulled him to the quarters.

"Well then I thank you very much for that. Now let's see if my armor is ready."

They entered the quarters, flat and quickly carpentered wooden houses right next to the stables, and followed the displayed Targaryen banners through the short and low corridors to the room where Aegon later would get himself ready. There, his new armor was indeed already sitting on a wooden stand waiting for them to be admired. It was magnificent, truly. Made of jet black steel, but covered on the arms, legs, helmet, shoulders and the whole back with red and yellow inlays and enamel decorations that shone and shimmered even in this dim light as if the entire armor was on fire. On the chest, also made of red enamel, the royal three-headed dragon of the House of Targaryen was engraved. From a special angle however, the body of the dragon showed the spear and sun of the House of Martell in bright yellow.

"This is no armor," Aegon said. "This is a piece of art."

"I'm happy you like it, nephew. The finest master metalworkers from Qohor made it," Oberyn said with clear pride in his voice. "If we should happen to face each other in the joust, I will honestly be sorry to get the armor dirty once I knock you off your horse."

They looked at the armor for a little longer, but none of them seemed to dare to touch it, as if it were a vision from a dream that disappeared as soon as you tried to feel it. Prince Oberyn then said goodbye to both of them. He himself had some preparations to do before the tourney could start and he also wanted to check on Elia once more.

"See you later at the Small Council," Aegon said just as Oberyn left the room.

"There's a meeting today?", Daeron asked.

"Connington insisted. Just because this circus is being staged here doesn't mean that time stands still in the realm, he said. He may even be right about that, but couldn't we have done without these meetings, at least for a few days? Anyway, I will have to be there, even though I don't think it will take very long."

After another quick look at the armor, they finally made their way back to the Red Keep. Luckily, outside of the quarters they ran into some soldiers who offered them their horses. These soldiers however were already so drunk on cheap wine that Daeron wasn't sure if the men would even remember who they had given their horses to.

"What about the melee," Aegon finally asked as they had just left the tourney grounds and were heading for the Lion Gate.

"What about it?"

"Don't you at least want to take part in that? You're far too good to just stand by and watch."

"No, I don't."

"Is this about the girl? Jeyne Poole?" Daeron did not respond, but his brother knew him well enough to already know the answer. "You could ask another girl for her favor."

"But I don't want to."

They remained silent for a time before Aegon spoke again.

"I can imagine how difficult this must be for you. But ... Rhaenys is right. This is the right thing to do. What did she say about you two not seeing each other anymore?"

"I haven't spoken to her yet," Daeron finally said reluctantly.

"What? Well, you better do that real quick, then."

"I don't know what to say. I don't want to hurt her."

"I believe you, little brother. But I’m afraid there is no way of doing this without hurting her. Saying nothing and just pushing her away will hurt her, too. Just ignoring her like there never had been anything between you is even more painful than just telling her the hard truth to her face. If you really care about her-"

"I love her!"

"If you really care about her," Aegon started again. "Then Jeyne deserves you to be honest with her. You can't protect her from the pain, but you owe her that much at least."

Again they remained silent for a while, riding side by side through the crowded streets of the city directly towards the Red Keep. They had almost arrived at the big bronze gates when Daeron took a heart and began to speak again.

"I think I'd rather go to the Small Council now than to Jenye."

Aegon laughed.

"Oh, please be my guest. Half an hour at a table with Connington and I promise you will crave to finally talk to Jeyne."

A short time and a cup of cold Arbor Gold later they both reached the chamber of the Small Council. The members of the council were already present, including Lord Stark, although he looked as if he would rather be somewhere else. In response to Connington's questioning gaze towards Daeron, Aegon simply said that he would surely understand best how important it was to know the politics of the state, even if you were not going to wear the crown yourself. Ser Gerold's remark that one day Daeron would surely become a capable Hand of the King himself, Connington answered with a dismissive look.

Does he think he will remain a Hand under Aegon one day? If so, he will be disappointed.

Lord Connington went straight to the first subject.

"Food supplies are running even lower and the Blackwater is now too shallow for large merchant ships."

"As I said," Lord Velaryon interjected.

"You said that only yesterday. How quickly would you have us bring food from the Free Cities?"

"What about smaller ships?" Lord Tyrell asked. "The fishing boats are still operating on the Blackwater. Can't they feed the city?"

"They're not bringing in enough for the whole city," said Ser Richard. "And those little boats can't cross the Narrow Sea either. They can just buy us some time."

"Then send word to the Free Cities that the ships are to sail to Storm's End and smaller seaports at Crackclaw Point. They can't run dry. The food can then be brought to King's Landing by land," Lord Velaryon suggested. "It will take longer, it will be more expensive, and half will probably go rotten on the way, but at least we will get something."

"It doesn't look as if we have a choice," growled Lord Connington. "Pycelle, send word to Pentos, Tyrosh, and Myr that their ships are to sail for Storm's End and the ports at Crackclaw Point."

"Very well."

"Have you already spoken to the king about this Smiling Knight, Connington?" asked Ser Myles.

"Indeed I have. The king has no intention to deal with him at the moment. However, he remains confident that Lord Tyrell and his knights will be able to better protect future deliveries from a band of mangy thieves."

"Of course," Lord Tyrell said.

Daeron noticed Aegon's gaze, obviously thinking the same thing as himself. For not being able to get even half of the food supplies here for months, the Fat Flower had better not be looking so pleased with himself. Daeron had only been back in the capital for a few days, but he had heard about the increasing scarcity of supplies several times already. Ser Myles looked as if he was about to complain about the king's inactivity, but Lord Connington already brought up the next topic.

"We have received news from the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy has died."

"We'll light a candle for him in Baelor's sept," Aegon said mockingly, whereupon a short laugh went through the round. To Daeron's surprise, even Connington seemed to smirk about it.

"But that is not all," Connington now continued in a serious tone. "Apparently, the Ironborn have held a kingsmoot and have chosen Euron Greyjoy as their new lord."

"And what business is it of ours?" the Fat Flower asked.

Daeron now took the word.

"It is our business, Lord Tyrell, because the Crown cannot allow the Ironborn to simply do as they please. Balon Greyjoy had sons, did he not?"

"Yes, three, as far as I know. And a daughter who is said to be difficult to tell from his sons."

"Then the line of succession must be followed. Otherwise, it would be a very dangerous precedent. If the crown allows bannermen to choose who their liege should be, it will inevitably lead to chaos."

"I agree," Lord Stark and Aegon almost said in choir.

"But it would be problematic to simply reject the decision of this kingsmoot, silly as it is. The Ironborn are easily offended and give a lot to their savage rituals," Connington gave to consider. "I therefore propose that we send word to Pyke that the Crown is surprised by this development, but will accept the kingsmoot, provided that Balon Greyjoy's children come to King's Landing and swear to renounce their claim to the Iron Islands before the King."

They all agreed unanimously.

"Soon the lords of the major houses will have to appear at King's Landing anyway."

"Do they?" Aegon asked in surprise but before he could ask any more questions, Connington closed the meeting because the tourney was to begin very soon and left the room. For a moment Daeron considered offering Aegon to run after Connington together and ask him about this but decided to leave it at that. After a short luncheon with Rhaenys, from which Aegon had to leave earlier to prepare for the opening joust, Daeron and his sister went to the grandstands on the tourney grounds. For once, he let himself be driven together with her in a carriage, as Rhaenys didn't want to go alone and father, mother and grandmother would arrive a little later. She hadn't said anything about Uncle Viserys, but Daeron didn't ask either.

It took the carriage considerably longer than if they had ridden on horseback to make it through the crowds in the city and on the tourney grounds, but Daeron had to admit that this was not as uncomfortable as he had feared. Only the renewed warning from Rhaenys to settle the matter with Jeyne today spoiled his ride a bit. Aegon obviously had not been able to keep his mouth shut towards her. But he could not really blame his brother for this. Everyone who knew Rhaenys knew how … convincing she could be if she wanted something.

They reached the enormous grandstands and were led to the royal box by a group of Gold Cloaks. In the middle, as was to be expected, a wooden throne was placed, reserved for their father. It was a work of art, decorated with silver marquetry portraying the Doom of Valyria, and made of the finest blackwood, which was said to have been imported by their father from the Basilisk Isles. The sun was burning down and Daeron was grateful that the royal lodge was roofed, as were the lodges of the high lords to the right and left of their own. A servant brought them cold, watered wine while they watched musicians and jugglers in the arena entertaining the people. He looked into the boxes on both sides and found Lord Stannis together with his daughter Shireen and his two sons Ory and Steffon, boys of three-and-ten years old who had the misfortune to be the spitting image of their father. Right next to them sat the Tyrells, Mace, Margaery and Olenna with their two absurdly large bodyguards Erryk and Arryk Redwyne, although Daeron could not say who was who. To his surprise, he also discovered Renly Baratheon among the Tyrells, engaged in a very lively conversation with Ser Loras.

If the alternative was Stannis's growling, I would have stayed with the Tyrells as well.

On the other side, to his great surprise, he saw Lord Tywin Lannister in one of the boxes. With him were his brother Kevan Lannister and his dwarf son Tyrion, who already looked as if he was heavily drunk. Daeron was grateful that Cersei Lannister was nowhere to be seen. He had been fortunate enough to meet the old lion's daughter a few times and rarely had he met such a beautiful, yet so bitter woman. About a year after the end of the rebellion, Tywin had decided to marry Cersei to a cousin of hers, the sole heir to one of the smaller branches of the House Lannister. By doing so, he had returned a number of forts and holdings around Ashemark and The Crag to the main branch of the family which this cousin had been only too happy to offer the old lion as bride price. This marriage had not been particularly beneficial to the happiness of his daughter. Yet this union, though openly unhappy, had been fruitful. Two sons and three daughters had come out of it so far, and for all that was known, Cersei was already with child again. It was said that Lord Tywin was still considering declaring one of Cersei's sons as his heir to prevent the imp from getting the Rock, but apparently Tywin's grandsons all seemed to be unsuitable in the eyes of the old lion. They were recognizable as Lannisters from afar by the golden-blonde manes on their heads, but they did not seem to have enough gold inside their heads for Tywin’s taste.

One box further away sat the Starks, Uncle Eddard, Sansa and Arya, along with Howland Reed and Ser Rodrik Cassel. Lord Stark talked to an older, seemingly almost hairless and toothless man, who Daeron could not identify. With him was a small boy whom Daeron thought was his grandson. Rhaenys, who in contrast to Aegon and Daeron had attended the greetings of the remaining guests, who had only arrived yesterday evening or this morning, then explained to him that the man was Lord Jon Arryn and the boy was his son and heir Robert, who according to Rhaenys was already ten name days old, but looked only half that age. Then he saw her. Behind Arya he discovered the slender figure of Jeyne, her dark hair braided into a wonderful bun and with a bright white smile. He had to fight the urge to go over to her, pull her close, smell her hair and feel her delicate body close to his. Rhaenys seemed to have seen his gaze as he immediately felt her hand on his arm. She didn’t say a word, but that was not necessary anyway.

The rest of the family arrived one after another. Everyone talked lively and in a good mood. Even Queen Elia looked better now and an honest smile adorned her face. Especially their mother and grandmother Rhaella were greeted with loud cheers from the crowds in the stands. Only King Rhaegar and Uncle Viserys were still missing. It still took a short while until a sign was given for the musicians and jugglers to disappear from the arena. So the king had to be close. Indeed, a fanfare sounded shortly afterwards, announcing the arrival of His Grace. The cheers became louder, almost frenetic, as the curtains were pulled apart behind Daeron and King Rhaegar entered the box. All the nobles around as well as the royal family rose to bow towards their monarch. The king stepped to the edge of the box and waved to the people for a brief moment before he lowered himself onto his wooden throne.

It is probably better, thought Daeron, that most people are too far away to see how disinterested father looks.

One by one the competitors rode into the arena to do a lap of honor in front of the crowds and to greet the king. Knights from all parts of the realm, from Karhold in the North to Lemonwood in the South, rode out, waved to the people, bowed to His Grace as they rode past and left the arena again. The cheers grew louder each time a son of one of the great houses rode out, whom people knew or believed to be a favorite to win the tourney. They cheered especially loud for Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden, undoubtedly one of the best jousters in the Seven Kingdoms, for Harrold Hardyng and Ser Lyn Corbray from the Vale of Arryn and for Ser Addam Marbrand from the Westerlands. For a brief moment, Daeron wondered how Ser Loras had managed to get away from Renly so quickly and put on his armor.

When the last competitor finally rode into the arena, the crowd seemed unable to hold on. The cheering of the young men who wanted to be like him and the screaming of the young women who would have loved to offer themselves to him filled the arena like a deluge. His brother, Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen, rode in, did not just one but two laps of honor and then bowed deeply before his father, the king. He wore his new armor, which was gleaming in the sunlight and which indeed made it look as if he was on fire all over his body. His black steed was adorned with silk ribbons of red and yellow and orange that wafted behind it, making it look as if flames were flickering behind him with every movement. Not yet wearing his helmet, Aegon let his hair fly freely in the wind like a white flag and was smiling all over his face. Daeron had to admit that it was hard not to admire him at that moment.

Aegon would open the tournament with the first joust, so he rode to one side of the arena and prepared himself. He put on his helmet, had his shield with the great Targaryen crest and a lance handed to him and was now waiting for his first opponent. The drawing had already taken place about an hour ago, when Daeron and most of the spectators had already been in the arena and so it would be a surprise for many to see who Aegon would face.

Once again loud cheering broke out as Aegon's opponent came back into the arena and moved to the opposite side. Daeron did not need a second glance to see who it was. The man, riding a wonderful Dornish sorrel, wore an all red armor and a long flowing cape in the same color, both decorated with the coat of arms of his House, sun and spear. It was Prince Oberyn Martell.

For a time that seemed like an eternity to Daeron, the two were motionlessly facing each other. The tension rose, and even Grandmother Rhaella, who rarely lost her self-control, seemed unable to stay in her seat any longer. Almost imperceptibly, the king finally gave his signal with a slight nod, a short signal by the horn blower followed and immediately both riders gave their horses the spurs. They became faster and thundered towards each other. The lances were lowered and with a loud crash the two opponents collided with each other in the middle of the arena. Both lances broke on the armor of the other, but both held on to the saddle.

A murmur followed by further cheering went through the arena. Daeron heard Rhaella, Rhaenys and Elia first inhale in fear, then exhale in relief. Both opponents got ready again, took new lances and waited again for the signal. The horn sounded and again the two of them rushed towards each other. Again the lances were lowered, again both broke with a loud crash. A third lance followed, again accompanied by the initially fearful, then relieved sounds of the ladies. Three lances were broken and it was still a draw. Those who had expected that Aegon would meet an easy opponent in his first joust, whom he could knock off his horse with the first lance, had now been proven wrong. Yet this first joust was also a challenge for Prince Oberyn. Aegon was as secure in the saddle as he was himself, showed not the slightest sign of insecurity, did not waver.

Both had scored three points. So from now on neither of the two even needed to knock the other one off his horse. A broken lance versus a not broken lance or a lance broken at the helmet instead of the body was enough for the victory. The next point scored would decide. Daeron had never been very religious, but at that moment he prayed silently to the old and new gods that Aegon would win. In this first round, Aegon was not immediately eliminated when he lost, having the chance to advance to the next round with two wins after that, but nevertheless he wanted his brother so much to win.

Both received their fourth lance. The horn sounded and immediately the two rode towards each other again. Now also Daeron slid back and forth on the edge of his seat. A crash sounded when the two opponents passed each other. Both lances had broken. Daeron stood in terror for a moment and a murmur went through the crowd as Aegon swayed slightly in the saddle for a brief moment. But he caught himself again and rode back to the starting position. Oberyn took his fifth lance while Aegon was still busy circling his left shoulder. Apparently he had taken a hard and painful blow there. Then he grabbed his fifth lance as well and got ready.

Daeron allowed himself a short look over to the Starks. Sansa's eyes were wide open in shock while Jeyne held her hands in front of her face. How he wanted to be with her now, take her in his arms and calm her down. Perhaps he should have entered after all. Perhaps he still could. He hadn't seen the latest list of competitors, but as far as he knew, there was no Mystery Knight in this tourney yet. But to what end? He'd hardly win. There were simply too many too good competitors for that in this tourney. And even if he could do it with his skills and a little luck... what would he do? Crown Jeyne as Queen of Love and Beauty? For the attempt alone, Rhaenys would strangle him on the spot before the crown of roses would even touch Jeyne's hair.

The horn sounded through the arena again and tore him from his thoughts. Immediately Aegon and Oberyn gave their steeds the spurs and thundered towards each other. The lances were lowered as the two raced towards each other at full speed. Daeron could see Oberyn raising his lance slightly just before the collision. He aimed at Aegon's shoulder. Again there was a loud crash and for a moment it looked as if Aegon had been pushed out of the saddle but then pulled himself back in just as quickly. It seemed like a dream, every detail screaming at him as he saw Prince Oberyn's lance bounce off Aegon's shield, losing his balance and being knocked out of the saddle with a powerful blow.

Roaring cheers swept through the arena as Aegon victoriously lifted his broken lance into the air. Immediately his brother tore the helmet from his head, shining even more broadly across his face than before. He made one, two, three rounds through the arena until he brought his horse to a halt next to Oberyn, who was still sitting on the ground. Aegon dismounted and pulled his uncle back on his feet. Oberyn now also took off his helmet and although the disappointment was obvious on his face, he too smiled with pride at his nephew. They stepped in front of the royal box and bowed to the king, who still looked down on the spectacle uninvolved as if none of this was his business. Arm and arm the two left the arena on foot to make room for the next matches. Five more matches would take place today, although Daeron doubted that any of them would be as exciting as what they had just experienced.

The mood in the royal box was exuberant, the ladies were talking all over each other about how proud they all were of Aegon. Those who had not expected Aegon to be one of the favorites for the tourney had now been proven wrong. He had missed a joust between a landless knight from the Riverlands, a certain Ser Alfred, and Ser Addam Marbrand when Aegon entered the box some time later, wrapped in fresh clothes and still widely smiling. Everyone congratulated him extensively and enthusiastically, apart from their father, who only had a quick glance and an equally quick nod for him. Fortunately Aegon did not let this spoil his mood.

"For a moment I thought Oberyn had got you," Daeron said after Aegon had taken a seat between him and Rhaenys. "Is your shoulder okay?"

"Of course, why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, because it looked like Oberyn hit you pretty hard there."

"He didn't," Aegon grinned. Daeron's eyes grew wide with surprise.

"It was a trick! You tricked him! That wasn't very knightly of you, big brother."

"No, I guess not. But I've recently learned the hard way that behaving knightly is great for stories and singers. But it surely doesn't win you a fight."

They laughed and drank together and watched the following matches. Small dishes and more cool watered wine were brought by servants. They had stuffed pigeons in plum sauce and roasted cheese with nuts, followed by a cold soup of herbs and fruits. The day was not very advanced yet when the last jousting was over and the musicians and jugglers returned to the arena to entertain the crowd for a while longer. The royal family quickly left their box, as did the other high lords and ladies, and made their way back to the Red Keep in carriages and on horseback. They would now celebrate the beginning of the tourney with a dancing. Daeron was not in the mood for it, despite the exciting day and the happy ending of Aegon's first joust. But Jeyne would be there and he would have to avoid her again. He wished that he had already had the courage to talk to her.

After arriving at the Red Keep, the group parted briefly to go to their rooms and get changed. Daeron chose a plain black doublet with red stitching and his family crest on the chest, formed from embossed black leather. In addition a black trousers made of light fabric and black boots. Afterwards he immediately went to the Small Hall, where the dance would take place. Aegon was already there, dressed in a fire-red doublet with golden embroidery in the shape of dragons and suns, black trousers and also fire-red boots with golden seams. He might look like a Targaryen as he was in the books, but no one could argue that Aegon was not proud of his Dornish blood. Father would hate it, and Daeron suspected that besides the pride in his family, this might have been one reason why his brother had chosen this garment. He spoke to a giant, bald-headed man whom Daeron only recognized at second glance as Archibald Yronwood. He also discovered Rhaenys already, who was talking to Mors Manwoody a few steps away from Aegon. So far about one hundred guests have been present, and the total would be three times as many.

The other guests arrived one by one within the hour. Of course Jeyne was among them. She went into the hall at Sansa's side, wearing a beautiful dress in bright red. Her hair plaited into lovely braids that fell over both her shoulders. It did take Daeron all his strength not to run to her immediately and press his lips on hers. Sansa herself again wore a light blue dress that was tight enough to accentuate her figure but closed high enough according to northern fashion. Still, she looked beautiful.

King Rhaegar was nowhere to be seen and did not seem to want to appear anymore. Judging by their father's mood during the jousting, that was probably for the better. Without speech or announcement, the musicians started to play. After the first, short piece of music was finished and the middle of the hall was free for the dance, the first couples formed. He allowed himself a quick glimpse over to Jenye and saw her hopeful glance in Daeron's direction. Immediately he looked away, hoping that she hadn't noticed it.

Of course she has, stupid!

He saw Aegon walking quickly towards Sansa, but before he could reach her, another lady stood in his way. Lady Margaery Tyrell was as always dressed in a gorgeous gown of green and gold silk. Daeron had no eye for such things, but he had no doubt that it was precious spider silk from Qarth, Faros or even Yin. The dress was revealing, but still just adequate. Her brown curls fell in a wild torrent over her bare shoulders and she had a ravishing smile on her beautiful face.

"I hope you will forgive my insolence," Daeron heard her purr. "But I was hoping we might be the ones to open the dance."

Aegon, who obviously didn't really want to, but didn't have a suitable excuse either, nodded at her smiling and held his arm out to her. Sansa's expression changed from pure joy to shock in the blink of an eye. So Aegon and Lady Margaery opened the dance. There was no doubt that the two looked wonderful together, but those who knew Aegon immediately saw how uncomfortable he felt to lead the brunette beauty through the hall.

Again Daeron allowed himself a quick glance at Jenye and again he turned away immediately as she still fixed him with her eyes. He went over to another lady whose name he didn't even know and asked her for the next dance. She was a pretty, perhaps a little too well-fed girl of five-and-ten or six-and-ten years with golden curls and a pretty smile. At the second round they danced together and Daeron learned from her constant babbling that she came from somewhere in the Westerlands. Still he had no idea who exactly she was. He noticed out of the corner of his eye how Aegon finally went to Sansa and asked her for the next dance. She obviously agreed, but to both Daeron's and Aegon's surprise, she seemed only moderately happy about it.

After the second dance, the blond curly-head curtsied somewhat awkwardly before Daeron, who answered with an elegant bow and smile. Hopefully the girl or her father, whoever that might be, didn't think she was close to his bed now. Aegon apparently wanted to ask Sansa for another dance, but surprisingly she seemed to refuse. Instead, she went over to Jenye and stood next to her for a while until new aspirants came up to them and asked them both for a dance. For a moment, Daeron's blood began to boil as he saw another man, a Dornish without a doubt, take Jenye's hand and lead her to the dance floor. Again he needed all his strength to pull himself together and realize that he had no right to be jealous. Sansa's dance partner was a pale lad with red hair and a pockmarked face, who apparently could not believe it himself to be allowed to dance with this beauty and did not stop staring at her with his mouth open. Rarely had a young man ever cut a worse figure when dancing.

Aegon left the dance floor and took a cup of wine from the table at the side of the hall. Daeron was about to go to him when he was grabbed tightly and pulled to the side away from all possible listeners. Less than a hand in front of his face stood Rhaenys and scowled at him.

"You have not done it yet. You have not talked to the girl yet," she whispered, and it could hardly have sounded more threatening. Rhaenys could be a wonderful person, full of love and kindness, but Daeron knew very well that his sister could be as destructive as a Dornish desert storm if she wanted to.

"I'll do it tonight," he said sheepishly.

"I hope so for your sake."

Within a heartbeat a bright smile had returned to her face as she turned and gave the next, already waiting aspirant the pleasure of dancing with her. For a while he stood at the side speechlessly and thought about what he should do now. He didn't feel like dancing, no matter how many ladies were in the hall and gave him shy looks. He would have liked best to go to Aegon and get drunk with him.

"Where is she?" he suddenly heard Aegon's voice.

"Who?"

"Sansa. Who the hell else? Have you seen her?"

Daeron turned and looked around. He searched the crowd but found neither Sansa nor Jenye. Only Lord Stark stood alone and deserted at the edge of the crowd, clutching a cup of wine.

Judging by his face, it was probably more like liquor, Daeron thought.

"They must have left," he finally said.

"Did Sansa or Jenye say anything to you? Sansa was so strange, distant. I had the feeling she didn't want to dance with me at all and she turned down a second dance outright."

The dance went on for a while, but Daeron got less and less interested in it with every moment. Eventually, he saw Aegon and Rhaenys dancing together under the constant, eagle-like eye of Margaery Tyrell. He decided to leave and finally talk to Jenye. He walked back to Maegor's Holdfast, wandered almost aimlessly through the dark corridors for a while and was glad not to meet anyone except a few guards and servants. Finally he reached Jenye's room. His heart was beating in his chest and he wished he had drunk a cup or two more of wine.

He raised his hand to knock on the door but withdrew. Again he raised his hand, but failed again. It was only at the third attempt that he was brave enough and knocked carefully on the door. He hoped a little bit that Jeyne might not be in her room. Maybe she was with Sansa. But then the door was opened and Jenye stood before him, still in her wonderful dress, only the braids already undone.

Immediately a beaming smile spread over her face and she wanted to fall into his arms, but his look seemed to betray him. As fast as the smile had come, it disappeared as fast. Without him having said a word, tears were already rising in her eyes.

"I love you," she breathed.

Daeron wanted to reply, wanted to tell her that he also loved her and desired her, but did not. Could not.

"I ... can' t say it back. If I did, I would make a mistake and no force on earth could stop me from coming to your room."

"So do it. I want you to make that mistake. What has changed?" she asked after a short pause and Daeron realized how difficult it was for her to hold back her sobbing.

"My feelings for you have not changed, but I have accepted the truth."

"What truth?"

"That it cannot be. We can't be. You are the daughter of a steward, I am I son of a king."

Daeron hesitated a while before continuing. Again, he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, kiss her and comfort her, tell her that he loved her and that nothing else meant anything to him.

"Would Lord Stark have ever allowed a union between you and Robb? No, he would not. What makes you think my father, the king, would ever allow a union between us?"

"But I'm of noble birth. I am a lady. You said yourself that's all that matters."

"There is noble birth and noble birth apparently."

Her tears now ran freely, her body was shaken by sobs she could hardly hold back.

"I can find a husband for you," he said quickly, hoping to calm her down somehow. "A good man, a knight perhaps. Then you could stay at King's Landing, if you like."

"Find me a husband? Stay at King's Landing?" she screamed at him now. "To do what exactly? To spend the rest of my life looking at you and being reminded of what I can never have? Get out of here! Get out of here!"

At the last moment he could dodge before her wooden brush hit the wall behind him that she had thrown at him. He quickly closed the door and leaned against it. He heard other objects hitting it, while she was yelling insults and curses at him. Now he too felt tears come to his eyes.

Why does doing the right thing have to be so painful?

Notes:

So, that was chapter 9. The tourney has finally begun and Daeron has talked to Jeyne, even if only briefly. As always, feel free to let me know what you think, what you liked or disliked.

See you next time (hopefully). ;-)

Chapter 10: Aegon 2

Summary:

After a short sparring with Ser Barristan, Aegon will face Rhaegar and Melisandre and then head towards the tourney grounds again.

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. It is a pretty short one (SORRY!), but I hope there is still enough happening in it for you guys to have a little fun.

Three days. It had been three days already since the last time he had spoken to Sansa or even seen her for that matter. At least apart from her sitting in the stands and watching every joust. After the very short dance to celebrate the beginning of the tourney, he hadn't seen or spoken to her anymore and he more and more started to think that she was deliberately avoiding him. When he went to the Starks' chambers to talk to her, she never was there. He never found her at the Godswood either. She took her breakfast and luncheon with Jeyne somewhere, but in any case not in the rooms in Maegor's Holdfast that were intended for that purpose and she had not answered any of his invitations to spend time with him, which he had sent her repeatedly. Aegon thought about what he had done wrong. Had he said something to her to upset her? Had he done something to offend her? In his mind he had gone over his time with her since their arrival at King's Landing again and again, but still he couldn't make sense of it.

I must have done something or said something. If I could at least apologize, for whatever. But how do you apologize to someone who's avoiding you?

Three days had passed and he had won five joustings since then. Except for one, all of them easy wins, but now he was in the quarter finals and if he won today's joust, he would be in the semi finals. But today he would have to face Ser Loras Tyrell and it was quite possible, maybe even likely, that he would lose this match. He wished he could wear Sansa's favor in this joust. It would bring him luck, he was sure of that. But since she obviously did not want to see him, let alone speak to him, he could hardly ask her for her favor. The question of whether she would grant him her favor at all was something he would rather not ask.

Instead, Margaery Tyrell is as clingy as a leech.

After today there would be a short break, two days of rest at the Faith's request, before the tourney would continue with the semi finals and the final. Perhaps then there would be another opportunity to see Sansa, talk to her, and sort out whatever was going on between them.

The stabbing pain in his arm when he was hit by a violent blow of the sword finally tore him from his thoughts. His own sword fell to the ground when he lost his grip due to the sudden pain and immediately he felt the cold steel against his neck. Ser Barristan stood before him and shook his head in disappointment.

"You're not focused."

"I'm sorry. I was thinking about something else."

"Something else? During a sword fight? What else could there be? If this had been a real fight, your head would be separated from your shoulders now. What could be more important than preventing that, my prince?"

"I promise, it will not happen again, Ser Barristan. But can't we maybe skip the training for today? I can't really focus at the moment and there's also the tourney later."

"Skip the training? I swore an oath to protect your life and if one day, Gods forbid, you're killed in a sword fight, I don't want to blame myself for your death for not teaching you how to focus properly. One day you will be king, my prince, and I thought you were aware of what that meant. To rule is your right, but above all, it is your duty. The duty to not only do what you want – good food and good wine, dancing and jousting – but to do your duty. A king is first and foremost obliged to the people he rules over, from the highest lord to the lowest servant, and therefore a good king must never be negligent with his duties. And one of these duties is to stay focused when someone tries to teach him how to wield a sword."

Aegon could only smile bashfully. The old man was right, of course. Being king meant more duty than anything else and he would fulfill his duties, he would become a good king. He would work for it, every day until his last. He only wished Ser Barristan had taught that lesson to his father more clearly when he trained with him back in the day.

And so Aegon picked up his sword again and returned into position. This time Aegon tried to keep his thoughts clear and this time Ser Barristan couldn't catch him that easily. They trained for almost an hour, about half of the fights went to Ser Barristan, the other half to Aegon. He knew he could have done better, but in the end he was still glad to have done well enough. Ser Barristan, though no longer a young man, was undoubtedly still one of the best swordsmen of his time and to hold his own against him was something Aegon was proud of.

After the practice Aegon went to his chambers, washed off the sweat and changed his clothes. He still had time for a small lunch before he had to be back at the tourney grounds and he also had to see his father before that. King Rhaegar had a servant wake him up early this morning to tell him that after his exercises with Ser Barristan he was expecting to see him in his study. So Aegon put on a light, dark doublet of thin cloth, pants that were just as thin, and light boots and went to the kitchens. He was not very hungry, but at least until after the joust against Ser Loras there would hardly be any chance to eat again. It was better to satisfy the hunger before it became too strong and distracted him. There were still leftovers of the roasted pheasants from the evening before, fresh nut bread that was still steaming hot when he tore off a piece and he also found half a carafe of the green wine from Norvos that had been served yesterday.

To eat, he sat down under the old oak tree in the Godswood and for a while he hoped he might happen to find Sansa there. This hope did not come true though. Still the Godswood was beautiful, one of his most favorite places in the Red Keep and for a while he could just sit there, enjoy the shadow of the oak’s massive branches and the light and sweet wine and think of nothing. He had nearly fallen asleep when a servant approached and almost apologetically reminded him of his meeting with his father. Rather reluctantly he rose, tapped the leaves and grass from his clothes and set off.

The way to his father's study was not very far, even though Aegon would have wished he hadn't had to climb so many steps in this heat. On the way he passed more than one turn-off which he thought he could just take and not go to his father. But he decided against it. Whether he had to see him now, tonight after the joust or in a week's time ... he had to see him anyway. He reached the door of the study where Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime were standing guard, greeted them both with a smile and nod and knocked on the door. It took a while before an answer came. Aegon knew his father loved to keep him waiting.

One of his little power games. As if he still had to prove that he was the king.

"Come in," he finally heard from the other side after a long while. He opened the door and entered, which Ser Arthur immediately closed behind him again. King Rhaegar sat at his almost ludicrously huge desk and was bent over some writings and books. In his hand he held his Myrish Glass, a polished crystal plate with a small handle on one side, which made everything one was looking at seem closer and bigger. As always, behind his father was the red witch. The venerable priestess Melisandre, as the king insisted she be called. Fiery red hair, fiery red clothes, fiery red eyes in a heart-shaped face with fiery red lips. No one could deny that the witch was beautiful. Most men Aegon knew would have gladly given their left arm for a night with such a woman, and yet she caused a deep unease in him. He did not know whether it was because she was supposedly from Asshai, because of her unusual appearance or because she kept putting absurd fleas in his father's ear about prophecies and visions in the flames, but whenever the red witch was around, Aegon felt an overwhelming urge to either turn around and leave immediately or take a sword and thrust it between her ribs. However, Aegon decided not to pay the witch any more attention than was absolutely necessary. And so he went straight towards the king, stopped at a respectful distance in front of the desk and knelt down.

"I'm at your service, Your Grace," he said, bowing his head. He knew how much his father loved have his royal ass kissed like that.

"You may rise," the king said, without giving him a second glance. "Come here and have a look at this."

Aegon stood up and walked around the table to see what his father was studying there so attentively. On the desk in front of him was an old parchment, only partially preserved, on which, alongside two blocks of writing he was unable to recognize, was a similarly large block written in Valyrian runes.

"What do you think this is?"

Aegon looked closely at the parchment for a while and pretended to study it carefully. He could have looked at it for the rest of his life without finding out what it was, but he knew that the king would not accept a too quick answer. He at least had to pretend he was trying to fathom it.

"I'm not sure. Could be a treaty, in the languages of the peoples who signed it."

"Wrong," said the King. "That, my disappointingly ignorant son, is a key. I do not yet know what it says exactly, but once I do, it is a key, no, the key to decipher texts from these languages that are as yet unknown. This key will finally give me the ultimate clarity that I have been searching for so many years."

"That sounds wonderful, Your Grace," Aegon said, but could hardly hide his disinterest. If he had been given a copper penny for every time his father had proudly announced that he had finally found the solution to his self-imposed riddle about some promised magical prince, all the gold and silver under Casterly Rock would have been his by now. The look of the king, who now for the first time lowered himself to look directly at Aegon, showed him very clearly that he was not at all satisfied with his answer.

"Can you not understand or do you simply not want to understand? This is about the future of our dynasty, the future of the realm, of the entire world even. I saw how proud you were of yourself when you knocked the Red Viper out of the saddle. You care about such childish nonsense, but you don't care about saving the world? I had hoped for more from you. So much more. Thankfully, my brother is more aware of the important task that has fallen to our family. At least Viserys shares my commitment to saving the world."

"If I may," Aegon heard the witch speak. She stepped closer to the king while Aegon moved back to the other side of the table as if guided by an invisible hand. He didn't fear the witch, he couldn't say that, but the closer she was, the more uncomfortable he felt deep inside. This way he at least had the table between him and the witch.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," she continued. "Only Azor Ahai, last hero born again, can take up the fight against the Great Other and hope to prevail. And there is no question that the last hero will be born of the most noble blood of the House of Targaryen. Your family, my prince, will be crucial to saving the world. You are special, your blood is special. Indispensable even. I am but a humble servant of the Lord of Light, but your family is chosen by Him. This is the greatest of honors and your king and father was hoping you would share his excitement about this."

"An honor we did not ask for. And sadly, venerable priestess Melisandre, has our family an unfortunate tendency to consider itself excessively special and indispensable for this or that reason. A tendency that has rarely brought much good to our family in the past."

"The path may have been difficult, my prince, but it has led you and your family exactly where our Lords wants you to be. Please remember that this is not about the one man or woman, not about one family even, but about mankind. And whatever suffering your family had to endure, whatever sacrifices it had to take, it was always solely and entirely about the most noble bloodline of the House Targaryen. There is power in blood, my prince, and your bloodline is blessed by R'hllor. Nothing in the world holds that much power."

"You seem very confident about our family. After a quick look in the history books, only a very few people, priests or not, would put the future of the world in our most noble hands."

"Be careful what you say," the King admonished him.

"It's all right, Your Grace. Let the Prince express his doubts. Only when we know his doubts, will we be able to convince him of the truth of our words." Well, good luck with that. "I have not looked into history books, my prince. I have looked in the flames. The Lord of Light showed me his will in the flames and the flames never lie. Whatever happens and whatever is asked of us, it is R'hllor's will and no sacrifice is too great to fulfill the will of the Lord of Light. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

A cold shiver ran down Aegon's spine when he heard the witch say these words.

"So you mean that no sacrifice, literally no sacrifice, is ever too great to do the will of your God?"

"So she said," the King interjected before the witch could speak again. "No sacrifice is too great when it comes to saving mankind. Don't make yourself dumber than you are."

"R’hllor is not my God, he is the God of us all, the one true God," the witch said. "Everything else is just tales and stories and lies spread by the Great Other to poison the people’s hearts, false gods that will be destroyed and forgotten once the Lord of Light reveals his power."

"We will do what must be done," the king continued. "Whatever our lord requires of us." Our lord? That's not something the High Septon will want to hear. "And if you cannot understand such a simple truth, son, then perhaps you are even more unfit to be my heir than I feared. Being king sometimes means making hard decisions. It means protecting what is worth being protected. And what could be more worth being protected than the world itself?"

For a while Aegon stood there in silence, unsure what to say or what the king expected of him. He watched him, observing how the king carefully studied every character and every rune on the dry parchment, as if all he had to do was look closely enough for its secrets to reveal themselves to him. The red witch still stood still beside the king and Aegon felt her gaze rest on him. But if there was anything he didn't want, it was to look further into those unearthly red eyes. After a time that had felt like half an eternity to Aegon, his father finally began to speak again.

"Do you think your claim to my throne is worth being protected and defended?"

Aegon's uneasiness deepened. He knew that this was one of those questions he would never be able to answer to the king's satisfaction with whatever answer he had. The king loved to trap him with such questions, just to be able to rebuke him for his answers afterwards.

"Yes," he simply said.

"Good. Then tomorrow you will fight your brother at the melee. I'll make sure you and your brother can still participate."

"And for what purpose, Your Grace? After all, the melee is not the place where the succession is decided."

"Of course not. But in the melee, accidents can happen. Your brother is your greatest rival for the throne. If he should, by accident, be mortally wounded in this battle, your inheritance would be greatly strengthened."

Aegon could hardly believe what he had just heard.

"You must be joking, Your Grace."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" yelled the King. Rhaegar had leapt from his seat now, books and writings flying around. A fire burned in his eyes as Aegon had never seen it before. "We are surrounded by traitors plotting our demise. Wake up! We will not stop this conspiracy so long as you are a coward and refuse to do what must be done!"

"Your Grace, Daeron is my brother and my best friend and most trusted advisor. I would never do such a thing."

The king looked at him, rage and disdain in his eyes. His voice was quiet now, barely heard, yet more menacing than if he had screamed.

"You surprise me, son. You somehow always manage to surprise me, if only by what an ever growing disappointment you are."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I am doing my best," Aegon returned mockingly.

Faster than Aegon could react, the Myrish Glass smashed against his forehead. He felt the blood run down his face as he went down to the ground. He heard the King yelling about what a disappointment he was and that he was too weak to be king, that his blood was too thin and soiled by his Dornish mother and that he would regret thinking it was all just a joke. Blood ran into his eye and took part of his sight. All sounds were muffled, as if he was under water and his vision was blurred when he saw the king begin to throw books and letters and whatever else from his table to the ground.

He heard the door fly open and heard the voices of Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime asking what was going on, seemingly in anticipation of an attack, against which they would have to protect their king. Someone grabbed him, pulled him halfway up and out of the room while the king was still raging and yelling, knocked over a bookshelf and threw an inkwell against the wall. The red witch stood there, motionless as a statue in the middle of the storm, and watched him with her ghastly red eyes as Arthur and Jaime pulled him out of the room and locked the door behind him. The last thing he heard was Ser Arthur reprimanding Ser Jaime for just busting in before his eyes went black.

He woke up on a small bed in a dark chamber. He opened his eyes and saw Ser Jaime and a Maester standing by the bed, a thin young man with no hair and only a short chain around his neck. At least not Pycelle, was the first thought that came to his mind.

"What happened?"

"You have a small cut on your head and you were unconscious for a moment, my prince," Ser Jaime said. "Maester Marel has already sewn it up and tended to it."

"How long was I out?"

"Not very long. Just long enough to tend to the wound, Your Grace," Maester Marel now said. "Luckily, the injury is not serious. I would, however, strongly advise you to get some rest."

"Thank you, Maester, but I don't have time for this. The jousting will continue soon."

"Can he attend?" Ser Jaime asked.

"If he can stand without staggering, he should be able to ride. He should avoid hits to the head, though."

"Sound advice, Maester," Aegon said with a wry grin. "Indeed I should try that."

"I would prefer you rest, my prince."

"Thank you for your concern, Ser Jaime, but I won't miss the greatest tourney of this generation because my father had another one of his moments."

At a signal from Ser Jaime, the Maester left the room. Jaime went over to a small table and poured a whitish liquid into a cup and handed it to Aegon. He took it and smelled it. It was Milk of the Puppy, but fortunately very diluted. It would relieve his headaches but allow him to stay focused enough for the joust so he drank the cup in one go.

"You shouldn't speak of the king that way in public, my prince."

"Do you seriously think there's a single soul left in King's Landing who doesn't know about my father's outbursts?"

"Perhaps not, but to speak of it so openly is another matter entirely. It's not only your father that matters, but the impression your family makes. I did not learn much from my father, but I did learn one thing. Words and rumors spread faster than a nasty rash and eventually people will start scratching."

"That's good advice indeed, Ser Jaime. Thank you."

The door flew open. For a brief moment Aegon thought the king might have followed them in order to insult him further or throw more things at him, but instead Rhaenys and Grandmother Rhaella stormed into the room. They both rushed towards Aegon. His grandmother stopped next to Ser Jaime and grabbed Aegon's hand while Rhaenys crouched down by the bed, examining Aegon's face with tears in her eyes and kissing his forehead and his cheeks again and again.

"What happened? What in the name of the Seven happened?" she asked.

"You told Rhaenys and grandmother?" Aegon asked Ser Jaime.

"They must have heard it somewhere," the knight replied with a mischievous smile and Aegon knew he was lying.

"Tell me what happened," his sister demanded, still checking his face, as if afraid she would discover more injuries.

"Father had one of his moments," he finally said, and immediately he saw the tears returning to his sister's eyes.

"You must be more restrained in his presence! You must not provoke him, you know that. There has always been something about you that made him furious, my love. And you have always enjoyed turning him against you too much."

"I know. I've always preferred to see his anger directed at me rather than at Daeron. Or worse, at you."

Rhaenys was smiling now, still tears in his eyes, and was caressing his face.

"But so far he has at least never injured you," Grandmother Rhaella now said.

"At least nowhere where it was visible," Ser Jaime interjected, but immediately fell silent after an angry look from Aegon.

"I'm fine. Really. Please don't worry. And I will be more careful in his presence."

"Swear it to me!"

"I swear it, sister. We should leave now. I'm fine, and I must get ready for the jousting."

Rhaenys and Rhaella did not seem to be very happy about this, but both agreed. They both hugged Aegon again for a long time and Rhaenys gave him another kiss on the cheek. Then they set off. Grandmother and Rhaenys went into the inner courtyard and boarded a carriage while Aegon, accompanied by Ser Jaime, got on a horse and rode to the tourney grounds.

As they rode first through the streets of the city and then through the hustle and bustle of tents and stalls around the arena, Aegon thought back to the king. He had not experienced it himself, but he knew from Grandmother Rhaella, from Ser Jaime and Prince Lewyn that his grandfather had always fantasized about conspiracies and traitors in his later years. This thought scared him deeply. Of course, he did not believe that his father was like his grandfather. Rhaegar was not Aerys. He did not burn people, did not torture, did not condemn anyone to death for a wrong word in the wrong place, for real or imagined insults. And yet... he worried. His father had declined greatly in recent years. Connington ruled the realm basically alone, while the king hardly ever left his study and was constantly whispered into his ear by the red witch. For a moment, he wondered if Rhaegar might not be right. Was it possible that there were traitors at the court, a conspiracy to bring down the House Targaryen? Of course it was possible. The last war was not so long ago. No doubt many lords and ladies who had sided with the defeated rebels still had a strong resentment towards the king and his family. Hell, even after three centuries there were still enough men and women who would have liked nothing better than to undo Aegon's conquest. A conspiracy against the crown was not so unlikely.

But Daeron? No, that was the point at which Aegon could no longer and would no longer follow his father's thoughts. Daeron was his brother, his flesh and blood, his best friend all his life. If there was one man he would trust with his life without hesitation, it was his brother. Whatever might be going on in his father's mind, he would never turn against his brother, just as his brother would never turn against him.

He entered the arena and finally managed to banish the thoughts of his father from his mind, but before he went into his room to put on his armor, he decided to go to the grandstands. He wouldn't have time to talk to Sansa – and even if he had, this would not be the right place for it – but he wanted to see her. He had to see her. He would ask her for her favor, he decided. The guards immediately made room for him and let him through. He quickly found the entrance to the box where the Stark family would sit and climbed the narrow stairs.

When he reached the top, he was briefly blinded by the bright sunlight. Men and women around him looked at him in surprise, but then quickly bowed and gave him the way. He searched the surroundings. The grandstands were already completely filled, he had already missed the first joust of the day. But she had to be here somewhere. Finally he recognized the stoic face of Lord Stark, next to it the no less stoic face of his daughter Arya. That’s were Sansa must be as well. Then he saw her, recognized her gorgeous mane that blew in the light wind and for a moment his heart seemed to skip a beat. She was sitting behind his father, seen from his side. He went to the front to the box, one row of seats further than the Starks were sitting, to face her and to be able to bow to her when he would ask her for her favor.

He came closer, the people to his right and left rose to make way for him. He was about three men's lengths away now. He stopped immediately when he recognized the other man who was already standing in front of Sansa, kissing her hand and just taking her favor. She smiled at him magically, her cheeks slightly reddened. For a moment, Aegon didn't know how he wanted to react. This smile should have been his, her favor should have been his. He wanted to storm in, snatch her favor from his hands, want to scream and ... no, he could not and would not do such a thing. Sansa said goodbye to the other and turned around to say something to her father when she noticed Aegon. Their eyes met and he immediately recognized the shock on her face. He wanted to say something but did not know what. He wanted to do something but did not know what. Sansa's mouth opened to say something to him but Aegon did not wait for the words. He turned around and stormed out, down the stairs and to his room.

Now he sat in his room on a bench, his armor in front of him on its stand and waiting to be put on, and needed a moment to get his senses back under control. His head and thoughts were circling and he couldn't tell if it was from the injury or the look in Sansa's eyes. Ser Jaime had already been waiting there for him, had asked Aegon where he had been but had received no answer. His opponent had already been announced, was already waiting in the arena. Everyone was just waiting for him. Only now did his mind begin to clear. He got up and asked Ser Jaime to help him quickly with the armor, got on his horse and rode out into the arena. One lad handed him his shield with the Targaryen crest to his left, another an all-black lance to his right.

He heard the rejoicing of the people, heard them cheering him and calling his name, louder and louder. The crowd now began to sing a song that a bard had written for him after his victory over his uncle Oberyn some days ago. But none of this interested him at that moment. All that mattered, all that still existed in Aegon's world was the man on the horse opposite of him. Ser Loras Tyrell. He looked at him, fixed him. He had already recognized it at first sight, had seen it on his right wirst. He heard the signal horn announcing the beginning of the joust and immediately Aegon gave his horse the spurs without hesitating or thinking about it even for a moment.

The tourney was no longer important to him. He no longer cared to move on to the next round. The victory no longer interested him. All he wanted, he decided, was to make Ser Loras pay for wearing her favor on his arm.

Notes:

So, that was it. As said, the chapter was pretty short, but I hope you still had fun reading. As always, feel free to let me know what you liked or disliked, what I have done right or wrong. Let me know your thoughts so far. :-)

See you soon.

Chapter 11: Rhaenys 2

Notes:

Hi folks,

the next chapter is already here and this time it's the promised Rhaenys-chapter. Yay! :-D When I had to restructure the events a bit lately, this chapter was already half done, so that's why this update is coming so quickly.

So we will see Rhaenys having breakfast tea with Rhaella, Elia and some guests. After a very short visit from Viserys, Rhaenys will ... make a decision. Let's just phrase it like that. Hope you have fun.

The jousting would not begin again until after noon and Rhaenys was grateful for that. She had danced a lot last night, several rounds with Aegon to celebrate his qualification for the semifinals, which was wonderful and would have been even more wonderful if the Tyrell girl hadn't kept interfering their dances. Aegon had seemed to be a little absent though. Only after their third dance had he finally told her what had been burning on his mind, so she had placed a light kiss on his cheek and had excused him so that he could go to sleep. Her feet still hurt a bit and so it felt good for her to just sit that morning. Sitting next to her were her mother and grandmother. Servants brought fresh, hot spiced tea and pastries, some cold water, cold cooked fish and fresh hot bread. In a moment, the other ladies her mother had invited would appear to break the fast with them. She could have done without them as well, but she decided that a little distraction wouldn't hurt.

They had hardly exchanged a word when the servants announced the arrival of their guests. They were mainly ladies from Dorne who had come to King's Landing in the company of their mother. Unfortunately, the Sand Snakes were not among them, as Rhaenys had been disappointed to find out after the welcoming of her mother already. In addition, there were some ladies from the Reach, who swarmed around Margaery Tyrell like moths around the light. Shireen Baratheon, the poor ugly thing, was also there, which surprised Rhaenys a bit. She had seen the girl several times before. She spoke little and obviously felt uncomfortable in company, probably out of shame for her disfigured face. Every time she saw the girl, Rhaenys thought that unfortunately she would not have been a beauty even without the Greyscale scars, but of course she didn't tell her that. Instead, she offered her a seat beside her, handed the child a cup of tea and smiled warmly at her. She's had a hard enough life as it was already and so she should at least be able to feel comfortable in Rhaenys' presence. Shireen thanked her with an honest, if rather unattractive smile.

On one of the seats across the table, the Stark girl sat down too. She was dressed like a septa again. What on earth did Aegon see in her? She decided however that she should not simply ignore her.

"I love what you've tried on your hair, Lady Sansa. Too bad it didn't work," Rhaenys said to greet her.

Her grandmother of course was right. The girl was beautiful, extremely beautiful even. And she had wits, at least according to grandmother. But still, the one thing she was not and would never be, was the Blood of the Dragon. Rhaenys was the daughter of the Dragon and the Sun. That girl was the daughter of a dog and a fish.

They all greeted each other across the table and everyone told how wonderful it was to have the Queen back in the capital. As much as Rhaenys abhorred the petty talk of most of the ladies in principle, they were right in this case. It was good to have mother here again, even if she surely would have preferred to stay in Sunspear and only for Aegon's sake had taken the strain. Yesterday's jousting was of course the first topic of the day and the ladies outbid each other in betting on who Aegon would crown as Queen of Love and Beauty after his victory in the final that he surely would reach. Given how Aegon had almost destroyed Ser Loras yesterday and had hammered him out of the saddle with his very first lance, there was little doubt left that he would win this tourney at this point. The most common name that came up was of course Margaery Tyrell and Rhaenys noticed how the Stark girl's gaze drifted downwards whenever Margaery and Aegon were mentioned together.

It hurts her to think about it, Rhaenys thought, and for a moment she pitied the girl. Then again, no one pities me either.

The conversation then changed to Oberyn, who also made it to the semifinals, mainly because Valena Toland wouldn't stop talking about him. If Uncle Oberyn hadn't been so infatuated with his paramour Ellaria Sand, Lady Valena would probably have been only too happy to offer herself to give him a few more bastards.

"Where is Oberyn anyway?", her mother asked. "I haven't seen him since the second day of the jousting, I believe."

"At the moment, he's with Aegon and Daeron at the tourney grounds," Rhaenys answered, who had hardly spoken a word so far. "They wanted to go and see the melee. Boys and their swords," she said with a wink. From the Reach Ladies' direction there were immediately some furtive laughs at her comment.

For the Reach claiming to have practically invented chivalry and ladylike values, they are all pretty depraved, Rhaenys thought.

Her mother just threw a wry grin at her. Like many Dornish, her mother had never shown much shame or restraint when it came to sex. Whether it was about talking about it or doing it. The Stark girl also seemed to understand the comment as her face suddenly became as red as her hair.

If the rumors are to be believed, the one has been ridden by more men than a tourney horse and the other is so uptight that she can't even think about sex, let alone do it, without blushing, Rhaenys thought. It was astonishing how these two ladies, each in her own way, were totally unsuitable for her Aegon.

They talked some more about the tourney, about their respective favorites and whether they had already chosen suitable dresses for the big feast and dance at the end of the tourney. Some of the ladies asked if others would like to accompany them later or in the next days to see the rest of the melee as well, as their brothers or cousins or betrothed were taking part in it. But the response was rather reserved. To Rhaenys' surprise it was her mother of all people, who after a little more than an hour suggested to refine the offered tea a little bit and sent one of the servants to fetch her old and worn-out leather bag from under the bed in her rooms. Immediately the lad hurried off and returned shortly afterwards, sweaty and out of breath, carrying said bag. Rhaella looked a bit displeased when Elia pulled a corked clay flask out of the bag, removed the cork and let it go through the round so everyone could have a quick sniff. Rhaenys was sure however that her grandmother was only pretending to be shocked.

"You all should know what you are in for," her mother said with a grin.

The ladies smelled it one by one, whereby most of them turned up their nose and quickly passed on the flask. Rhaenys herself didn't need to smell it to know that her mother had brought Black Scorpion Liqueur with her from Sunspear, a terribly strong swill into which a small amount of scorpion poison was mixed. Supposedly an aphrodisiac.

"So who wants some of this?"

Only a few of the ladies were brave enough to hold out their tea cups to have their tea refined by the queen. Margaery refused politely but firmly, with as false a smile on her face as one could imagine. To Rhaenys surprise, after an encouraging nod from grandmother, the Stark girl also held out her cup and had some of the swill poured into the rest of her tea.

Well, at least she is brave.

Her mother poured the most of it into her own cup and the one of grandmother, who of course didn't refuse despite her defamatory look. The others politely sipped on it but put the cups aside as discreetly as possible. Only Velana Toland and the Stark girl drank up. Before her mother could offer a second round, a servant came closer and announced the arrival of Prince Viserys. He had just finished speaking when her uncle already appeared behind the boy. He wore another one of those hideous robes again, red and green and with threads of black, which he stiffly and firmly claimed to be old Valyrian style but which only made him look like a fool. At least he had – for the moment – chosen not to get his hair back into one of those weird shapes and had tied it into a simple braid. Boros Blount, for once, had enough sense to recognize when he was misplaced and stopped at the entrance to grandmother's garden, far enough away so that Rhaenys would not have to endure his gaze again.

"Mother," he greeted grandmother Rhaella. "Rhaenys, Elia."

Rhaenys had noticed very well how Viserys had not only greeted her mother last, but also refused to address by her title as queen. This was, as so often, an open and easily seen through provocation. Fortunately, her mother was way too calm and smart to let something like that upset her. Instead she smiled as friendly at him as if she was talking to a child when she addressed him.

"Viserys, it's good to see you. Would you like to join us for tea?"

"No, thank you very much. It's not for me."

"Probably not Valyrian enough," Rhaenys threw in while nipping on her cup of refined tea again. There were some quiet laughs and slight smirks, but most of the ladies present did not dare to openly laugh at the brother of the king.

"I just wanted to see how my sister-in-law is doing," Viserys said, ignoring Rhaenys' comment.

"You could have seen her at her welcoming a few days ago already. Or at the opening joust of the tourney. Or at the dance afterwards. Or at the other jousts you've avoided attending since then," said Rhaella.

"Rhaegar wasn't at the welcoming either and-"

"Rhaegar is the king. Whatever we may think of it, it's his right to stay away if he so desires. You are not however, and therefore I expect you to take your duties as a member of the royal family seriously, son." Her grandmother's voice got sharper with every word spoken. Rhaenys knew they've had discussions like this many times before. Rhaegar was the king and for some reason Viserys as the king's brother thought he was on a par with him because of that.

"Please, let's not fight," her mother finally said. "I'm sure Viserys was simply too busy. He can simply attend the next joust or the next dance. I'm sure many ladies present would be very happy to be asked to dance by you."

Visery's gaze wandered through the round. For a short moment his eyes stayed on Rhaenys, then on Margaery, then on two of the girls from the Reach with gorgeous dark brown curls, followed by Lady Valena and finally for a moment on the Stark girl.

"I pass," he said and turned his face to a grimace. „There are plenty of princesses with pure Valyrian blood in the city begging to be married to me. I can do well enough without these common girls."

It couldn't have sounded more disparaging even if he wanted to. But Rhaenys didn’t say a word as she was already grateful that he hadn't thrown any insults at poor Shireen.

"Viserys!", her mother and grandmother began to reprimand him at the same time, telling him that such behavior towards their guests was totally unacceptable and that he of course would have to apologize. He however seemed to be totally unimpressed and looked even more smug, as if he had just accomplished some great deed which simply nobody but him could appreciate.

"Maybe you should leave now," Rhaella finally said. "And if you don't want to come and see Aegon jousting, it would be all right given the way you've been acting around here."

"Don't worry, mother. I'm not interested in this childish theatre anyway."

"But Prince Viserys," Margaery purred to him. "Tourneys are great opportunities for young knights to show off their skills, don't you think?"

"If Aegon thinks he has to prove his so-called skills, let him make a fool of himself."

"He would defeat you in a tourney in any discipline faster than you could look." Now it was the Stark girl who spoke, as Rhaenys was surprised to see. She stood up to face Viserys, almost as tall as he.

"He would be welcome to try," Viserys hissed back.

"Difficult as long as you don't have the courage to face him."

Impressive, Rhaenys thought. That girl's got a bit of backbone when it comes to Aegon.

"Also, that would probably get your robe dirty, or whatever that is supposed to be," the Stark girl continued.

"This robe is old Valyrian style," Viserys said visibly enraged. "It's a proud token of my most noble heritage. What else am I supposed to wear on a continent otherwise solely populated by savages?"

"Unless the alternative is an instant and painful death, I would simply risk dressing normally."

Rhaenys' eyes grew wide with astonishment and surprise and she almost choked on her tea in the first moment. Some of the ladies looked shocked, but the Stark girl did not budge an inch. Viserys also looked at her in shock, his face turning red with anger and Rhaenys saw the veins on his neck start to throb. Just when it looked like Viserys was about to explode, to hit or to choke her, Rhaenys' mother and grandmother started laughing out loud and from the depths of their lungs.

Suddenly his face became as white as chalk and he looked at grandmother Rhaella in bewilderment, how she could possibly laugh at him. He wanted to protest, wanted say something but found no ear. The other ladies started to laugh carefully as well. Viserys tried to protest again, but again found no ear. Rhaenys couldn't hold on to herself and laughed as loud as her mother and grandmother now. Quick as a lightning bolt, Viserys turned around and stormed off, but not without giving the Stark girl another devastating look. Only when Viserys was out of sight did the Stark girl, who had kept a straight face the whole time, sit down again and allow herself a soft but proud smile.

She earned that. Who would have thought that she had something like that in her?

After the laughter faded, the ladies at the table continued talking for a while, mainly about the tourney, and it was clear how hard all ladies tried to ignore what they had just seen. After the better part of an hour, Margaery and her entourage finally excused themselves, thanked the Queen for the invitation and left. Apparently, she had another appointment with another queen, her own grandmother, the Queen of Thornes. The Stark girl left shortly after, obviously still proud of her encounter with Viserys, but also a little upset. She curtsied perfectly in front of the Queen and Queen Mother and left the small garden almost hastily. A short look of the girl also fell on Rhaenys as she hurried out, now again looking as shy as a deer. Rhaenys was sure that the Stark girl was afraid of her. Finally, the ladies from Dorne said their goodbyes as well, taking Shireen with them. The already slightly drunk Valena Toland was the last to leave.

To Rhaenys' disappointment, her mother also took her leave only minutes later. She was tired, she said, and wanted to rest a bit before the jousting continued. A knight from Dorne, Ser Orwen Sand, who accompanied her wherever she went, helped her up and led her out of the garden towards her rooms. Her mother, contrary to her claim, did not look very tired and clasped Ser Orwen's arm all too willingly, smiling brightly at the knight. She was sure that he would now take her not only to her chambers but also straight to bed. She would probably be much more exhausted afterwards than she was now. Rhaella seemed to have noticed this as well and threw a knowing look at Rhaenys. She was glad that her mother obviously had a man in her life – and in her bed – who made her happy again.

For a while they sat there in silence, drinking tea and looking out into the bay outside the city, before her grandmother finally started talking again.

"I told you she has wits. And courage, too, as it seems."

She was of course talking about the Stark girl, Rhaenys knew.

"Yes, you said that. But can't we talk about something else? Since his return, all I hear from Aegon is Sansa here, Sansa there."

Her grandmother did not answer, but rather poured herself some more of the Black Scorpion, which her mother had fortunately forgotten. Rhaenys also held out her cup and her grandmother generously poured more. Again they sat there in silence for a while, enjoying the light wind and looking down into the bay. This time it was Rhaenys who began to speak.

"He has fallen for that northern girl."

"Of course he has. She is lovely. Brave and beautiful and she is clever. Cleverer than she knows."

"You already said that. But even if. She is from the North. Again from the North. A Stark even. Father will never allow that. And he shouldn't."

"And why is that, sweetling?"

"Because of what the last Stark has done to mother of course," Rhaenys said, now openly upset.

"But that was not only the doing of the Lady Lyanna, was it?"

"Maybe not. But still ... She is a Stark. Could it not at least have been a girl from any other family?"

"Sometimes the gods have a strange sense of humor, don’t they?" her grandmother said, emptying her cup in one gulp.

"She is a Stark", she said as if that should be enough of an argument.

"Yes, she is. One of the best lineages of the realm."

"A Stark", she said louder.

"And you think, because of what another Stark daughter – and your father mind you – did wrong almost two decades ago, that now their bloodline is somehow ... soiled?"

Her grandmother looked at her with pity in her eyes. A loving pity, but still pity. The she had always looked at her like that when Rhaenys had been a child, trying to discuss why she could not simply eat some more cakes instead of a real meal before going to bed.

"If the world would work that way, sweetling, we of all families would be having the hardest time by far now. Think about who your grandfather was, my brother and husband, and what he has done to the realm and its people, not just to one single woman, as undeserved as it may have been."

"She cannot have him", Rhaenys finally decided.

It took a long time before her grandmother spoke again.

"You want him for yourself, don't you, sweetling?"

Rhaenys didn't know when exactly she had started to cry, but now she felt her grandmother's warm hands wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"I know he doesn't love me", she finally said, sobbing and crying. Her grandmother now moved closer to her, hugged her so that Rhaenys could cry into her shoulder.

"Oh sweetling, of course he loves you."

"But not the way I want him to." She almost shouted at her grandmother now and it took her some moments to calm down again, before she could go on. "Not the way I need him to. I know I cannot force him. Neither to love nor to marry me. I always thought that someday father would do that for me. Force him to marry me and then, over time, his love would develop. In the end, it would not have been me who forced him into it then. But now ... Now I know that father will never do such a thing. And instead of me, his sister, there is yet another Stark girl snapping away a prince from his rightful queen."

She cried softly for a while longer and felt her grandmother's hands stroking her head to calm her down, as she had always done when she had been a little child. At some point – Rhaenys didn't know how much time had passed – she finally got a grip on herself again. She wiped the last tears from her face, gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek and made her way back to her rooms. She wanted to be alone. Ser Jaime followed her on the way but fortunately didn't ask what was wrong with her. He knew her well enough to understand that she did not want to talk about it and in her mind she thanked him for it.

In her chambers she took off her dress and the necklace she had worn and lay down on the bed. The window was open and a light, warm wind caressed her skin and hair, which slightly remembered her of her grandmother's caring hands. It did not take long before she fell asleep. When she woke up again, she could not remember her dream. Only the last image before opening her eyes stuck in her mind, the image of Aegon and the Stark girl dancing. The image of how happy Aegon had been, holding the girl in his arms and getting lost in her eyes.

She sat up, looking out of the window when her mind began to clear and her thoughts began to come back. She loved Aegon. She loved him deeply and with all her heart. But she knew that he would never be able to love her the same way. He would never betray her, would fight for her and die for her if need be, she knew. But whatever love he held for her, would never be of the same sort of the love she held for him. It almost made her cry again to realize – as sad as this thought made her – that she could not blame him for it. And sadly she could not blame the Stark girl either.

When she had been a little girl, it had surprised her to learn that regular humans indeed did not fall in love with their own siblings. She herself had been deeply in love with Aegon for as long as she could remember. From the moment of that realization on, she had known that it was a strength of the Targaryen blood to be able to do just that, given how much power blood could hold, and royal blood in particular. She had not inherited the Targaryen colors, but the Targaryen beauty. She had been told that her whole life. Aegon had inherited both, the colors and the beauty. But the one thing he was missing, was this strength. He would never be able to fall in love with her the way she was in love with him almost her entire life already.

Of course, when she had been little, her love had been a childish, naive love. But it had developed into something deep and true. It had been hard for her to realize that his love for her would never develop the same way, that it would always be the love of a brother for his sister. Her brother was perfect in every sense possible, smart and strong and gallant and the most beautiful man any woman could ever image ... But this one thing, this tiny little thing was missing for him to be perfect. For them to be perfect, to be perfect together.

She knew deep in her heart that she would have been the perfect woman, the perfect queen and the perfect wife for him. She would have been able to give him the most perfect children imaginable, born to rule all the Seven Kingdoms, if not the world. But she also knew that this would never happen. He didn’t love her that way and he never could. But she still loved him and would always do so.

So she would be there for him, she decided. As his sister, as his confidant, as his friend. She would support him, do everything in her power to help him, to make him happy, to strengthen him and his reign and his family, even if he would be having this family with another woman. After all, what was true love if not that?

And if that meant she would need to help the Stark girl survive in King’s Landing, help her to be with her Aegon ... then so be it. She stood up from her bed, put her dress back on, took a short look in the mirror to make sure she was presentable and left her room. She would be looking for the Stark girl now.

Her name is Sansa, she reminded herself. She would be looking for Sansa now, as the little wolf had a lot to learn.

Ser Jaime still stood guard at her door and looked at her attentively as she stepped outside. He seemed to want to say something, but then he held back. Rhaenys could already guess what it was. She approached him and took his arm.

"I'm all right, Ser Jaime. I really am."

He nodded and a faint smile returned to his face. She gave him a little kiss on the cheek in gratitude.

"If you want to help me, Ser Jaime, find Lothar the tailor and bring him to my chambers. As quickly as possible."

Then she turned away without waiting for an answer and went off. She walked through the long corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, trying to figure out where to look for Sansa. At first she considered going to the Starks' chambers but decided against it. What lady would voluntarily spend her day in their rooms when there was the Red Keep to experience. A guard gave her the tip to search in the courtyard at the foot of the White Sword Tower. She went there but only found Sansa's younger sister Arya who for some reason seemed to be practicing sword with her great uncle Lewyn. She decided to go back to Maegor's Holdfast and visit the ladies' common rooms. Perhaps she would find her there. It wasn't long indeed before, following the loud chatter of some of the ladies from Highgarden, she found Sansa standing in a hallway surrounded by Margaery and her friends who were swaggering at her like a bunch of septas at the weekly service.

"You should think about it sometime. After all you want to make a good impression at court," was the last thing she heard Margaery say to Sansa.

"And you, Margaery, would certainly make a much better impression at court if you could keep your legs closed for at least some of the knights in King's Landing," Rhaenys said. "Why don’t you leave us now? I'm sure your grandmother would need her claws trimmed again."

For a brief moment Margaery looked as if she was considering responding something. But then she closed her mouth, which was still open in surprise, put on her fake smile again and after a very quick curtsey disappeared around the next corner, closely followed by her chicken pile. Sansa's eyes were fixed on the ground in shock and she was about to turn to leave as well.

"You stay where you are," Rhaenys commanded. She looked at Sansa and examined her extensively. Her eyes were still fixed on the ground. Apparently she didn't dare look directly at her yet. Yes, she was ravishingly beautiful, although there were still a lot of things that could and had to be changed to make her a serious candidate for her Aegon's hand.

"Come walk with me," Rhaenys finally said, hooked up with Sansa and dragged her down the hall with her without waiting for an answer. "Don't let her fool you. Margaery may look as delicate as a rose, but she has her grandmother's thorns. You must never trust her fake smile and sweet words. It's no more than a mask she wears, a role she plays to get what she wants."

"Thank you, Your Grace, I'll remember that," came the timid reply.

"But she is right. You will need to make an impression at court. Way more than you are doing now. We'll work on that. But first something else before I waste my time here. I noticed you've been avoiding Aegon lately. And don't think Aegon hasn't noticed that too."

For a few heartbeats she seemed to think about what to answer. If at all.

"That's right, Your Grace."

Good, at least she is not lying to me.

"So? What's the reason? I got the impression you had feelings for him. He certainly has feelings for you."

Her face flitted over to Rhaenys with a wide, bright smile. But as quickly as it had come, Sansa forced the smile away.

"I... I heard that Prince Aegon is to marry Lady Margaery soon, Your Grace."

"Where did you hear something like that?"

"Lord Tyrell told my father about it. He said he would offer Margaery's hand in marriage for Aegon and that the King would surely accept. And Margaery also said that she and Aegon would marry."

"And so you saw fit to stay away from him."

Sansa replied with a slight nod but said nothing. They reached a side exit of Maegor's Holdfast, took a few steps and walked along the outer wall with a view of the bay. A pleasant wind was blowing so high up and made both their manes fly like proud flags. They met some Gold Cloaks patrolling on the wall, but immediately they made way and bowed to the princess and the high lady. Rhaenys thanked the men with a regal smile and a short nod.

"And what was that with Ser Loras yesterday at the joust? You granted him your favor and smiled adorably at him, Aegon said."

"He said that? Oh, no. It… it was just that… No one had asked me for my favor but Ser Loras, so I wanted to be polite and I granted it to him because I didn't think Aegon would ask me anymore. Prince Aegon," she quickly corrected herself.

"It's all right," Rhaenys said with an honest smile. "It's Aegon for you. But why did you blush so sweetly when it was nothing more?"

"Blush? I didn't blush. I was warm. I'd been sitting in the blazing sun for two hours already. That was all! Please, you must believe me."

Rhaenys looked at her for a while, saw the pleading look in her big blue eyes. Rhaenys could more and more understand why Aegon had fallen for her so quickly.

"Now listen to me, little wolf. I'll settle this matter of Ser Loras with Aegon for you. It was obviously a misunderstanding. Just assume it never happened. And as for this supposed betrothal between Aegon and Margaery … this union exists in only two places in this wide world. In Margaery's foolish prattle and in Lord Tyrell's hollow head. But even if it were otherwise, that shouldn't stop you from fighting for what you want. We may not wield swords, but that doesn't mean we women don't have to fight for what we want. And if what you want is Aegon, you can't back out just because of a little gossip. If you're not willing to fight for Aegon, then you don't deserve him. So tell me, will you fight for Aegon?"

"Yes. Yes, I will fight for him, Your Grace," she answered quickly and confidently.

"Good. Very good, Sansa. And you may call me Rhaenys from now on. Because I have decided to help you."

"To help me with what, Your... Rhaenys?"

"To help you make the right impression at court. To behave properly. To survive, so to speak. You're a lady through and through, no doubt. But if you don't want to go down at court, there's more to it than curtseying and smiling. You have to stand out. You have to outshine everything and everyone."

Sansa looked down on herself.

"No, that's not what I mean. It's not about how you look. Not entirely, anyway. You are beautiful, ravishingly beautiful. Probably the most beautiful lady at court and one day perhaps even in the entire Seven Kingdoms. Besides me, of course. But that's just what you are, not who you are. So tell me, what do you like? Aegon, I know. But apart from him."

Sansa pondered for a moment.

"Lemon cakes," she said insecurely.

"It's a start, but it's not the right thing. I mean, what do you like to do? Riding, maybe? Or hunting?"

"No, I don't think so. I like singing."

"And are you a good singer?"

"Yes. Septa Mordane says my voice is sweet as warm honey."

"Good, we can work with that. We'll have to get rid of the septa, though. You can't be watched at every turn by that old crone like a little kid. You are a young woman now, a lady. And a lady must be independent if she wants to be taken seriously. We shall see to the septa. Now the most important thing is the following. Steer the court!"

"Steer the court? I don't understand, Your Gr... Rhaenys."

Rhaenys laughed for a moment. Sansa learned. That was good. She'd have to learn more, but at least she started straight away.

"It means you have to find a way to always be in control so that no one can have the slightest doubt that you are the most important person in the room. Think about what you like and what you are good at. Then get the people around you to do exactly that. In this way you will always be noticed, stand out from the crowd, because you will be outstanding in everything that is done or undertaken. Always, at all times, and at every opportunity, show the court that you are the future queen and no one else. You must not accept any rivals in this."

Sansa seemed to think about that for a moment. Rhaenys was glad that she apparently didn't just blurt out what she thought but seemed to consider her words beforehand. That was good. At first it might seem like Sansa was slow in the head, but in the long run it would help her gain the upper hand over ladies like the Tyrell girl who constantly babbled and chattered about whatever was going on in their empty heads.

"As a child I dreamed of being queen one day," Sansa then said. "But when I told father about it, he said that the king would never agree to such a union. Because of the rebellion and everything that happened back then."

"Who knows what the King will or will not do? I am his daughter and even I have no idea. But that doesn't matter right now. We will deal with the king when the time comes. And you're not supposed to go around claiming to be the next queen. That would be a horrible mistake, the same Margaery is making right now. Instead, you have to have a queen's aura. Everyone must see you and think that surely no one else but you could possibly become Aegon's wife. It means you must continue to be the perfect lady, polite and pretty, meek and mild and wonderful. That shouldn't be hard for you. But you must also display strength, show backbone when necessary. The way you handled Uncle Viserys today was absolutely perfect, dear," Rhaenys said and laughed at the memory of Viserys’ angry, speechless face. "It'll be the talk of the capital for days, if not weeks. You mustn't let anyone push you around. You've got to be in control at all times. No matter when, no matter who. Understand?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well, I don't think so. Not yet at least. But that's fine. You'll learn that as you become more important at court, more influential. For now, the only thing that matters is the court that immediately surrounds you. Margaery and her clucking hens most of all. This is where you must begin."

"And how?"

"We'll start by you declining the next invitation Margaery extends. No matter when or where or on what occasion she invites you. You will decline."

"For what reason?"

"Doesn’t matter. You don't give her a reason. Just decline. Then, shortly thereafter, you will invite her yourself for tea or something. In public. She will decline as well for sure and then we will make her regret it."

"How could she regret that?"

"Because she will invite me as well and I will also decline her invitation, but I will accept yours. Both in public. This will be a first, clear sign for the court that they should be near you rather than Margaery in the future. Right now, the Rose of Highgarden is the center of high society at King's Landing. Soon that will be you. But remember that the court is made up of men and women and you will want different things from them."

They walked on until they were almost back at their grandmother's garden. They stopped and turned towards the bay to enjoy some more of the wonderful fresh wind. Sansa looked like she was still processing what Rhaenys had just told her when she started talking again.

"What will I want?"

That's the right question.

"With men, it's easy. Every man must desire you, want you in his bed even though he knows he can never have you. Because you are the Crown Prince's favorite, and anyone who dares to touch you is committing treason. That's not exactly true, but every man must think it. In their eyes, it will only make you more desirable. With women, it's a bit more difficult to keep the balance. All the ladies at court must admire you, must want to be like you and must want to befriend you but at the same time must hate you from the depths of their dark souls because in the end they know they can never be like you. Because you are perfect in everything you do, out of reach for absolutely everyone at court. Except Aegon."

"That sounds..."

"Impossible?"

Sansa nodded.

"No, it's not. Difficult, but not impossible. At least not if you have the right assets. If you've got a queen in you, we'll soon find out. And like I said, I'm going help you do it."

Rhaenys looked over at Sansa and watched her for a while. She looked thoughtful as if something was burning on her soul but she didn't dare to speak out. Finally, she seemed to have found her heart after all.

"Why are you helping me, if I may ask?"

"I'd be shocked if you didn't ask," said Rhaenys and smiled kindly at her. "Because that would mean you're not as clever as grandmother supposes you are. You do have brothers. Do you love them?"

"Of course I do," Sansa said.

"And do you want them to be happy?"

"Of course I do," she said again.

"See? I love my brothers too, deeply and dearly. And that's why I want them to be happy. Especially my Aegon. And to see his young wolf go down and become miserable here at court would make him unhappy. So I cannot allow that to happen."

For a while the two of them just stood there, looking out at the sea and the bay, at the small boats that were struggling through the remains of the shallow water and at the large ships that were already lying aground, tilted and half-sunk in the mud, waiting to finally be able to resume their journey once this heat was over and the water would return. Then Rhaenys hooked under again and walked the way back to Maegor's Holdfast with Sansa. Sansa willingly followed her and smiled back, honest and sweet. They had already covered most of the distance by the time Rhaenys started talking again.

"There's something else you have to do, though. Wrapping the court around your beautiful finger is one thing, but there's something else."

"And what?"

"Aegon, of course. Aegon may be in love with you, but that's not enough. He must want you more than anything in this world. When you're not around, there must be no other thought for him but to see you again. And when you're near him, you must be the whole world to him."

"But how can I do that?"

"I will speak to Aegon. Discreetly. He will get into the final of the tourney for sure. He will ask for your favor then and you will grant it to him. And if he wins, I'm sure he'll make you Queen of Love and Beauty. There's no doubt about it."

Rhaenys could see the results already taking shape in Sansa's mind. Her face was a wild mixture of excitement and infatuation, fear and anticipation.

"But how does this make him love me more?"

"It doesn't. But it's the first step of our little plan. Of course, being his Queen of Love and Beauty, you will open the dance to celebrate his victory with him that night. That's your chance. You won't let him leave your side. Ever. Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him."

"I don’t know how," she said miserably.

"Oh, I think you do," Rhaenys said. "You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall by far. We will make sure of that. The fires in the wall sconces will be shining in your wonderful hair, so everyone will see how fair of face you are. And then, of course, you will wear one of your new dresses, which will drive mad every single man in the hall. You will be the material from which the singers and bards make their songs. Soon the entire realm will know that you are not just some lady, but a divine revelation of beauty. You will be the Maiden made flesh, Sansa. Aegon will have no choice but to fall completely under your spell."

"But I don't have any new dresses."

"We'll take care of that now. Come, Sansa. Let's go to my rooms."

With these words she pulled Sansa along with her towards her chambers. When asked what was wrong with her current dresses, Rhaenys replied as diplomatically as possible that they were pretty and nice, but that they made her look as if she wanted to become Septa and not win the heart of the Crown Prince. She was beautiful, slender yet womanly and would only become more beautiful and womanlier in the right places in the next years, that was obvious. And such a lady would not shine at court if she - hiding under layers of thick fabric - looked as if she feared a false glance could already rob her of her maidenhead – not to mention the fact that her clothes were simply too thick for the weather at King's Landing and that she looked as if she was always about to jump into the river at any moment.

"There's a very simple rule," Rhaenys said as they finally reached her chambers. "Fashion must do something for you, not against you. Your beauty is nothing if you don't use it."

Sansa suddenly stopped in shock as she entered the chambers. For a moment, Rhaenys was confused until she remembered that she had asked Ser Jaime to have Lothar brought to her chambers. The little man was indeed already standing there, his tape measure and a small piece of paper in his hand and some fabric samples spread out on the bed.

"Ah, you're here. Wonderful," Rhaenys said to him to take the tension out of the situation. "Sansa, this is Lothar, my tailor. He will make new dresses for you and I will help you choose the appropriate cuts and fabrics now."

Lothar bowed deeply to Sansa and she seemed to relax immediately.

"It's an honor, my lady."

Sansa curtsied politely and wonderfully as she always did, smiling somewhat uneasily at the little man. Rhaenys went over to one of her closets, took out some of her dresses and threw them on the bed.

"We're about the same height, although I have bigger breasts and wider hips than you. At least for now. But to see how the cuts look on you, my dresses will do."

Rhaenys took her first dress from the bed again, a slightly older one in dark wine-red color with a low neckline, long sleeves and free ankles and handed it to Sansa.

"Here, take this one. Get undressed and put this on."

Sansa's eyes immediately widened in fear when she realized she had to undress not only in front of Rhaenys but also Lothar. She hesitated, unsure of what to do now and looked bashfully over to the little man who didn't seem to notice the fear of the young woman at all. With a stern look and a nod of her head, Rhaenys told Lothar to turn around, which he immediately did. Only then did Sansa hesitantly begin to undo the lacings of her dress. Rhaenys came to her and also began to untie the knots and ribbons.

"I will help you. You don’t need to be afraid," Rhaenys said in a low voice and smiled encouragingly at her. This seemed to help, as Sansa still threw a checking glance in the direction of Lothar every now and then, but was now much faster and safer in opening her dress and finally letting Rhaenys pull it off her shoulders.

This sight will highly please my Aegon. For sure, Rhaenys thought as she looked intensely at the young woman's body and to her own surprise, she realized that she was not jealous, but honestly happy with this notion. Immediately afterwards Rhaenys helped Sansa to put on the red dress. It sat a little loose here and there, but the length was good indeed. Nevertheless Rhaenys was not satisfied. It wasn't enough that Sansa looked good. She had to be exceptional. So she helped her out of the dress again and handed her one in bright yellow, with half-long sleeves, showing a lot of shoulder.

"Lothar, turn around."

The man obeyed and now looked at Sansa closely. The longer the eyes of the two rested on her, the more insecure she seemed to become.

"No," he finally said. "That's not it. What about the green one from the celebration a year ago? Can't remember what exactly it was for. The color's not the right one, but the shape will suit her better."

"Yes, good idea," Rhaenys said, indicated to him to turn around again and immediately started to take Sansa's dress off again. Then she handed her the light green dress from the bed and helped her to put it on correctly as well. It had no sleeves and deep cuts at the sides that exposed the legs with every step. It was high-cut at the front so you couldn't see much of the chest, almost up to the nape of her neck, but had a neckline at the back that ended just about two hand's breadths above her butt.

"That's perfect," said Rhaenys and Lothar could only nod in agreement, mumbling "Indeed" a few times. Immediately, he came closer, ignored Sansa's surprised look and started taking her measurements.

"What do you think? Look at yourself," Rhaenys said, pointing to the large mirror that stood next to the closet. Sansa broke away from Lothar, who was still taking measurements, and went over to the mirror. Again her eyes widened in shock and her cheeks blushed.

"This... this is... I can't..." she stuttered.

"Well, it's... more open, more feminine than anything you have."

"Yes," she breathed.

"It's gorgeous, ravishing, enchanting. Just what we need. Please, trust me on this. I know you're not used to this. But it would be a shame to hide a beautiful body like yours, dear. Believe me. I don't want you to feel naked or uncomfortable, so if this dress going too far for your taste, it's okay. Then just say so and we will find something else. But I promise you, if you show up to the dance in a dress like this, Aegon won't be able to help but fall in love with you with all his heart and soul. So what do you say?"

"I want it!" she quickly answered.

Rhaenys began to grin with joy and Sansa couldn't hold herself back either and was smiling all over her face as well now. As unusual as this very open, almost Dornish style might be to her, Sansa obviously couldn't help but recognize how breathtaking she looked in it. Rhaenys turned around and looked at the fabric samples on the bed. One of them immediately caught her eye. She took out a sample of the finest silk in a very dark purple tone and held it next to Sansa.

"This one is perfect. It goes wonderful your light skin tone, fits your hair and it's the exact color of Aegon's eyes. Feel it. It's spider silk from Qarth."

Only now did Sansa realize what kind of cloth it was.

"Oh, no. That's too expensive. My father would never-"

"Don't worry about that, dear," Rhaenys interrupted her. "I'll pay for that. Lothar, we'll take this fabric. The dress must be ready in two days, so you'd better hurry."

"Two days? But Princess-"

"Two days. I trust you can do it, old friend."

"Of course, Princess," he said, but the panic was clearly audible in his voice. He would still make it. Rhaenys had given him impossible tasks before and he had never disappointed her. After this task however, she decided that in the future she would not challenge him in this way for a while. Lothar immediately packed his belongings together, stuffed the precious fabric samples into his small bag and almost fled the room, after he had poorly bowed to the two of them as he was running past.

Rhaenys took some more of her less open-hearted dresses from the closet, which could easily be changed for Sansa's more youthful physique. Even if they would save the big surprise for the final dance of the tourney in two days time, it would do no harm to provide her with some dresses beforehand, in which she would not sweat herself half dead until then.

"Now all we need is a good maester," Rhaenys said and received a questioning look from Sansa in reply. "Because the sight of you will no doubt make the hearts of all men in the capital stand still."

Notes:

So that was chapter 11. Hope you liked it.

I at least had very much fun writing it. To be honest, this chapter was one of the first things I had in mind when I started to write this whole fic. So please do let me know what you think, what you liked or disliked. As always, I'm happy to read your thoughts in the comments.

See you next time.

Chapter 12: Daeron 4

Notes:

Hi all,

the next chapter is here. Daeron is trying to avoid watching the tourney at first and then - after a little shocking moment for him - heads back to the city and observes something slightly disturbing.

The sun burned relentlessly and Daeron was happy to wear the thinnest and airiest doublet he possessed. It was made of good fabric yet simple in style, grey and black without any crests or embroidery. Even Daeron's horse seemed to suffer so much from the heat that every step seemed to be too much for it. He tried to remember the last, that hot summer, but it didn't seem as if the Seven Kingdoms – at least during his lifetime – had ever had to go through such weather. At least Daeron couldn't remember anything even remotely comparable. Only his last visit to Dorne came to his mind. The two months he had spent at Prince Doran's court together with Rhaenys and Aegon about a year before he had left for Winterfell. But in Dorne there had been the Water Gardens at least, where you could always spend the whole day in the shade, eat ripe fruits and cool down in the fresh water.

On the tourney grounds there was hardly a shady place left where a man, dog or horse had not already made himself comfortable. All that remained of the Blackwater was a miserable trickle and that was hardly enough to get your hands wet, let alone cool your whole body, while fresh fruit – just like any other food – seemed to become more and more rare. The stocks at the Red Keep were still filled sufficiently but Daeron noticed, not for the first time since his return, the increasing number of beggars on the streets of the nearby city and on the ways of the tourney grounds – men, women and children – who were not asking for a few coins but for food and fresh water.

He continued his way to the grandstands and soon found himself surrounded by the camps of lords and knights and squires, merchants and whores. A small stall near the entrance to the grandstands still sold beer and dark bread with lard. At outrageous prices of course, but Daeron did not care much about that at that moment. He heard the cheering and shouting from the arena as he tried to find a shady place at one of the stalls nearby to drink his beer. It was heavy and malty, so thick you could almost chew it. Actually exactly to his taste, but still not the right thing in this heat. The cheering of the crowd was now so loud that the first jousting of the semifinal had undoubtedly just begun. An event he normally wouldn't have wanted to miss for the world. Especially since Aegon took part in this semifinal against none other than Ser Barristan Selmy, who despite his advanced age had managed to become one of the favorites of the tourney.

However, as much as he wanted to support his brother, he did not manage to get excited about it. Since his conversation with Jeyne, he found it difficult to get excited about anything really. Every day he had to control himself anew not to go to her and ask her for forgiveness on his knees. He missed having her near him. To touch her, to smell the scent of her hair, to kiss her on the lips, on the tips of her tender breasts and ... But it was not possible. Rhaenys and Aegon were right. Leaving her was the only right thing to do. No matter how painful it had been and still was.

He knew that Rhaenys would give him hell for missing Aegon's joust. But right now he couldn't even get anxious about that. It seemed as if he had no emotions left to use on anything but his yearning thoughts of Jeyne. So Daeron drank up his beer and walked around the tourney grounds for a while. His horse would be waiting for him at the entrance of the grandstands, where he had tied it next to the horses of some Gold Cloaks. He roamed among the tents of the knights and lesser lords and tried to practice recognizing the men's coats of arms. With most of them he succeeded quite well – apart from the coats of arms of the landless knights that he had never seen before and probably would never see again in his life of course – even though he had to admit that he hadn't practiced for far too long. Now and then he stopped at one of the stalls, looked at the goods on display, ate or drank a little something of the little that was still to be sold. Especially the exotic food and drinks that were supposedly or actually from Essos were appealing to him.

I may perish from a broken heart, but at least I won't starve to death, he thought half bitter.

Quite a large number of the stalls, however, had nothing left to sell anymore and only seemed to remain on their places because the paths between the stalls and tents were too narrow to make the way back out through them. Most of the merchants could only sell what they had brought into the city before the beginning of the tourney, or what they had bought for too high a price in the city and were now trying to resell at even higher prices. Fresh food had not arrived in the capital for some time. Daeron had learned from one of the Gold Cloaks who had been standing guard in front of the Red Keep when he left it that there had been some thefts and robberies in the previous nights. Three men and one woman had been killed as a result, a Gold Cloak had lost his left hand. There had even been a stabbing between five men over a loaf of bread. The only survivor had been well fed when he had gone to the gallows.

He heard short bursts of jubilation from the arena, but these quickly faded away. So neither of them had been knocked out of the saddle yet. Probably both had broken their lances on the other in some spectacular way. He was supposed to be there now, Daeron thought. He should be in the arena cheering for his brother. He passed the wagons of some prostitutes presenting their form of displays. They came in all sizes, shapes and colors, for all possible tastes. Most of the whores were Westerosi, but he also saw some tall and dark-skinned beauties, probably from the Summer Isles. Some of the whores were old and with sagging tits, probably from the sucking mouths of several children, others seemed so young that Daeron doubted if they had even had their bleedings yet. One of the girls caught his eye for a moment. She was short, slim and pretty, with small firm breasts, large dark eyes, black hair and a shy smile. For a short moment he imagined what the girl looked like without her clothes and immediately he had to think of Jenye's body, her firm breasts and the soft, dark hair between her thighs.

He quickly shook off the thought though and walked away. The last thing he needed now was to be seen picking out a cheap whore behind the grandstands where in the same moment his brother was jousting in the semifinals. Not that he had truly intended to buy that whore even for a heartbeat. And even if he had, he probably wouldn't have had many reproaches to expect, but he didn't even want to imagine the looks and the biting laughter of Aegon and Rhaenys he would have had to suffer for months if not years.

He came across a group of Dornish soldiers sitting around a small table and half a barrel of strong wine, playing dice and almost bursting with laughter.

"May I?" he asked the Dornish, pointing to the last empty seat at the low table. The group looked at him somewhat wary at first, but a short jingle with his purse quickly scared away any mistrust. The stake was two copper pennies per round and the rules were simple enough so that after a short introduction to what they were actually playing, Daeron at least did not lose every game. It was fun and the men shared some of their strong wine with him, even more so when the men realized that Daeron would not come out of the game with a win. He played with the men for a little less than an hour and had lost six-and-ten pennies when he finally decided to take his leave.

Only now did he notice that the cheering from the arena had noticeably decreased. So Aegon's joust was over – probably for quite a while already – and now the semifinals in the melee and then in archery would take place. He walked back towards the entrance of the grandstands but was distracted again by a couple of men from Essos, who were apparently playing a familiar card game. He sat down again and played a game of Three Turtles and a Boat with two leather merchants from Pentos and a Tyroshi, who however would not say anything about what he did for a living and only smiled mischievously when Daeron asked him about it. Now he had missed it all anyway. What difference could a few more moments make? He lost, six copper pennies this time. Daeron was sure that the two Pentosi had been cheating – they were probably in on it with the Tyroshi, who didn't seem to be the least bit angry about his own loss – but left it at that. The money was not important enough for him to get into a fight with these men.

He did not want to play another round with the men, however, if only because he was not interested in being completely stripped. So he got up, said a short goodbye and continued his way to the grandstands. At the tourney he could at least sit in the shade in the royal box and would be served refreshments. But surely Jeyne would be there too, although a bit further away in the box of the Starks. As much as he wanted to see her, Daeron wasn't sure if he could really stand the sight of her. So he decided to visit Aegon first. After his joust, he would undoubtedly be washing and changing right now, and Daeron would either congratulate him on his magnificent victory or give him some encouragement after his defeat.

The way was not far and the posted Gold Cloaks willingly made room for him as he entered the low building with the rooms for the remaining contestants. His brother was indeed still there, had already washed himself, put the armor back on the wooden stand like a piece of art on display, and was almost done getting dressed. He was beaming all over his face when Daeron entered – so obviously he had won – and for the first time that day Daeron seriously regretted not having seen his brother's joust.

"Brother, there you are! Couldn't wait for your great idol to finally take his place next to you, huh?" he asked with a broad grin. "By the Seven, what a joust. Please do me a favor. If I ever talk about Barristan as an old man again, just punch me in the face. No man half his age in all the Seven Kingdoms could have given me a fight like that today, don't you think?"

Daeron was just about to answer when Aegon forced a cup of wine into his hand, cold and sweet-smelling, took one for himself and downed it.

"It is a pity that I could not capture this moment, frame it like a painting. I'll probably never pull a thrust like that again in all my life," he babbled on immediately. "Why do you look so sad? I have won! Or did you bet against me and are sad about your money now?"

"Actually, I haven't seen the joust," he finally admitted, crestfallen.

"What?"

"I missed it. I wanted to be there, but... somehow I didn't make it. I'm sorry, brother."

Aegon turned, wordlessly, and finished dressing. Daeron wanted to say something, wanted to apologise. But he didn't want to lie to his brother and to say that he just didn't feel like it would hardly make things better. That he had missed one of the greatest moments of his life because he had let himself be cheated by three strangers in a card game was not what he wanted to say either. He was hoping Aegon would say something. He should curse him, reproach him, yell at him, punch him even. Do or say anything. But nothing came. Aegon was silent, didn't say a word when he walked past him to the door without looking him in the eyes. His laugh was gone. Only sheer disappointment remained. And that hurt so much more than every word and every curse and every punch in the face he could have imagined.

Aegon went ahead to the royal box, Daeron followed him quickly. Several times he tried to say something to Aegon but did not find the right words and so he abandoned the thought every time. They entered the box and instantly the wide smile was back on Aegon's face as he was greeted and congratulated by his family. Rhaenys was the first to jump up to him, kiss him on both cheeks and whisper something in his ear that seemed to irritate Aegon for a short moment but made him seem all the happier afterwards. He almost asked Aegon about it, but then in the last moment decided that his brother was hardly in the mood to share any secret with him right now. Elia and Rhaella then went on to embrace Aegon, until Oberyn jumped up and hugged Aegon so violently that he almost fell over backwards.

Aegon chatted animatedly with Oberyn, who seemed to be bursting with pride, while Daeron sat down next to Rhaenys and gratefully accepted a cup of cold water a servant immediately handed to him. It took only a few moments until he felt Rhaenys' eyes on him. He looked over to her and was glad that looks could not kill. Otherwise he would have gone up in flames on the spot.

"Where have you been?" she hissed to him.

"I didn't make it in time. I had something to do," he added when he saw her unbelieving look.

"You had something to do? We all had something to do and we all made it in time, Daeron. What exactly did you have to do that was so urgent? Are you kidding me?"

"I just didn't feel good, okay?"

"No! No, it's not okay," she said now in a tone that made it clear that she would have preferred to yell at him. "I don't care how you felt or how you feel now. Unless a maester says you're dead sick, I don't care how you feel. You're not a child anymore. You're a grown man, a prince of the realm, so you better start acting like one. By the gods, I don't know a single lady at court who behaves as childishly as you because of her heartache."

Daeron didn't know what to answer. He thought about justifying himself, trying to explain his pain to her, his complete lack of interest in and passion for absolutely everything. That food in his mouth tasted only of ashes, every drink of nothing more than stale water, every excitement passed him by like an almost forgotten dream of a night past. But before he could say anything, Rhaenys went on again.

"Even Lady Jenye has more backbone than you. Look over there. There she sits and has fun." Daeron's gaze followed Rhaenys' nod and indeed, he immediately spotted Jeyne sitting in the box of the Starks, next to Sansa with whom she seemed to have a lively conversation. She smiled and talked excitedly.

"And just in case you're interested," his sister immediately resumed. "Aegon and Ser Barristan were both magnificent. They needed seven lances. In the end, Aegon broke his lance on Ser Barristan's helmet and won by one point."

Daeron was silent. For a long time. He didn't even dare to look at Rhaenys and watched instead how pages and squires cleaned up the interior of the arena – so he had already missed the first fight of the semifinals of the melee as well – and cleared broken shields and spears, twisted pieces of armor and splintered swords out of the way. Two groups of combatants would now face each other before the semifinals in archery would be held. After that there would be the second semifinal in jousting, in which a hedge knight named Tallad the Tall would face Ser Gregor Clegane. Next to him, he heard his grandmother briefly say to Elia that Daeron must be regretting that he did not take part in the tourney as well. In a tourney with so many memorable matches and moments, surely every young man wanted to make a name for himself.

Daeron didn't say a word, because apparently they didn't talk to him but about him, but he had to admit that his grandmother was right. As he sat here now, watching the incoming knights before the second melee and hearing how Aegon was still being showered with praise from Oberyn, he wished he had been part of it. Maybe he would have been eliminated early, maybe he would have made it to the final and competed against Aegon tomorrow. Either way, he now wished he could have been talked into it by Aegon and Oberyn. Finally, he took heart and turned to Rhaenys, who was sitting in her typically regal posture on her chair, looking down on the activity inside the arena. The melee didn't interest her much, as Daeron knew, but still more than the archery that would begin afterwards. Very few of those present in the royal box were particularly interested in archery, but at least the semifinals and the final – if the prizes were so royal – should be held under the eyes of the royal family. So much honor was to be given to the participants.

"What did you whisper to him? To Aegon, I mean," he finally asked.

Rhaenys looked at him for a moment, as if she was considering if he was worth talking to again, but eventually decided to do so.

"This is Aegon's business. If you want to know, you have to ask him yourself. I doubt he'll want to speak to you, though."

It would have surprised me to get out of it so easily, he thought.

One horn sounded and the second melee began. Rhaenys looked a bit confused at the hustle and bustle in the arena, obviously trying to figure out who was who. But she didn't ask and Daeron decided that he didn't want to impose himself either. If his sister had a question, she would surely ask it. To his astonishment, Daeron realized that he probably wouldn't have been much of a help to her anyway. Apart from a few knights from the Reach - he recognized the coats of arms of the houses Ambrose, Tarly and Costayne - and two knights from the Westerlands, Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Steffon Stackspear, the groups seemed to consist exclusively of landless hedge knights.

Two times seven men faced each other in the arena, but it took surprisingly little time until only Ser Preston and two hedge knights were still standing upright. Without hesitation Ser Preston advanced at the first hedge knight and quickly knocked him down with some skillful blows. Now he was facing only one more hedge knight, a tall man with a morning star in his right hand, the face completely hidden behind a closed helmet. The shield that the knight was carrying looked somewhat familiar to Daeron, but he didn't remember where he had seen it before. It showed a green shooting star above an elm tree proper on sunset.

Ser Preston attacked his remaining opponent just as quickly as he had attacked the previous one, but this time he had much less success. The hedge knight fended off blow after blow, with both the morning star and the shield, and held his own against the skilled swordsman. The crowd had apparently already chosen their favorite and now chanted morning star, morning star loudly. His family was equally captivated by the spectacle, Aegon and Oberyn began betting on one of the knights each, and Daeron too could not help but acknowledge how fascinated he was by now. The duel between the two lasted longer than the whole of the previous melee. More and more the exhaustion of the two knights became obvious, the blows were slower, they held their shields not raised so high anymore.

Both looked as if they were about to collapse from exhaustion as Ser Preston finally took one last elegant lunge to the side to slip past his opponent's half-hearted cover. The latter, however, had recognized the maneuver in time, bundled all his strength for one last time and hammered the morning star with brute force against the shield of Ser Preston, who was thrown over backwards, losing his grip on his sword and holding only the remains of his burst shield in his hand. The crowd cheered wildly as the hedge knight stood victoriously before Ser Preston, dropped the morning star and helped the defeated man back on his feet. His family was thrilled by the magnificent fight and even Aegon, who had apparently lost the bet against his Uncle Oberyn, clapped and laughed heartily for the winner.

The cheering continued for a while after the two fighters had long left the arena. Once again, pages and squires rushed in, cleared away the melee's leftovers and now began to set up the targets for the semifinals in archery, dolls made of straw and wood. Daeron was grateful that there was only one round in archery. Twenty-one men would compete, seven would reach the final. When the archers finally entered the arena, the knights of the Kingsguard immediately took places closer to the edge of the box. Should a stray arrow find its way towards the royal family, there was at least a small chance for the white knights to intercept it with their bodies and protect the lives of the royals. However, this was not likely to happen at all. The targets were set up in the opposite direction from the archers and Daeron knew that a group of hidden crossbowmen were keeping an eye on the participants at all times. Should anyone even attempt to aim his bow at the royal box, he would be pierced by a dozen bolts long before he could even draw the bow.

For the crowd all around, archery was of course a special attraction, because unlike melee and jousting, archery was also open to those who were not of noble blood. The favorite was a giant guy called Tiny Willard. He was, from what Daeron had heard, a butcher from the Riverlands, but to Daeorn he looked more like a lumberjack, for the man looked like he could rip trees apart with his bare hands.

It's too bad he couldn't compete in the melee, Daeron thought.

The first arrows had been shot when Daeron looked in the direction of Jeyne for the first time again. She was still sitting next to Sansa, looking happy and seemed to be having fun. Daeron tried to convince himself that this sight made him happy as well, but the knot in his guts proved him wrong. Of course, he wanted Jeyne to be happy. He would never wish for anything else. But seeing her so happy while he himself felt so miserable was somehow … wrong. He saw Jeyne stand up, while both Sansa and Lord Stark shook their heads at a question from Jeyne. Probably, Daeron thought, she wanted to stretch her legs a bit or buy something to eat or drink and had asked both of them if they wanted something, too. Immediately it crossed his mind that this could be a chance for him. A chance to talk to her, even if only briefly, to ask her how she was doing. So he got up as well and left the royal box, his eyes fixed on Jeyne all the time, until she was finally covered by the wooden construction of the stairs. Daeron ignored Rhaenys' questioning look.

At the bottom of the stairs Daeron got into a huddle of people, who were pushing from here to there. The Gold Cloaks guarding the entrance to the royal box first tried to make room for him, but the crowd was too dense. He pushed his way through in the direction he thought Jeyne would go. It took a while and Daeron already thought he wouldn't find her when he finally saw Jeyne, flanked by two northerners belonging to the Starks' household, standing at a stall where servants offered the lords and ladies cold, watered wine. He walked up to her and was about to call her name when he spotted another man next to her, a young lad – probably from Dorne by the color of his skin – in brightly colored clothing, talking to her with a wide smile. For a moment he wanted to step in, send him away and protect her from him, but then he saw how friendly, almost intimate, she was talking to him. They put their heads together and Daeron was downright shocked when he saw how Jeyne put her hand on the young man's upper arm and gently drove him along. Jeyne smiled at him just as widely and warmly and didn't seem to want to take her hand off him anymore. A heat rose up inside of him, a mixture of anger and disappointment and jealousy. It was he who was supposed to be standing next to her. It was to him whose arm she was supposed to caress.

"Ser Koryn Wynch," he suddenly heard his sister's voice saying behind him. "In case you were wondering who that is."

Daeron didn't know what to say. How did Rhaenys know who this knight was and what did he have to do with Jeyne?

"He came to King's Landing with mother and uncle Oberyn," Rhaenys continued. "He's landless, but a good man, mother says. A household knight of House Qorgyle of Sandstone. Uncle Oberyn thinks he is too stiff and uptight for a Dornish, but coming from the Red Viper that's probably a good sign too. I thought Jeyne could use some distraction, so I encouraged him to get a little closer to her. Who would have thought that the two of them would actually get along so well?"

"This is your doing?" Daeron asked in shock. The anger inside him now turned against his sister.

"Oh yes, indeed."

"How could you do this? How is that any of your business?" he shouted.

"Don't make such a scene here, Daeron," Rhaenys hissed. "And before you go on raging like a defiant child, you'd better say thanks for this. Just because you seem to have chosen to perish in your little swamp of misery and self-pity like a flower in the Dornish sun, Lady Jeyne doesn't have to suffer the same fate. She doesn't deserve to be miserable for the rest of her time because of your selfishness. So you'd better either thank me or shut your mouth before you say something you'll regret."

With that she turned and stormed off. Of course she was right. She always was. Jeyne deserved to be happy. Yet it hurt Daeron to see how happy she seemed to be at the side of another man. Whether this Ser Koryn was her new love or just a little distraction. Suddenly, it felt as if Daeron alone had to carry the burden of their unfulfilled love on his shoulders. For a moment, he had the feeling of being crushed by his emotions, as if the burden literally pulled him to the ground. He was happy for Jeyne, but he was jealous nevertheless. He was grateful to Rhaenys that she had done this for Jenye but was angry at her for interfering in the first place. He wanted to scream and rage, wanted to sink into the ground at the same time. Wanted to drink himself unconscious, but feared what he would do if he could no longer control himself.

He also turned to leave. He asked one of the Gold Cloaks at the entrance to his family's royal box to inform them that he was not feeling well, left the grandstands, mounted his horse and rode back towards the city. He wanted to enter the city through the Lion Gate. Although the way through the King's Gate would have been shorter, he hoped to clear his head a little bit with a somewhat longer ride. He had just passed the Valyrian Quarter on the left and the Alchemists' Guild Hall on the right when he heard loud voices coming from the direction of Baelor's Sept and saw people streaming into the street towards it. The city was overcrowded, so if there was something going on that could be heard all the way to the beginning of the Street of the Sisters, it might be interesting.

The already dense crowd became even denser as he approached Baelor's Sept. Halfway he had to get off his horse to make room and walk on. He led the horse by the reins behind him. Finally he reached the forecourt and found a septon at the foot of the statue of King Baelor, standing on an empty cart and preaching to the crowd in a loud voice. At first he could not understand much of what the septon was saying. The masses around him were too loud – some expressing their disgust, many others their agreement – to be able to make out much. Only a few single words got through to him.

He heard thirst and heat, seven and stranger, king and witch. Only when he moved further through the crowd and reached one of the front rows did he understand more. The septon was a young man, tall but thin like a spear with dark hair and unsettling light blue eyes that seemed to be able to pierce down to Daeron's very soul.

"You there," the septon suddenly called and pointed in Daeron's direction. It took a moment until he understood that the septon had actually addressed him. "You are a knight, aren't you?"

He was happy to have chosen this exceptionally simple robe this morning. So far he had not been recognized by anyone as himself. Because of the good cloth from which his garments were made, the septon must have mistaken for a knight or the son of some lesser lord, but no one had bowed to him or addressed him with Your Grace or My Prince so far. He was also lucky that none of the men around were high-born enough to have ever been at court and seen him up close. It was not the first time that Daeron was grateful not to have inherited the Targaryen colors. For Aegon, with his purple eyes, silver-white hair and, as many said, the downright inhuman beauty of his family, such a walk would have been almost impossible without having to dye his hair and to cover at least half of his face. Daeron looked good himself. He knew that. Still, he could easily disappear in the masses if need be and he had never been more grateful for that.

"Yes, I am," he lied. Admittedly, he had not yet received his knighthood yet, but here and now did not appear to be the right place to ride around on such small details.

"You, my good knight, should be the first to join our noble cause! You swore an oath to the Seven when you were knighted. Just as all of you good people do whenever you kneel before an altar in a sept, when you ask the Smith for strength or the Mother for mercy. You should all join our most righteous cause! The Seven are punishing the realm and its people, I tell you! The hunger and thirst are a punishment from the Gods for us letting a witch whisper blasphemous lies into the king's ear! We can only overcome this evil if the king finally finds his way back into the heart of the Church and to true faith in the Seven."

The crowd agreed loudly. Some calls were raised, demanding the death of the witch. The septon went on, raging about the king tolerating the witch’s unholy presence in the Red Keep, the city of King’s Landing and the Seven Kingdoms in general. Out of the corner of his eye, Daeron saw a group of Gold Cloaks approaching, a dozen men in armor and their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them immediately if necessary. They pushed the listeners resolutely aside and circled the septon, who continued to preach completely unimpressed. But then he made a terrible mistake. The last thing Daeron heard the septon say was that a king who had turned away from the true faith could no longer demand fealty from anyone and therefore had to be removed from the throne. In the very next moment, the pommel of a sword struck him against the head and threw him down from the cart in a high arc.

Scattered voices of protest could be heard, but the swords at hand and the determined looks of the soldiers quickly silenced the crowd. The bleeding septon was immediately grabbed by two of the soldiers, put in chains and dragged behind the soldiers towards the Red Keep. For such inflammatory talk, the septon would no doubt spend a few restless nights in the dungeon and one of the torture chambers before he would eventually be released. Should he survive, that was.

Daeron quickly took his leave away from the Great Sept now. None of that sounded particularly good. Hunger was getting worse in the city, he knew. From other parts of the realm had come similar reports as he had heard from Aegon. And it was no surprise that the Faith did not simply accept that the king of all people turned away from the Seven and surrounded himself day and night with a red priestess from Asshai, who at every opportunity spoke of the Seven as being no more than lies and delusions. But the fact that a septon, whether he was merely tolerated or perhaps even ordered by the Faith, spoke publicly against the king was a whole new situation. Whatever his father or the Small Council wanted to do to provide for the people of the city had better be done quickly.

Getting rid of the red witch would ease the tension a little bit already, but it was highly unlikely that the king would send her away. After all he had heard, the king seemed more likely to bring even more of those red priests to King's Landing to confirm the witch's predictions with their own prophecies. So to prevent worse, the people had to have full bellies again at last. As a child he had, at the instruction of his teacher Maester Gallan, read many books about the history of the Seven Kingdoms, before and after the Conquest. And there had been enough examples where one or two missed meals had already made the difference between loyal bannermen and a rebelling mob.

Daeron considered whether he should try to see the king himself, tell him what he had just witnessed. But he doubted that his father would even want to talk to him about this situation. He had hardly seen him at all since his return. Daeron could not say if the king was even aware of what was going on and if he was, if he cared. And Lord Connington basically only took note of Daeron's presence so reluctantly that he doubted that he could have a serious conversation with him. He would talk to Aegon about what he had just seen and heard. Aegon had a place in the Small Council and although Daeron could of course show up there himself, he knew that Aegon had by now acquired a considerable weight for his voice in the Council. Right now he wouldn't be able to talk to his brother. The tourney was not finished for today and the royal box was neither the right place nor the right time for such talks during a joust. He therefore decided to return to Maegor's Holdfast, have a bite to eat and then wait for him there. He would have a lot to tell him.

Notes:

So, that was it. Thanks for reading. As always, feel free to let me know what you think, liked or disliked about this. :-)

The next chapter will most probably be from Ned's perspective again.

Chapter 13: Arya 1

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is already here. And I lied to you! SORRY! I said this chapter would be from Ned's perspective, but it's from Arya's now. But Ned's chapter will come next. I promise.
This chapter is basically a re-telling of chapter "ARYA III" from "A Game of Thrones", I just have changed the details to fit my story. But I still wanted to include it, so here it is now.

I'm not sure how many Arya-chapters there will be coming, because I haven't completely fleshed out where her story is supposed to lead in the end. Hope you still have fun with it.

Her sword lay heavy in her hand and the muscles in her arm burned like fire. The sword was only made of wood, but it still was heavy for her. She was proud of it. It was her own after all, but still it felt as heavy as if it were made of lead and in this very moment she hated it for that. She had left her chambers early this morning, as she had always done since arriving in King's Landing. Prince Lewyn didn't allow her to sleep late.

"A knight must know how to make better use of the light of day than to dream of great deeds, instead of doing such deeds," he always said.

Now she was standing there, her sword arm stretched out in front of her and the weight of the wooden weapon pulling it down relentlessly. Her hand hurt, her arm hurt, her shoulder hurt but Prince Lewyn didn’t allow her to lower the sword even a tiny bit. Being a knight meant showing discipline even when it hurt. She tried to hold back her tears and the whining, but she would not give up. She didn't want to show weakness, wanted to prove to him that she was stronger than this stupid test. Finally, when the pain in Arya's arm was already so bad that she thought her arm would be torn off, Prince Lewyn took the sword from her hand.

"Very good, Arya," he said and immediately her arm dropped down like a broken branch. She breathed heavily and rubbed her shoulder. It took a while before her muscles stopped burning and she could move her arm with too great pain. "Really, that was good. A lot of boys your age wouldn't have lasted that long. Can you lift it again, or are you going to need a little more time?"

She didn't know if this wasn't another test, so she took the sword out of his hand again and went back to the basic stance, as good as her aching shoulder would allow. The wry grin on his face told her that her decision had been the right one. She had passed the test. They practiced some very simple parries, which Arya mastered relatively easily. She was grateful that Prince Lewyn apparently did not want to torture her unnecessarily – at least for the moment – and therefore made it easy for her, although she would never dare to tell him that. Otherwise it would quickly be over with his mercy, she knew. Also she knew her teacher well enough by now to know that such mercy always came with a price.

"Well done. Your technique is already quite good, but you must learn to better make use of your strengths."

"What strengths?" she asked. She was neither tall nor strong, could not even wield the wooden practice sword for long without her arm and shoulder hurting. "I am small and weak. At least compared to absolutely every knight I have ever seen."

"That you are, but there are other things than size and body strength that are important to a swordsman. You are small, yes. And that can be a good thing. Because it means you're fast and you only give a small target for your enemies' blows, a target that's hard to hit. You may not be strong, but if you learn to hit the right spots with your blade, you won't need much strength to bring down an enemy."

"I understand," she said and meant it.

"Good. Now listen. I have a task for you. I want you to-"

The creaking of the opening door interrupted Prince Lewyn in his sentence. They both turned around to see who was coming in. It was her Lord Father.

"Good morning, my lord," Prince Lewyn said, bowing slightly to him.

"Good morning, Prince Lewyn. I just came to check on Arya. I always worry if I don't find her in her bed by noon."

"I haven't slept this late in a very long time," Arya protested. And it was true. She hadn't slept this long since Prince Lewyn forbade her.

"I didn't mean to alarm you, my lord. I insisted we begin our exercises early in the morning. Discipline is essential."

"A knight must know how to make better use of the light of day than to dream of great deeds, instead of doing such deeds," Arya said, earning a surprised look from her father.

"Of all my children, I never expected to hear you of all people say how important discipline is," her father said with a smile. "But I am here for one more reason," he said addressing Prince Lewyn again. "I want to thank you sincerely for your time and effort. But I can't ask you to spend so much time with Arya anymore."

"I don't mind, my lord. It's all been arranged with Prince Aegon and Lord Commander Hightower. It's my pleasure. Also, I haven't had a squire in years and your daughter has talent and ambition."

Arya shone with pride.

"A doubtful compliment as long as it involves my daughter," her father said and laughed again. "Still, I don't think Arya should be taking any more lessons in swordplay for now."

"Father!" Arya wanted to protest, but the raised hand of Prince Lewyn told her to be silent, so she was silent. Once again she caught a surprised look from her father before he began speaking again.

"Arya, Septa Mordane has told me that you haven't been to her lessons for a whole week now. This is not acceptable. Your lessons with Prince Lewyn are over until you return to Septa Mordane regularly."

Again she wanted to protest, beg if necessary, but before she could say anything, Prince Lewyn spoke.

"My lord, you know your daughter better than I do, and of course, in the end, it's your decision. I will respect it, however it may turn out. But, if you allow me to ask this question, do you really think that all the septas in the world will ever make a real lady out of this wildcat?"

"Probably not."

"No, certainly not. Then isn't it better she learns what she has a talent for and enjoys than that she learns nothing at all? Could you live with Arya going to Septa Mordane and studying seriously for an hour for every day she practices with me?"

Your father seemed to think about it for a while. His gaze wandered from Arya to Prince Lewyn and back again.

"All right, I can live with that. But you have to promise me, Arya, that you will go and earnestly study with Septa Mordane. If I hear from her one more time that you were not there or didn't make an effort, your sword training is over. For good. Do you promise me that?"

"Yes! Yes, I promise," she said happily.

"I will make sure she does not forget," said Prince Lewyn.

"All right then. Our bargain is binding as of today. So I expect you to go to Septa Mordane today and resume your lessons with her."

With that, her father turned around, nodded to Prince Lewyn as he turned around and left the practice room as quickly as he had come. "It's bad enough that Sansa doesn't want to go to Mordane anymore," she heard him say before the door closed. For a moment they both stood there in silence and looked over at the door before Prince Lewyn began to speak again.

"You heard it, Arya. You will go to Septa Mordane again every day. Understood?"

"Yes."

"All right. Then let's get on with our exercises for now. As I said, I have a task for you."

Two hours later she was crouched on a corner in Maegor's Holdfast, barefoot and wrapped in dirty clothes that could only be called rags at best. Some of the servants and pages who had seen her had given her wry looks. You don’t wear silks and skirts when catching cats, she thought. She had quickly got hold of two of the three wild cats that Prince Lewyn had ordered her to catch. A red tomcat with only half a tail, who was very shy at first but wouldn’t stop purring once she had got hold of him, and a brown and white spotted cat with only one ear, who had scratched her forearms as if she was fighting for her life. But the third one was much more difficult to get hold of. She was supposed to catch Balerion, the cuddly cat of Princess Rhaenys. It was a huge, black tomcat, who didn't let anyone touch him except the princess and who looked as determined as if he could rip the throat of a direwolf if he had to.

"That's the real king of this castle right there," one of the Gold Cloaks had told her. "Older than sin and twice as mean. One time, the king was feasting and that black bastard hopped up on the table and snatched a roast quail right out of His Grace's fingers. You stay away from that one, child."

Balerion had run her halfway across the entire castle, twice around the Tower of the Hand, across the inner bailey, through the stables, down the serpentine steps, past the small kitchen and the pig yard, along the base of the river wall and up more steps and back and forth over Traitor's Walk, and then down again and through a gate and around a well and in and out of strange buildings until Arya didn’t know where she was anymore.

Now at last she had him. High walls pressed close on either side, and ahead was a blank windowless mass of stone. When she was only three steps away from him, Balerion tried to escape again, dashing from left to right and left again. Arya jumped after him as fast as she could. He hissed and tried to slip between her legs but Arya blocked his way, grabbed him and finally managed to get a hold of him. Ever so fast, she kissed him right between the eyes, and jerked her head back an instant before his claws would have found her face. The tomcat yowled and spit.

"Hey, you there. What are you doing with that cat, boy?"

Arya was startled and looked over her shoulder. Three Gold Cloaks came down the hall behind her. She dropped the cat and immediately he bounded off in the blink of an eye.

"I said what were you doing with that cat, boy?" one of the soldiers asked again. "Are you deaf or dumb or both?"

They don’t recognize me, Arya thought. They don’t even see that I’m a girl, not a boy. Small wonder, she was dressed in dirty rags after all, barefoot, her hair sweaty and tangled from the long hunt through the castle.

"You have no business here. Grab that bastard and get him out of the castle," the soldier in the middle finally said to the other two. Panic seized her. They must not get her. Septa Mordane would be mortified, and Sansa would never speak to her again from the shame. And as sure as the sun would rise again in the morning, her father would definitively forbid her to go on with the exercises with Prince Lewyn if she was caught in the Red Keep in this outfit, capturing the royal princess' pet.

The soldier now was less than an arm's length away and reached out for her. Quickly she moved to the side, slipped away from his hand and ran off, faster than the armored man could turn around. She ran towards the other two soldiers who were already spreading out to block her path. In front of her on the right wall she suddenly saw a narrow window, hardly more than an arrow slit. Arya leapt, caught the sill and pulled herself up. She held her breath as she wriggled through. Dropping to the floor on the other side, she hopped up, brushed the rushes off her clothes, and was off again, out the door and along a long hall, down a stair, across a hidden courtyard, around a corner and over a wall and through a low narrow window into a pitch-dark cellar. The sounds grew more and more distant behind her.

For a while she just sat in the dark, listening to the fading hammering of the soldier’s boots on stone. She cowered on the ground, surrounded by darkness, holding tight to her knees. After a while, when no more sounds came to her ears, she dared to open her eyes again. She saw nothing but blackness around her. She wondered where she was. When they had come to King’s Landing, she had had nightmares about the castle the first few nights, about getting lost in endless and windowless corridors that lead nowhere, stairs going down further and further without ever finding ground, about walls so red that one could think they bled in the night. Her father had told her that the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, but in her dreams, it had been an endless maze of red and black. In her nightmares, she had sometimes heard her father’s voice, but always from a long way off, and no matter how hard she ran after it, it would grow fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and Arya was alone in the dark again.

Only slowly her eyes began to adjust to the darkness and she could make out grey shapes and forms in front of her. A monster stared at her from the darkness, with countless twisted arms that seemed to be reaching out for her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip and sent the fear away. When she looked again, the monster would be gone. She pretended that Prince Lewyn was beside her in the dark, giving her strength. She opened her eyes again.

The monster was still there, but the fear was gone. She stood up and walked over to the monster, touched it. It was huge, made of dark stone that seemed to shine oily in the dim light. Only now did she realize what she saw, was a chair. A throne, in the shape of a giant kraken. She looked at the dark, grey form of the throne for a while with a mixture of fascination and horror. A feeling of unease spread within her at the sight. It was stone, dead and would never be anything else and yet she felt it threatening her deep inside. Quickly she rushed past it and threw herself against the door at the other end of the room. Her hands found a heavy iron ring set in the wood, and she yanked at it. The door resisted a moment, before it slowly began to swing inward, with a creak so loud Arya was certain it could be heard all through the castle and the city. She opened the door just far enough to slip through, into the hallway beyond. If the room with the monster had been dark, the hall was the blackest pit in the seven hells.

She saw absolutely nothing now except the faint grey outline of the door she had just stepped through. She waved her hand briefly in front of her face, felt the breeze of moving air, but saw only blackness. She was blind. Prince Lewyn had taught her, however, that a warrior used all his senses to observe his surroundings. He had told her the story of Ser Belis the Blind, a legendary knight from the Age of Heroes who had lost his sight as a young man and yet had defeated an entire army on his own. She didn't know how much of the story to believe. But now she had no choice but to trust that Prince Lewyn knew what he was talking about. So she closed her eyes and concentrated as best she could on her other senses. She heard nothing, just smelled stale air and dust. To her left, her hand felt the rough, unfinished stone of the wall she was now walking along.

She followed the wall further and further in small cautious steps. Every hallway had to lead somewhere and if there was a way in, there was a way out. It seemed as if she had been walking through the darkness for half an eternity when the wall to her left ended abruptly. A breeze of cool air grazed her face.

She heard faint noises from somewhere. The rumble of boots on stone, the echo of voices. A short flash of light fell along the wall in front of her and only now she noticed that she was standing at the edge of a well the bottom of which she could not see. Large stones had been set into the circular walls forming narrow steps. Arya glanced over the edge of the abyss and felt the cool air brush over her face again as she saw the light of a single torch flickering in the depths, small as the flame of a candle on the nightstand. She saw two men climbing up the steps, their shadows on the walls making them appear as big as giants. She could hear their voices more clearly now, echoing up the shaft.

"...too much like his father...," she heard the one man say, a tall man with broad shoulders and only a fringe of black hair left on his head, like the shadow of a crown.

"...coin apparently landed on the wrong side," said the other, an old man with sparse hair and a long beard, who sounded as if he had no teeth left in his mouth.

Arya tried to see them better without being seen herself, but she was sure she had never met either of them. She pressed herself against the wall and didn't move. The two walked only a few feet past her but blinded by the light of their own torch they fortunately didn't notice her.

"The bloodline has become weak. The entire dynasty must be superseded. We must do something before it is too late," said the first man, sounding almost angry.

"We must not rush things. What if we're wrong?" the older man asked.

"What if we're not?"

"Still, we need friends and allies by our side first before we can do anything. Otherwise, this is all nothing more than a mummer's farce."

"The Wolf. He would have bent his knee to my brother, so he can bend it to me," the angry man said.

The old man seemed to think about it for a while before he answered.

"Perhaps. But I'm afraid he won't go to war willingly, unless there's no other way."

"He has done it before."

"That was different and you know it, my lord. I can only hope that he understands the rightness of what we are doing."

"If not, we will arrest him. Then he can choose to bend the knee before me once the war is over."

"We must convince him that you do not want to sit on the throne but must, to save the realm. You will be the only one who has the right to claim the throne, should we succeed. Hopefully he will see the truth in that. I don't want to have to go to war against him. We must also convince him that nothing will happen to his nephew. The others are a danger we will need to take care of, but the nephew must be kept alive."

"To do what exactly with the bastard?"

"That does not matter. Send him to the Wall or exile him as long as he is kept alive. We should try to make alliances as fast as possible. You have sons who are unmarried after all. One of them you could offer for the hand of the rose. The other for the wolf's daughter, the pretty one I mean. The boys are a little young, but if we succeed, they'll be the best matches in all of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And which son for which daughter?" the first man asked, soundly grinding his teeth.

"It depends on who joins us first. If they join us, that is. If not, our plan died before it even began. We cannot hope to win this war alone. Either way, we need more time to make preparations, to collect our steel and to forge new alliances."

"We do not have more time. We must speed things up before it's too late."

"Some things cannot be speeded up. I'm not a wizard."

"Then you'd better become one. And next time we meet somewhere else, I hope. Not in this stinking cellar again."

"These cellars are the only place in the entire city without eyes and ears. Any other place but here would be suicide. Then we might just as well meet right in front of the executioner's block," Arya heard the old man say before the two of them turned a corner with the torch and disappeared from her sight. Their voices became fainter until they could hardly be heard anymore. Arya sneaked after them as fast as she could without making a sound. When she turned around the corner as well, she saw the torch again in the distance but could no longer hear their voices.

For a while she followed the light of the torch, right and left around more corners and along more corridors. At some point the light of the torch had finally disappeared, but there was no other way for her than to walk forward along the winding corridor she was now standing in. It went strongly uphill, but there were no steps. After a distance that Arya guessed to be almost a mile, she finally reached the end of the corridor and stood in a small cave, at the end of which she could see faint sunlight and which stank like a rancid chamber pot. She walked towards the light and found herself above a faintly dripping drain at the outer base of the river wall of the Red Keep.

For a moment she enjoyed the brightness of the sun, the blinding burning in her eyes and the light wind. Immediately, the sun burned down mercilessly on her again and the cool freshness of the dark catacombs was suddenly replaced by heat and stench. Fortunately the sun was already setting. Otherwise it would have been almost unbearable. She had to go to her father, Arya thought. She had to tell him what she had just seen and heard. Immediately, she looked around and found a narrow path that led along the steep slope towards the harbor. She ran along it as fast as her bare feet could carry her.

She hurried through the harbor, past workers sleeping in the shade, who had no work to do without ships coming in or going out. Past whores who tried to persuade the workers to spend their last coins for a short pleasure. Past cheap taverns and almost empty warehouses. She reached the River Gate, ran across the almost empty Fishmonger's Square and up the Hook to the Red Keep's massive gate. Two Gold Cloaks were guarding the gate and one of them was blocking her way when he saw her coming. They sneered when she told them to let her in.

"Off with you," one said. "No begging at the front gate."

"I'm not a beggar," she said. "I live here."

"I said, off with you. Do you need a clout on the ear to help your hearing?"

"I want to see my father."

The guards exchanged a glance.

"And I want to fuck the princess, for all the good it does me," the younger one said.

The older scowled. "Who's this father of yours, boy, the city ratcatcher?"

"The Master of Coin," Arya told him.

Both men only laughed at that.

"And I'm not a boy," she spat at them. "I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell, and if don't believe me, fetch Jory Cassel or Vayon Poole from the Tower of the Hand." She put her hands on her hips. "Now are you going to let me in or do you need a clout on the ear to help your hearing?"

Her father was alone in the solar when Harwin and Fat Tom marched her in, an oil lamp glowing softly at his elbow. He was bent over a bunch of large books overlapping each other on his desk. All Arya could see were rows of numbers, some marked with strange symbols, others crossed out. But her father seemed to read it attentively as if it was an exciting story. When she came closer and finally stopped beside his table, he turned away from the books to listen to Harwin's report. His face was stern as he sent the men away with thanks.

"Arya, you know very well you're not allowed to leave the city unescorted. In fact, not even the Red Keep. Good thing you got back in time or Septa Mordane would have died of worry. Where was Prince Lewyn? If I can't trust him to look after you-"

"It wasn't his fault," Arya said quickly. If her father lost his trust in Prince Lewyn, her exercises would be over. "He had given me a task, but I wasn't paying attention and I got lost. And then I was already in the dungeons and then suddenly I was in a tunnel and I had no candle. But I couldn't go back the way I came because of the monster so I had to go deeper inside. Father, they said they wanted to arrest you."

"The monsters want to arrest me?"

"No, there was only one monster and that one was a chair. The two men. The old man wants to send a bastard to the Wall but the angry man wants to arrest you or it will all just be a mummer's farce. One wants to delay things, but the other wants to hurry and he says the old man must be a wizard."

She tried to recall what she had heard, but in her mind everything was mixed up and nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

"A wizard," said Ned, unsmiling. "Did he have a long white beard and tall pointed hat speckled with stars?"

"No! It wasn't like in the stories. He had a white beard but no hat, but the angry man said he must become a wizard."

"I warn you, Arya, if you're spinning this thread of air-"

"No, I told you, it was in the dungeons, by the place with the secret wall. I was chasing cats, and I went in this window. That's where I found the monster."

"Monsters and wizards," her father said. "It would seem you've had quite an adventure. These men you heard, you say they spoke of becoming a wizard and it all being a mummer's farce?"

"Yes," Arya admitted, "only-"

"Arya, they were mummers," her father told her. "There must be a dozen troupes in King's Landing right now, come to make some coin off the tourney crowds. I'm not certain what these two were doing in the castle, but perhaps the king or the queen has asked for a show."

"No." She shook her head stubbornly. "They weren't-"

"You shouldn't be following people about and spying on them in any case. Nor do I cherish the notion of my daughter climbing in strange windows after stray cats. Look at you, sweetling. Your arms are covered with scratches. This has gone on long enough. First thing tomorrow, I'm going to see Prince Lewyn and tell him-"

He was interrupted by a short, sudden knock. "Lord Eddard, pardons," Desmond called out, opening the door a crack, "but the King's Counter is here begging audience. He said you requested his presence."

"Indeed, send him in," her father said. "Desmond, see my daughter to her chambers. She will need to wash and change before you bring her to Septa Mordane. We don’t want her to be late for her lessons today." He kissed her on the brow. "We’ll finish our talk on the morrow."

Desmond took her hand. "Come along, milady. You heard your lord father."

Arya had no choice but to go with him.

"How many guards does my father have?" she asked him as they descended to her rooms where a bowl of cold water and some fresh clothes would already be waiting for her.

"Here at King's Landing? Fifty."

"You wouldn't let anyone arrest him, would you?" she asked.

Desmond laughed. "No fear on that count, little lady. Lord Eddard's guarded night and day. He'll come to no harm."

"In King’s Landing, there are more than fifty men and who knows what they are up to?" Arya pointed out.

"That's true, there might be more of them than of us. But every northerner is worth ten of these southron swords, so you can sleep easy."

"What if a wizard was sent to snatch him away?"

"Well, as to that," Desmond replied, drawing his longsword, "wizards die the same as other men, once you cut their heads off."

Notes:

So, that was it. A short chapter and, as I said, basically a changed re-telling of the original chapter from the book. I guess you all are aware of who these two "wizards" in the dungeons were? As always, let me know what you think in the comments. :-)

See you next time.

Chapter 14: Eddard 4

Notes:

Hi folks,

the next chapter is here and it's the promised Ned-chapter. They are coming pretty quickly at the moment, because I have already fleshed out what is supposed to happen in here. So after the next one or two chapters, it might take little longer for new chapters to come. So I hope you enjoy these updates for now :-)

We begin with Ned looking after Arya and as you will quickly see, it's basically the same scene with which the Arya-chapter was opened. Both chapters are taking place simultaniously. After that, Ned has to attend another meeting of the Small Council and will then watch the jousting finale. At the end, he is surpsrised with an unexpected invitation.

The door opened with a loud creaking as Ned entered the small room in which he knew Arya was having her exercises with Prince Lewyn. He found them standing in the middle of the room in front of a large window that gave a fantastic view over Blackwater Bay. The prince stopped midsentence when he entered, turned towards him and bowed slightly.

"Good morning, my lord," he said.

"Good morning, Prince Lewyn," Ned answered. "I just came to check on Arya. I always worry if I don't find her in her bed by noon."

Prince Lewyn understood the little jest, while Arya immediately began to protest loudly.

"I haven't slept this late in a very long time," she said.

"I didn't mean to alarm you, my lord. I insisted we begin our exercises early in the morning. Discipline is essential."

That was true of course, but if Prince Lewyn was hoping for a lot of discipline, he had definitely chosen the wrong student in Arya, Ned thought with a hint of malicious joy.

"A knight must know how to make better use of the light of day than to dream of great deeds, instead of doing such deeds," her heard Arya say. If she had not been standing next to him and someone had told him about it, he would not have believed that these words had come out of Arya's mouth without mockery.

"Of all my children, I never expected to hear you of all people say how important discipline is," he said and smiled at her. "But I am here for one more reason," he said and looked Prince Lewyn in the eyes. "I want to thank you sincerely for your time and effort. But I can't ask you to spend so much time with Arya anymore."

"I don't mind, my lord. It's all been arranged with Prince Aegon and Lord Commander Hightower. It's my pleasure. Also, I haven't had a squire in years and your daughter has talent and ambition."

He noticed Arya's wide grin. But he himself felt less inclined to smile. As much as he was pleased that Prince Aegon had kept his promise to allow Arya to take lessons with a knight of the Kingsguard – an honor for which almost every squire in the Seven Kingdoms would have sold his own mother – this was by no means the answer he had hoped for. This whole thing has gone on far too long. In the beginning he had hoped that Arya's interest in swordplay would quickly fade away, just like her interest in practically everything else she had ever done in her life. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be the case now.

Only this morning, he had finally received a letter from Catelyn, and even though it had contained at least some good news, the enormous disappointment about practically everything he had told her in his letters so far – including Arya's training with Prince Lewyn – had been evident in every line and word.

"A doubtful compliment as long as it involves my daughter," he said and forced himself a small smile on his face. He had hoped to hear something like this about his boys one day but hearing Arya how good a squire Arya was felt odd. "Still, I don't think Arya should be taking any more lessons in swordplay for now."

"Father!" Arya wanted to protest, but much to Ned's surprise, she immediately fell silent when Prince Lewyn commanded her to do so with a quick movement of his hand. Whatever methods he used on Arya, Ned had to learn them too, he decided. Perhaps Cat would be less dismissive of the issue if he could honestly report to her how astonishingly Prince Lewyn had her under control. Apart from the fact that ladies shouldn't carry weapons, this whole endeavor might have been good for his daughter after all. Nevertheless, he had to take action. Septa Mordane had told him some disturbing things about his daughters and even though he was generally not worried about Sansa's behavior, things were different with Arya.

"Arya, Septa Mordane has told me that you haven't been to her lessons for a whole week now," he said. "This is not acceptable. Your lessons with Prince Lewyn are over until you return to Septa Mordane regularly."

"My lord, Prince Lewyn said before Arya could begin to shout again. "You know your daughter better than I do, and of course, in the end, it's your decision. I will respect it, however it may turn out. But, if you allow me to ask this question, do you really think that all the septas in the world will ever make a real lady out of this wildcat?"

"Probably not," he admitted grudgingly.

He did not really feel comfortable admitting this so easily, but anything else would have been silly. Anyone who knew Arya for more than a day saw right away that there was no true lady in her – at least by southern standards. She has the wolf's blood, he thought and the memory of his sister came back to his mind. She is so much like Lyanna.

"No, certainly not. Then isn't it better she learns what she has a talent for and enjoys than that she learns nothing at all? Could you live with Arya going to Septa Mordane and studying seriously for an hour for every day she practices with me?"

Again he did not really feel comfortable admitting this, but of course Prince Lewyn was right. He could try to force Arya to sit with Septa Mordane as much as he wanted, but Arya would never develop only the slightest interest in what the septa tried to teach her. If by allowing her to further learn what she liked and – according to Prince Lewyn – she also had a talent for, he would get her to spent some time with Septa Mordane without having to catch her every time like a wild cat beforehand, why would he not agree. He knew this was certainly not what Cat would have wanted – so much was clear from the few lines she had used on the news about Arya's sword exercises – but for the moment, he could not think of a better solution.

"All right, I can live with that," he finally said. "But you have to promise me, Arya, that you will go and earnestly study with Septa Mordane. If I hear from her one more time that you were not there or didn't make an effort, your sword training is over. For good. Do you promise me that?"

"Yes! Yes, I promise," she said happily.

"I will make sure she does not forget," said Prince Lewyn.

"All right then. Our bargain is binding as of today. So I expect you to go to Septa Mordane today and resume your lessons with her."

He immediately turned away, bid Prince Lewyn farewell with a quick nod, and left the room before he could be persuaded to make even more concessions. While walking along the corridor, he thought for a moment about the next letter he would have to write to Cat, how he was supposed to explain why Arya was still getting lessons in swordplay, why even Sansa did no longer want to attend the lessons of Septa Mordane anymore. As much as she had supported Ned when he took the girls with him to King's Landing, she had warned him that the courts in the South – and the royal court in particular – were a completely different world than everything he knew so far and that life at court would surely change their daughters on way or the other. He of course had listened to her but had not had a real idea what she had been talking about. Now he knew.

But now was not the time to worry about such things. Thankfully, nothing serious had happened so far and if the gods were good, nothing would happen either. He quickened his steps. A meeting of the Small Council was scheduled and he was already late enough. He reached the chamber of the Small Council and was relieved to see that, while all the other council members were already there, it was Lord Connington of all people who was still missing. Even Prince Oberyn had again taken his seat as Master of Whisperers and was now sitting at the table, absorbed in a chat with Prince Aegon. So he quickly greeted the other members and sat down on his seat. Only a moment later, the door opened again and the Lord Hand entered the room. With a discontent look and a half-hearted nod that was probably meant to imply a bow towards Prince Aegon, who was again sitting at the head of the table, he took his seat to the prince’s right and put a stack of papers on the table in front of himself.

"The food stocks in the capital are almost completely used up," he began without a word of greeting. "If it doesn't start raining again soon, so that we can resume trade with Essos, a famine will break out."

"I'm afraid it does not look like rain," Ned heard Lord Velaryon say.

"Indeed," Connington continued. "And since we can't end the tourney earlier or cancel the great feast at the end, we must find somewhere to spare food."

"Only the finals are still to come, anyway. It would make no difference whether we ended the tourney earlier or not now," said Prince Aegon.

"But to give up the feast would make a difference."

"Would it? I'm also against wasting food when it's scarce, but how long could you supply a city the size of King's Landing with the food we need for the feast? An hour or two? That's not exactly what I would call a difference, my lord."

"We should focus on what's important. We have almost no food left for the people in the city and the few supplies that actually arrived by land were almost completely rotten. As much as I hate to admit it, the Lord Hand is right," said Ser Myles, earning him an angry look from Lord Connington. "We must find somewhere to spare food."

"Perhaps, for the time being, no more leftovers should be given to beggars. These moochers are doing nothing of value anyway, so let's not waste food to feed them," Lord Tyrell threw in. "If a few of them starve first, it can only be good for the city."

"This has been ordered a week ago already," Connington said, still glowering at Ser Myles.

"And the poorhouses? There are... how many in the city?" asked Lord Tyrell and Ned knew the question was addressed to him. He'd already seen the lists of the cost of the workhouses in his books.

"Twelve,'' he said. In fact, he was not quite sure. He had seen the lists of the costs in his books, but he only remembered the quantities and costs roughly. It might as well be eight or fifteen, but Ned thought it would be better to show a little self confidence. No one protested and so he was sure that no one knew better than him.

"A good idea," Connington said. "Stark, order the closing of the poorhouses. No more supplies from the royal stores will be sent there from now on."

Ned nodded, though he was uncomfortable with the idea.

"So we're just going to let these people starve to death?" Prince Aegon asked and Ned was glad that the young man seemed to have the same doubts as he did.

"If you cannot somehow magically create rain or food out of thin air, then we have no choice, my prince," Connington said and the tone of his voice made it clear that he would probably have preferred to smack the prince for his backtalk rather than answer him. "Grandmaester, are there any news from the rest of the realm for us, when we can expect further shipments?"

Grandmaester Pycelle jumped up as if Lord Connington had just woken him from a nap. Then he sorted a bunch of little pieces of paper in front of him on the table and started to read some of them again. Ned immediately had to think back to Maester Luwin with his notes and messages, which he always pulled out of small pockets in his sleeves, totally crumpled and wrinkled, and for a moment he became melancholy again. What is it with the maesters and their slips of paper?

"There will be no more supplies from the other parts of the realm," he finally said. "The crop failures are increasing. The drought is worsening practically everywhere, except in the Vale. There the heat is melting the snow and ice on the mountains, flooding the fields in the valley. North of the Neck it is less severe, but there is not enough cultivated land to supply the rest of the realm."

"Besides, this food could never reach us anyway," Lord Tyrell interjected. "The land route is too long and the sea route is unusable."

"What about Dorne? The Dornish should be used to such heat after all. So does the Master of Whisperers also have anything to add to the discussion?" Connington asked.

"He has," said Prince Oberyn with that wry grin on his face. The same grin Prince Aegon used to put on when he was teasing Lord Connington, Ned noted. "As Prince of Dorne, I am sorry to say that Dorne's running low on supplies as well, as my brother informed me. I'm afraid we can't spare anything. As Master of Whisperers, I have to add that the situation could be far worse than expected so far. I have received word that minor uprisings have already occurred in the Westerlands and parts of the Riverlands."

"Uprisings?"

"Yes, but only small skirmishes. A few gluttonous knights on one side, some hungry peasants on the other. Nothing seriously threatening for the realm. Still, we should keep an eye on it. Sooner or later, not only the peasants will run out of food. And once the first lords and ladies or their children begin to starve, the situation could escalate."

"Highgarden certainly can't feed the realm alone," Lord Tyrell said. "Our supplies are running low, too."

"Where exactly are the last supplies you promised?" Lord Connington asked. Lord Tyrell slid a little nervously back and forth in his chair, clearing his throat a few times.

"Well, these supplies have... unfortunately also been lost," he finally admitted.

"What?" cried Ser Richard, who until then had sat in his chair as quietly and motionlessly as a statue. "You wanted to have the transport better protected! How is that possible?"

"The transport was protected. One hundred men."

"And yet he's gone now," said Ser Myles. "If those one hundred men weren't all old, sick or crippled, then this Smiling Knight must have many more men at his disposal than we thought. We finally have to do something. The King finally has to do something."

"They were a hundred soldiers from Highgarden, well-trained and chosen by me personally," Lord Tyrell protested.

Ned doubted that the Lord of Highgarden had personally hand-picked a hundred men to protect this transport. But it didn't make any difference whether he knew the faces and names of these men or not. If the Smiling Knight and his band were able to defeat one hundred trained soldiers from Highgarden, they would have to be a formidable force.

"This is no longer a band of bandits, this is an army," he finally said.

"Thank you," Ser Myles agreed. "At last, someone who sees clearly. Lord Stark is right. These are no longer mere bandits, this is a hostile army and a threat must be dealt with accordingly."

"I agree. We must act quickly and decisively. This charade has gone on for way too long already," Prince Aegon said in a firm voice. "The threat is greater than we thought, and now it is no longer far away but here on our very doorstep. The situation in King's Landing is getting more and more precarious by the day. Yesterday there was a stabbing in front of a bakery and in the Street of the Sisters an innkeeper was beaten to death because he did not have enough stew to offer."

"The Faith helps the hungry as best it can, but it has little to offer as well. More and more people are now seeking help from High Septon instead of the King," said Pycelle.

"This can only be good for us," Connington said. "Then the old scoundrel can finally make himself useful and the King will not have to deal with layabouts and moochers."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. The friendship between the Crown and the Faith has recently… suffered a little. Especially with the continued presence of the Red Priestess."

"Witch," Prince Aegon interjected.

"Surely the King cannot be interested in being too dependent on the Faith in such a situation," Pycelle continued unswervingly.

"All right. I will speak to the King today and try to convince him that an army will have to be sent out to get rid of the Smiling Knight once and for all," Lord Connington finally gave in. The joy on the faces of Lord Velaryon, the Princes Aegon and Oberyn and the Sers Richard and Myles was obvious. Only Lord Tyrell looked a bit displeased.

No doubt this does not make Lord Tyrell look too good promising food again and again to help the Crown, only to then need help from the Crown himself because he cannot take on a band of outlaws, Ned thought.

Grandmaester Pycelle reported that still no answer from Pyke had arrived. Lord Connington became noticeably impatient, but it was quickly agreed that there was nothing more to be done at the moment than to send another raven and demand once more that the members of House Greyjoy come to King's Landing to explain themselves. The Iron Islands had to suffer from the heat and drought as much as the rest of the realm and so there was at least no danger that the Ironmen would launch attacks on the coast.

"At least one small advantage that the harbors are inaccessible," Lord Velaryon said.

"If the Ironmen are stupid enough to think they can rise in revolt again, they'll see what they get out of it. The last time, the King was gracious enough to only take their silly kraken throne. Next time, it will be their heads," Lord Connington said, declaring the matter closed.

They talked for a while about the positions in the ranks of the Gold Cloaks that were open and needed to be filled. Three captains were apparently missing. One of the captains had died of old age a few days ago, one had drunk himself to death about three weeks earlier and another had been killed in a recent stabbing. It was agreed that deserving men from the ranks of the Gold Cloaks should be chosen, whose names Ned had never heard before. Prince Aegon and Ser Myles only opposed the nomination of a man named Olivar Crook as he had apparently been easily bribed in the past, leading to the escape of two rapists from the Red Keep's dungeons. So it was decided to disregard him, instead preferring a certain Lanard Ryser.

After that the meeting was over. Ned returned to his chamber to study the books a little longer, which were still mostly incomprehensible to him. By now he had understood the logic behind the listings to a large extent, but often enough the numbers still didn't make sense. He couldn't say if it was because he didn't understand it as much as he thought or if Lord Celtigar had simply made too many mistakes. After all, the man had been old and already quite confused when he passed away, as he had learned from Prince Aegon.

He had a servant bring him a small lunch and half a carafe of wine and ate it while he tried to understand the connection between the highly varying tax revenues from certain parts of the Westerlands and the subsequent expenses for new roads and bridges in the same areas. After a while his eyes started to hurt and so Ned decided to put the books aside for now. He would look at them again later in the day. But now he should hurry a little. At the invitation of Princess Rhaenys, he and Sansa would be sitting in the royal box for the finale of the jousting today, so of course he couldn't be late.

This finale, in which Prince Aegon, after a hard but spectacular joust against Ser Barristan, would now have to face none other than Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, promised to be another great spectacle. And as much as Ned wanted to repeat that southron tourneys were really just something for southron knights, he could not help but look forward to it. Sansa would already be waiting there for him, as she had already left for the tourney grounds with the Queen Mother and some guards early in the morning after breaking the fast. It had surprised him how much interest Rhaella seemed to have in his daughter. She had let Sansa tell him several times that she expected to spend more time with him as well, once all the turmoil around the tourney would be over. Since as Master of Coin he would not be leaving the city soon, he could not escape her anymore. Ned knew that Rhaella had meant this as a joke, but she probably hadn't realized how close to the truth she had been.

So he washed himself, changed his clothes and rode out of the city to the grandstands with some of his own guards. The Gold Cloaks quickly made room for him as he approached the entrance of the grandstands that was normally reserved for the royal family only. Rhaella, Prince Daeron and Princess Rhaenys were all there, geeting him friendly. Rhaella hugged him even, offering him the seat to her left, between her and Prince Daeron. Obviously Queen Elia was not there due to issues with her health and so her seat was free. On his wooden throne, the king was sitting before all the others in the royal box and acknowledged Ned's presence merely with a brief nod. Then he saw Sansa sitting next to Rheanys and for a moment, his heart seemed to stop. At first sight he did not believe that the young woman was really his daughter. But she was. Strands of her hair were artfully braided around her head like a crown of copper, but most of it she wore open and let it wave in the light breeze that was constantly sweeping through the area. Only a small golden chain, which Ned had never seen on his daughter before, studded with finely polished turquoises, kept her mane in shape. What caused his breathing to stop for a moment though, was the dress she was wearing.

It was a tight silk dress in the same color as the gems in her hair, without sleeves or a petticoat underneath and with a revealing neckline. Before he could sit down, Sansa noticed him, stood up and came over to greet him. She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sansa, what on earth are you wearing?" was all he could say.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he heard Princess Rhaenys say. "It's one of my older dresses. It just needed to be sewn a little tighter for Sansa."

"Rhaenys gave it to me as a gift," Sansa finally said. "And she helped me change it."

Rhaenys. No title? I hope you mean Princess Rhaenys, daughter, Ned thought, but no words left his mouth. He was surprised that the two had apparently become such good friends so quickly. So far he hadn't even noticed that they had spent a lot of time together and the few times Sansa had spoken of the princess, she had been so reluctant to talk about their encounters that Ned had already worried that they might have a problem with each other.

"She's a beauty indeed," Rhaella added unasked. "We'll have to have a serious talk later about why you've kept your daughter hidden from us in the North for so long," she said in a played rebuke.

Prince Daeron was silent the whole time, but Ned noticed his pitiful look as he greeted him as well now. The ladies did not let Ned's obvious shock spoil their mood in the least however, they sat down again and continued to laugh and talk excitedly. Ned now lowered himself into his seat as well but said nothing. His thoughts immediately hung on the letter again, which he had received from Catelyn this morning.

Look after my girls, Ned. Look after them. Again and again those words circled through his head. The letter hadn't been very long and Ned could understand why. The last letter his lady wife had received from him was the news that he would have to stay at King's Landing permanently as the new Master of Coin, that he had broken his promise to her to return home in two months or three. He had read the shock out of every word of her letter, however few there have been.

That worked out really well so far, he thought sullenly.

Only now did he realize that Jeyne was also there with them in the royal box, sitting next to Sansa. When their eyes met, Jeyne quickly stood up and curtseyed to Ned with a bright smile. Ned was glad to see that Jeyne was obviously feeling a better again. Shortly after their arrival in the capital, she had apparently fallen ill and had retreated to her rooms for several evenings.

She probably can't stand the heat any better than I can.

He was also glad to see that Jeyne was still wearing one of her own dresses. It was more open and lighter than Sansa's dresses – her former dresses, he reminded himself – but still modest according to Northern fashion. Yesterday evening at dinner, Sansa and Jeyne had told him that a young knight from Dorne had apparently developed an interested in Jeyne and that she indeed returned the interest. He was courting her quite offensively and even though Ned was happy for Jeyne, he had made her promise that she would talk to her father about it before it got too serious. Although Ned could not imagine that Vayon would object to giving his daughter's hand to a knight from Dorne – should he be an honorable man, of course – the decision was still up to him.

He was torn from his thoughts when the trumpeters announced the entry of the two finalists with loud fanfares. Immediately, cheers broke out on all sides of the arena. One of the two side gates was opened and the biggest man Ned had ever seen rode in, Ser Gregor Clegane. He wore dark gray armor, so thick and massive that no other man could possibly wear it, with the crest of his house on his chest, three dogs on a yellow field. He rode into the arena on a black stallion that was so huge that Ned guessed it must have been a coldblood. The cheers turned to admiring aaahs and terrified ohhhs as the mountain made a round through the arena before coming to a halt on one side, ready for the joust.

The other side gate was opened now and immediately the cheers returned in full strength as Prince Aegon rode into the arena on his wonderful black steed, again wearing his magnificent shining armor. Behind him blew a black cloak, artfully decorated with the coat of arms of his house, and on his helmet sat an ornate figure of a red dragon, wings spread wide and his three heads stretched forward ready to attack. He rode one round through the arena, then took off his helmet and went for a second round, waving to the crowd – lords and ladies and peasants alike – and as always beaming all over his face. The whole royal box cheered him, except for the king who only seemed to be able to bring himself to clap his hands briefly. Sansa and Princess Rhaenys however didn't seem to be able to stop clapping at all. Ned had to admit to that he could not imagine a young man ever looking more regal and kingly than Prince Aegon at that moment.

The Prince rode to his side of the arena, but before anyone could hand him a lance, he gave his helmet to one of the pages standing by, gave his horse the spurs again and rode straight towards the royal box. He came to a halt in front of Sansa and Princess Rhaenys, but Ned couldn't immediately tell which of the two he was smiling at so widely, even though he already had an idea.

"May I beg the honor of carrying your favor in today's joust, my lady?" he heard him say.

Sansa rose as gracefully and elegantly as she always did, shining across all her face as well. She went to the edge of the box and pulled out a silk ribbon in the color of her dress, tying it around Prince Aegon's right wrist. Before the prince could take his arm back, she breathed a gentle kiss on the ribbon. Immediately the arena seemed to explode with cheers and screams. If that was at all possible, the prince now only seemed to smile even wider as he pulled on the reins and rode back to his side of the arena with his right hand raised high, the silk ribbon flying in the wind like a flag. Sansa stood on the edge for a while longer and followed him with her eyes, her cheeks blushed.

His daughter sat down again, still blushed and smiling wonderfully, her eyes fixed firmly on the prince, who was now getting ready for the joust. The crowd in the arena gradually fell silent from excitement and growing nervousness. Then all was quiet and the eyes of every man, woman and child in the arena were fixed on the king, at whose signal the bugle would be blown and the final joust would begin. Ned counted in his mind as he waited. One, two, three, four… Ned was at thirteen when Rhaella finally gave the signal with a wink of her hand in the direction of a servant in place of the king, who apparently hadn't even noticed what everyone in the arena had been waiting for. The bugle was blown, the crowd immediately began to cheer frenetically again, both riders gave their horses the spurs and thundered towards each other with lowering lances.

Prince Aegon and Ser Gregor collided almost in the middle of the arena, both lances broke, splinters flying around. The Prince seemed to need a moment to recover from his opponent's fierce thrust, while Ser Gregor seemed unimpressed and immobile as a rock on the back of his horse. All the ladies in the royal box had gasped in shock for a moment, but then clapped and cheered again when it was clear that Prince Aegon would hold himself in the saddle. Both riders went back to their starting positions, received new lances and made themselves ready again. The horn sounded again and immediately both riders approached each other again. They met again almost exactly in the middle of the arena. Prince Aegon's lance broke on the armor of Ser Gregor, whose lance broke on Prince Aegon's shield. The impact was so heavy that the prince almost seemed to lose grip on his shield. Again all ladies grasped in shock. Prince Daeron went on cheering his brother while the king sat on his throne looking totally uninvolved as if his thoughts were somewhere else.

Once again, both opponents went back to their starting positions and had new lances handed to them. They waited for the signal again, the horses noticeably restless, almost impatient. Then the horn sounded and they both rushed forward. The Prince's steed was faster and more agile than Ser Gregor's huge stallion and took up speed faster. Prince Aegon spurred his horse on to be faster still and thus to be able to put even more force into the thrust. The two riders collided with a loud crash. Both lances broke at their opponent's shields, but this time it seemed that the powerful thrust of the prince had thrown Ser Gregor off balance. The giant staggered slightly in the saddle, but then caught himself again.

"Yes, very good! Keep pushing! That's the way to get him," Prince Daeron shouted to his brother, although Ned doubted that Prince Aegon could hear anything of it in the loud noise of the arena. Ned wasn't convinced that Prince Daeron was right. That last thrust had thrown Ser Gregor slightly off balance, yes. But he had been far from being knocked out of the saddle. A man like that couldn't be defeated with pure strength. It wasn't just a matter of hitting him hard, but hitting him in the right place. Ned could only hope Prince Aegon would see this as well.

The fourth lances were handed out and once again both riders made themselves ready. Ned saw Prince Oberyn quickly running over to Prince Aegon just before the bugle was supposed to sound. They seemed to say something to each other, Oberyn making signs with his arms and hands, explaining something to his nephew. Ned saw Prince Aegon nod, then Prince Oberyn stepped aside just as quickly and everyone was waiting for the bugle to sound again. Time seemed to stand still while the entire arena waited breathlessly for the signal. Once again, everyone fell silent with excitement and anticipation. Every sound died away until only the wind and the snorting of the horses could be heard. Ned looked at both opponents, their lances raised high, the horses under their saddles pawing the ground anxiously. He looked around the royal box, saw the tension on the ladies' faces. Sansa's eyes were wide open. She seemed genuinely afraid. Princess Rhaenys sat next to her, her eyes fixed on her brother, her hand holding Sansa's.

Then the horn sounded.

Both riders again gave the spurs to their horses and thundered towards each other with lowering lances. As fast as this might have been happening, Ned had the feeling that it was lasting a little eternity. He heard the beating of the hooves on the sandy ground, saw the glint of sunlight in every scratch and scuff on the men's armor. For a heartbeat his gaze was captured by the bright green of the silk ribbon on Prince Aegon's right hand. Then he heard a loud crash. Prince Aegon had turned his body sideways, tilted his own lance slightly upwards. Ser Gregor's powerful thrust went nowhere, the tip of his lance slipping past the Prince's shield, while the Prince's lance, black as a starless night, crashed with full force against his opponent's huge helmet, shattering to a thousand pieces.

The giant was thrown backwards by the blow, his arms stretched out wide, lance and shield falling to the ground. But it was too late. Ser Gregor lost his balance for good, fell out of the saddle and hit the ground with a loud thunder. In the blink of an eye the arena exploded with cheers. Even Ned jumped up together with the royal family, applauding and cheering the victorious prince, who had now taken off his helmet and rode through the arena one round after the other. Ser Gregor had struggled to his feet and stomped out of the arena, refusing to greet the king or his victorious opponent.

Prince Aegon came to a halt in the middle of the arena, stretching his right hand upwards in a victorious pose, so that the silken ribbon again flew in the wind like a flag on the battlefield. His gaze was firmly fixed on the royal box. Prince Oberyn came running to him, congratulated him as best he could without the prince having to get off his horse and handed him a crown of red and black roses. Slowly Prince Aegon rode towards the royal box and stopped just before it.

"Would you do me the great honor of being my Queen of Love and Beauty, my lady?" he heard the prince say.

Ned couldn't see Sansa and Princess Rhaenys clearly, but his heart leapt with relief when Princess Rhaenys came to the edge of the box and took the crown from Prince Aegon's hands. Immediately afterwards, his heart skipped a beat when Princess Rhaenys did not don the crown on her own head but turned to Sansa, crowned her with a broad smile and kissed her on both cheeks. All ladies in the box and the boxes around were curtsied, all lords and knights bowed to the newly crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. Queen Sansa Stark.

Ned only caught fragments of the rest of the event. Images of Prince Aegon on his black steed remained in his memory as he had led the procession back to the Red Keep, Sansa on a beautiful sorrel at his side, waving to the cheering crowd and shining like the sun itself. Now he was sitting in his rooms again, the big books in front of him on his desk, having drunk three big cups of strong wine. He tried not to think about what had just happened before his eyes. He tried not to think about how he would have to explain this to Cat in his next letter.

Looks after my girls, Ned.

However hard he tried, he could not think of anything else. His mind was racing, but he could not get a clear grasp on any of these thoughts. So he sat there and stared down at the books, the endless rows of numbers that still didn't make sense, as if Lord Celtigar was mocking him from the grave. A gentle knock on the door tore him out of his brooding. Harwin entered, Arya by the hand. Harwin pushed Arya forward until she stood right next to him with a guilty look on her face. He forced himself to raise his eyes from the books and looked at Arya when Harwin told him that Arya had been picked up alone in front of the main gate of the Red Keep. He thanked Harwin, then sent the man away and looked at Arya intensely.

"Arya, you know very well you're not allowed to leave the city unescorted, he began scolding her. "In fact, not even the Red Keep. Good thing you got back in time or Septa Mordane would have died of worry. Where was Prince Lewyn? If I can't trust him to look after you-"

"It wasn't his fault," Arya said quickly. "He had given me a task, but I wasn't paying attention and I got lost. And then I was already in the dungeons and then suddenly I was in a tunnel and I had no candle. But I couldn't go back the way I came because of the monster so I had to go deeper inside. Father, they said they wanted to arrest you."

For a brief moment Ned wondered what kind of task Prince Lewyn might have given her that required her to leave the Red Keep alone. This was totally unacceptable. But first he had to decipher the somewhat confused words of his daughter.

"The monsters want to arrest me?" has asked.

"No, there was only one monster and that one was a chair. The two men. The old man wants to send a bastard to the Wall but the angry man wants to arrest you or it will all just be a mummer's farce. One wants to delay things, but the other wants to hurry and he says the old man must be a wizard."

A monster and a chair and two strange men... None of it made any sense and for a short moment Ned was worried Arya might have hurt her head. But there was no sign of blood. Whatever had happened, his daughter was obviously telling him nonsense and if there was one thing he didn't want after such a day, it was to be taken for a fool by his own daughter.

"A wizard," said Ned, unsmiling. "Did he have a long white beard and tall pointed hat speckled with stars?"

"No! It wasn't like in the stories. He had a white beard but no hat, but the angry man said he must become a wizard."

Slowly he really lost his patience with her.

"I warn you, Arya, if you're spinning this thread of air-"

 

"No, I told you, it was in the dungeons, by the place with the secret wall. I was chasing cats, and I went in this window. That's where I found the monster."

"Monsters and wizards," he said. "It would seem you've had quite an adventure. These men you heard, you say they spoke of becoming a wizard and it all being a mummer's farce?"

"Yes," Arya admitted, "only-"

"Arya, they were mummers," he told her, trying to calm fer down. She must have been really frightened when she didn't recognize something like that and was so upset about it, almost scared really. He felt a little bit sorry for her. "There must be a dozen troupes in King's Landing right now, come to make some coin off the tourney crowds. I'm not certain what these two were doing in the castle, but perhaps the king or the queen has asked for a show."

"No." She shook her head stubbornly. "They weren't-"

"You shouldn't be following people about and spying on them in any case," he said, to finally change the subject. This story was going on for far too long already and didn't get any better. "Nor do I cherish the notion of my daughter climbing in strange windows after stray cats. Look at you, sweetling. Your arms are covered with scratches. This has gone on long enough. First thing tomorrow, I'm going to see Prince Lewyn and tell him-"

He was interrupted by a short, sudden knock. "Lord Eddard, pardons," Desmond called out, opening the door a crack, "but the King's Counter is here begging audience. He said you requested his presence."

That was true. He had asked the King's Counter to help him with the books after the end of the tourney. There was still some time left before the feast to celebrate the end of the tourney, now to celebrate Prince Aegon's victory, would begin. Everyone wanted to rest, refresh themselves and change. Ned had decided however, that he would not need much time for these things and would instead attend to his duties a little more. He would deal with Arya tomorrow. This matter was not over for her yet.

"Indeed, send him in," her father said. "Desmond, see my daughter to her chambers. She will need to wash and change before you bring her to Septa Mordane. We don’t want her to be late for her lessons today." He kissed her on the brow. "We’ll finish our talk on the morrow."

Desmond took her hand. "Come along, milady. You heard your lord father."

Arya and Desmond left the room and the King's Counter entered, a slender man with reddish hair, a pointed nose, a pointed chin and poison-green eyes. At a signal from Ned, he sat down next to him at the desk. Ned offered him a cup of wine, but the man declined with thanks. Ned was relieved, as it was only afterwards that he remembered that he only had strong wine at hand and a Master of Coin, who was drinking strong wine alone in his room, would probably not have made a good impression. He asked him for explanations for some of the inconsistencies in the books, had him explain some of the symbols Lord Celtigar had used to mark certain expenses and incomes. The man tried to be as helpful as possible. Ned was glad about that. Unfortunately, he had to admit often enough that he also didn't know many of the symbols and only kept referring to Lord Celtigar's own system, whatever that system had been. Some of the inconsistencies seemed to make sense now, but even after almost an hour Ned still couldn't grasp the big picture of this whole mess.

Ned thanked the man for his help and sent him off. He then washed and changed his clothes to be ready for the feast. He had just finished putting on his boots when there was another knock at the door and it was opened a crack. A servant stuck his head through it.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but the King requests your presence."

"I'm almost finished. Then I'll go straight to the feast to see him there."

"Not at the feast, my lord. In the king's study."

Ned was surprised, but knew nothing more to say. So he told the servant that he would head there immediately and got up from his chair. He briefly considered whether he should have another sip of strong wine, but decided against it. He had already drunk too much of it anyway and wanted to keep a clear head as much as possible. So far he had not had the opportunity to speak to the king, alone or otherwise. So he could not afford not to have a clear head and stink of strong wine like a drunkard. He left his room and set off, escorted by two Gold Cloaks. For a moment he felt as if he was a prisoner on his way to the scaffold.

A bad feeling was growing inside of him. What could the king have to discuss with him immediately before the feast that could not wait until the next day? Ned found no answer as he was led through the corridors of the fortress. But maybe, he thought, this would be a good opportunity to talk to King Rhaegar about Dragon Shield. He wouldn't achieve much, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to bring up the subject. Perhaps the king was unhappy with him as Master of Coin. He had only held the position for a short time, but he was sure that Lod Connington reported to the King regularly. And in his case, those reports would undoubtedly not be full of praise. Should the king wish to dismiss him from his services, he could return home soon. The bad feeling quickly turned into pure excitement.

They reached the king's study, where the Sers Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower stood guard. They greeted him with a short nod and let him pass. Ned knocked at the door and entered without waiting for the King's command. The room behind the door was brightly lit by countless candles and half a dozen torches on the walls. Shelves of books and all sorts of odds and ends that Ned didn't recognize were standing around. The room was dominated by a huge table in the middle, behind which the king looked like a toddler who had crept into his father's place at the head of a large table.

Ned looked around as he entered, but no one else was in the room. He had heard that the king was rarely seen without this red woman also being there. That might have been a good sign or a bad one. Ned didn't know. He walked towards the table, stopped just before it and bowed deeply to his monarch.

"I am at your service, Your Grace," he said.

The king raised his eyes at him with such a disparaging look.

"I hear you're doing good work in my Small Council," he finally said. That surprised Ned. Whatever he had expected Lord Connington to report about him, it had certainly not been him doing a good job.

"Thank you, Your Grace. I do my best."

"You are surely wondering why I have summoned you here," the king said and continued without waiting for an answer. "Well, I will tell you. I had you come here to warn you."

"To warn me, Your Grace?"

"Indeed. I want to warn you not to do something foolish. Do not think that I haven't figured out your little scheme by now." Ned was confused. What scheme was the king talking about? "Your shameless dog of a father tried the very same thing twenty years ago, put your little sister in my path to seduce me. My honor and my marriage were destroyed by the filthy doings of your sister back then and it nearly led to the downfall of my family. If only you knew what a disservice it would have been to mankind to lose House Targaryen."

Ned was shocked. Confused and surprised, but more shocked than anything else. Had the King just claimed that his sister had seduced him as part of his lord father's plan to overthrow House Targaryen? He remembered that time very well, the infatuation in his sister's eyes, when she came to him to tell him that the crown prince and her were a couple. He remembered how his father and brother had raged because Lyanna and Rhaegar had broken the betrothal between her and his friend Robert with their stupidity. None of this had been a plan or a plot, especially not by his father. How could the king seriously suggest otherwise?

"Your Grace, that's not what happened then," he protested to defend the honor of his father and sister, but before he could speak any further, the king interrupted him.

"Watch your tongue, Stark. Don't make yourself a traitor like your father once was. I granted you your life after the war, although I had every right to take your head. You even kept your lands and titles. One more conspiracy of your family against mine and I promise you, all that will be left of House Stark will be its name in the history books!"

The king walked around the table, digging through writings and books, and for a moment it seemed as if he had completely forgotten that Ned was still in the room with him. Then he turned back to him, staring at him with an furious glance.

"You will not prevent the coming of the Prince that was promised. I will see to it. Let that be a warning to you, Stark. Have your vile daughter keep her greedy hands off my son or she'll lose them. Now get the hell out!"

Ned turned and left without another word. Whatever was going on in the King's mind boded ill. It seemed as if Rhaegar was going down the same path as his father before him. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He would have to prepare for their departure, he decided. Master of Coin or not, it wasn't safe in this city. Not for him, not for his family. They would leave as soon as possible. He decided not to attend the feast tonight. The king would hardly miss him there anyway. Instead, he would immediately begin preparations for their departure, as quietly and secretly as possible. It would take him a few days, a week at the most, then they would be on their way back north.

Notes:

So, that was it. As you can see, Rhaegar is indeed not in the best shape, so to speak. ;-) Again, I love to hear what you think of this chapter, what you liked or disliked. Let me know in the comments.

See you next time.

Chapter 15: Sansa 2

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. We see Sansa after the end of the tourney and afterwards going to the feast to celebrate the end of the tourney. That's basically it. Hopefully you enjoy it.

It was all a dream. It all had to be just a dream. Everything else would be too perfect, she thought. Sansa was sitting on the edge of the large bed in her chambers now, looking down at the crown of black and red roses in her hands, her thumbs carefully petting the soft petals. She tried to recall every single moment again, from when Aegon asked for her favor at the beginning of the joust until when the crown had been placed on her head, making her Aegon's Queen of Love and Beauty. But every time she tried to focus on one of these impossible moments, a wave of pure bliss swept through her, washing over the images in her mind and almost making her burst into tears of joy.

Jeyne sat opposite of her on one of the chairs next to the huge windows and babbled incessantly, but Sansa didn't hear a single word she said. Sansa's eyes were fixated on the rose petals, yet in her mind she was still looking into Aegon's shining beautiful eyes when they had ridden back to the Red Keep next to each other and as much as Jeyne was talking and talking, all she could hear over and over again were Aegon's words when he had looked at her after he had mounted his horse. My queen.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she finally raised her head again and looked Jeyne in the face. She literally glowed with excitement and still babbled something about the fact that she was actually a queen now. That was childish nonsense of course, but it was exactly the kind of childish nonsense they had giggled and fantasized about when they had been children in Winterfell, playing come-into-my-castle over and over again. For a short moment she felt a deep sadness rising within her. As wonderful and exciting as life at the royal court was, she missed her home. She missed the cold weather and the drafty courtyards of Winterfell. She missed her mother and brothers. She wished they were here now, that they had seen her and that her mother was with her now.

She quickly pushed the thought aside, however. Now was not the time for sadness. Not now. Not this night. First thing in the morning she would write a letter to her mother, telling her everything she had seen and experienced and everything that had happened to her. She would tell her about her friendship with Rhaenys and Rhaella, how wonderful Queen Elia was and of course every detail about her Aegon. The sadness gave way to anticipation that seemed to tear her apart. She could hardly wait to tell her mother every detail about her Silver Prince.

"It's was probably better that way anyway," she suddenly heard Jeyne say when she had finally torn herself from her thoughts. Sansa furrowed her brow, not knowing what her friend was referring to. Jeyne seemed to mistake her look for disbelief. "I know I should go, but somehow... I don't know. I just don't think I should attend the feast."

Now Sansa understood what Jeyne meant. She put the crown of roses on the bed beside her, sat down on the chair next to Jenye and took her hand.

"Of course you should attend. You must even. You don't want to disappoint your suitor," she said with a wink. "I'm sure Ser Koryn would be heartbroken if he did not find you there."

Immediately a slight smile began to play around her lips but just as Jeyne opened her mouth to answer, there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an invitation, Rhaenys entered the room. Sansa and Jeyne rose and curtsied before the princess. Rhaenys had already told her that she didn't have to do this if they were alone but as long as Jeyne was with her, Sansa still preferred to follow etiquette. She was sure Rhaenys wouldn't have minded but Sansa knew her friend Jeyne well enough to know that sooner or later she would consider this an invitation to refrain from such things towards Rhaenys. And as close as Sansa and Rhaenys had come in such a small amount of time, Jeyne was not nearly as close to her and Sansa doubted that this would ever change.

Rhaenys had already changed for the feast. She was wearing a gorgeous black dress with a low neckline and had for once allowed her hair to be woven into an intricate braided hairstyle instead of letting it fall openly over her back as usual. Golden jewelry shimmered on her neck, ears and wrists. She looked unbelievably beautiful. Sansa remembered that Rhaenys had promised her in advance to hold back a little. It was important, she had told her, that Sansa would be the radiant center of this event. But now, as the princess stood before her, Sansa was no longer sure that this was even possible.

She placed a large wrapped something on the bed she had been carrying under her arm, then walked towards Sansa and curtsied deeply before her.

"Since now you are the queen, I should better curtsey before you than the other way around, Your Grace," she said laughing. She rose again, came even closer and kissed Sansa on both cheeks again. "Congratulations, little wolf."

She turned around and sat down on the bed, her long legs elegantly swung over one another.

"We still have some time before we have to go to the feast. So what were you two just talking about?"

"Jeyne doesn't want to go to the feast," Sansa said, ignoring her friend's pleading glance.

"Really? Why is that? Are you feeling unwell, Lady Jeyne?"

"No, not really, Princess." Jeyne's voice was soft, almost shy.

"Nonsense," said Sansa, who had no intention of letting Jeyne off so easily. "She just doesn't want to. Because of Daeron." Jeyne's eyes widened in shock.

"It's all right, Jeyne," Rhaenys said in a calm tone. "I know all about you and my little brother. You don't think he hasn't told me all about of this already? But I also noticed that you already have a new suitor," she said with a wink. "You should attend. Seriously."

"I don't know," Jeyne finally said after a while. "Of course I don't want to disappoint Koryn. He's wonderful and kind and sweet, but..."

"But he is not Daeron," Rhaenys completed her sentence. Jeyne answered with a nod. "I see. But maybe he can become that for you. I mean, he'll never be a real prince, but he could be your prince. Tell me how it was when you met Daeron for the first time," she said after an uncertain look from Jeyne.

"Well, he came to Winterfell as a ward, to be fostered by his mother's family."

"I know that. I mean, what was it like when you first saw him. Was it love at first sight?"

"No," Jeyne quickly said with an honest laugh. "At first I found him horrible. Handsome of course, but somehow he always seemed a little… out of place. Always so stiff, always brooding over everything and everyone."

Sansa noticed the gentle expression on Rhaenys' face, the expression of a caring big sister. She had already seen this expression on her face when she had spoken to Sansa and given her the first lessons in courtly life, as she had put it. Still she was amazed how such a strong and sometimes intimidating woman could be so gentle if she wanted to. Then again, Aegon is also strong and gentle at the same time, she thought.

"Sometimes we first have to get close to a person before we realize how much we are really tied to him," she said and looked at Jeyne intensely. "And if your suitor is not even horrible from the beginning like Daeron was, but kind and sweet and wonderful, why don't you allow him to be close to you? Go to the feast, Lady Jenye. Dance with your young knight and have a wonderful evening. If only to create a memory that you can one day tell your daughters and granddaughters. And tomorrow you will decide again whether you want to see him again or not. And the day after that, you will decide again and again until you're sure that either you never want to see him again or that want him by your side every day for the rest of your life."

Jeyne seemed to think about it for a moment while Rhaenys stood up and filled one of the silver cups with watered wine at the small table in the corner of the room. Jeyne's face became more cheerful with every moment. Rhaenys' words seemed to have hit the mark, as she finally rose and announced that she had to get dressed for the feast, in a voice with almost as much conviction as a warlord speaking to his troops, announcing the imminent conquest of the enemy's lands. Quicker than Sansa or Rhaenys had been able to say anything, Jeyne had already disappeared through the door after a short curtsey.

Rhaenys filled a second cup with wine and handed it to Sansa. The wine was cold and light and sweet. It matched perfectly with how Sansa was feeling and after the second, small sip she noticed how she was getting calmer already and the fluttery feeling in her stomach subsided.

"Now to you, dear," Rhaenys said, pointing to the wrapped something that was still laying on the bed.

"Is that it?" Sansa asked and immediately her excitement returned.

"What do you think? Go on, undress. We'll try it on right away."

Sansa obeyed without a word, got up, opened the lacings on her dress and let it slide to the floor while Rhaenys was busy opening the package. She pulled out a thin dress of dark purple silk and held it into the light. It shone beautifully and as Rhaenys had promised, the color was exactly the same as the purple of Aegon's ravishing eyes. Sansa stood there for a while, dressed only in her thin small clothes, looking at the dress she was about to put on.

"Look here," Rhaenys finally said, pointing to a certain spot on the dress that had to be at about the height of her hips. Sansa looked closely and recognized a tiny embroidery in silver and dark red, the color of her and Aegon's hair, as she recognized immediately. A silver dragon, its wings spread widely, facing a red wolf, standing on his hind legs. They are dancing, she thought, and it was only a few moments later that she realized that her mouth was open in amazement.

"That's beautiful," Sansa whispered.

"Thank you. I really did my best."

She looked at Rhaenys and just a heartbeat later fell around her neck.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," she whispered again and again.

Rhaenys quickly released herself from the embrace and smiled warmly and honestly as she told Sansa to be careful not to wrinkle the fine silk. Immediately she began to help Sansa put the dress on. It fit so perfectly as if she had been sewn into it.

"But didn't you say you wanted to hold back a little so I could shine?" Sansa asked in a playful tone as Rhaenys was busy closing the fine, barely visible lacings at the sides and around her neck that would hold the dress in place.

"I did," she returned with a grin. "At least as far as I was able to, dear. But don't worry. I'll stand out, but as soon as I'm done with you, you'll outshine absolutely everything and everyone tonight. Myself included. When the evening's over, all the men in the hall will swear to high heaven that the feast was not given in honor of Aegon's victory, but solely to celebrate your beauty."

When the lacings were closed, Sansa wanted to look at herself in the mirror right away, but Rhaenys pushed her straight back to her chair and began to undo the braids of her hair.

"Not yet," she said. "An artist never reveals his work before it is finished."

Then she reached to the brush on the table and began to comb Sansa's hair. For a moment Sansa thought back to her home again and how her mother had always brushed her hair every evening. Sometimes for hours on end. Again, she wished her mother was here with her now, could see her and gently stroke her hair. Mother would probably have forbidden me to wear such a dress, she thought then and had to smirk.

"What's so funny?"

"I just had to imagine my mother's face if she were to see me in this dress."

"Wouldn't she like it?"

"She's from the Riverlands. Nowhere near as far north as Winterfell, but even in the Riverlands, I'd be banished to the highest tower for a dress like that."

They both laughed at that.

"Well, Sansa," Rhaenys finally said. "It may be new to you, but you're not a child anymore. You're a woman grown. You need to make your own choices. I, for my part, am glad you chose this dress. And I promise that Aegon will be glad too," she added with a wink.

Again they both laughed.

"You've done well these past few days. With Margaery, I mean," said Rhaenys.

"I hope so."

"You have. You really have. We still have a few things to work on, but you certainly made an impression. Have any ladies approached you yet?"

"Yes, some have. Some of the daughters of Ser Gareth Clifton approached me, but I couldn't memorize their names."

"That' s no big deal. There are over half a dozen of them. I can't tell them apart either."

"Jeyne and Eleyna Westerling approached me too. They're very nice."

"Did they invite you to anything?"

"No."

"That's good."

"Why is that good? I thought they must be eager to be close to me," Sansa asked, somewhat confused.

"That's true, but you have to be the one to invite them, not the other way around. You are above them, so it is not up to them to invite you anywhere. The next time you meet them, invite them to your place. They will accept. Or better invite them to grandmother's garden. It will make even more of an impression that you can make use of the Queen Mother's private garden."

"Can I possibly do that?"

"Of course, little wolf. Grandmother will be delighted to help with our little scheme."

Sansa thought about it. Indeed, the last few days had gone well. As Rhaenys had predicted, Margaery had invited Sansa to her rooms for tea. Sansa had refused without offering an explanation and had in return invited Margaery for tea to her own rooms the day after, which of course had been refused by Margaery – as also predicted by Rhaenys. Rhaenys however had happily agreed to spend the afternoon with Sansa in front of almost half of all the ladies-in-waiting in King's Landing. In the absence of anything else that they knew for sure Sansa would stand out with so far, Rhaenys had suggested to the group that they all should sing something together. Rhaenys had secretly arranged for some young knights and squires to do their sword exercises nearby and so the ladies had sung a few songs for these brave young men.

"To remind them of what they are practicing and stealing themselves for," Rhaenys had whispered to the other ladies, earning some shy laughs.

They had sung nine songs for the young men, joyful songs, songs of glory and honor and songs of faith, which were normally only sung in a sept. And each time Rhaenys had somehow managed to steer the voices and the pacing of the songs in such a way that Sansa's voice stood out. In the end, there was not a single lady in the group who had not congratulated Sansa for her lovely singing voice.

"I'm done," Rhaenys finally said, tearing Sansa from her thoughts. Sansa turned her head and looked at her questioningly.

"Shouldn't we braid my hair again?"

"Absolutely not, dear. Now you may stand up and look in the mirror. Then you'll see. Every lady tonight will have braided her hair somehow. But as beautiful and extravagant as these hairs will be, none will appear there like you, with the most magnificent locks in the color of molten copper. None of the ladies will be like you. None of the ladies will be able to compete with you."

Sansa stood up and walked over to the mirror, unsure what to expect. She knew her hair well and knew how beautiful it could be. Full curls in deep auburn. Yet she had learned that her hair had to be braided, as befits a lady. Open hair was worn in bed and in the bath, but not in public, not at court and certainly not at a feast.

Then she looked at herself and it almost took her breath away. Could that really be her? Her hair lay full and soft on her bare shoulders, falling deep down over her back in thick curls, and in the light of the candles it was indeed in the color of molten copper. The dress fitted her like a second skin and emphasized her increasingly womanly body in an almost impossible way. The dress did not have a neckline at the front but merged into a wide collar made of the same soft silk, had no shoulders or sleeves, but had a deep neckline at the back, reaching halfway down her spine. It fitted tightly to her legs but had half-height cuts on the sides that would allow her to dance, and that would show her legs at every step just enough to give an idea of their slender form. Rhaenys had been right. She had never felt more like a woman than at that moment. Never before had she felt more beautiful and desirable. Every trace of uncertainty or doubt had been wiped away.

The words Rhaneys had said to her when she had chosen this dress came to her mind again. Aegon won't be able to help but fall in love with you with all his heart and soul. Now she herself couldn't help but shine all over her face like the sun itself. Rhaenys was right. As always.

Sansa heard a gentle knock at the door. Faster than she could react, Rhaenys already answered and asked what was the matter. The voice of a servant on the other side of the door announced that Lord Stark excused himself but would unfortunately not attend the feast and had asked if Lady Sansa would rather not attend as well. Rhaenys replied in her place that of course Lady Sansa would attend the feast tonight and that the servant could deliver this message to Lord Stark on behalf of Princess Rhaenys.

"Father will not attend."

"Apparently not. But it's probably for the best. This will most certainly save his life. You know, his heart," she said with a grin. Rhaenys had already joked that the sight of his daughter in this dress would probably cause her father's heart to stop. So even though Sansa was a little bit happy not to have to listen to a lecture from her father afterwards because of how way too open and inappropriate the dress would have been in his eyes, she was also disappointed that he wouldn't see her like that.

"Don't you worry, little wolf. There'll be lots of feasts and dances at King's Landing."

Following Rhaenys' advice, Sansa decided not to wear jewelry.

"You yourself are the brightest piece of jewelry, not some shiny trinket. Every woman can cover herself with gold and gems, but none can be like you."

Then they left their room and set off. Outside the door Ser Jaime Lannister had stood guard, elegant and handsome in his white armor, now walking behind them to escort them to the feast.

"Ser Jaime," Rhaenys suddenly said halfway to the Grand Hall. "You will be staying close to me all evening. The Redwyne twins will certainly ask me to dance with them, but I'd rather cut off both my feet than let them stomp on my toes the entire evening. Not dancing is of course not an option for me and since my beloved brother will be indisposed all evening," she said with a knowing look in Sansa's direction, "I expect you to ask me for a dance or two."

"As you wish, my Princess," the knight said and Sansa could hear him smiling at Rhaenys' commanding tone over such a lovely thing.

They reached the entrance to the Grand Hall. Rhaenys would enter before her, escorted by Ser Jaime, and thus already direct all eyes towards the entrance. Shortly thereafter Sansa would follow. From the other side of the massive door she heard the herald announce the arrival of Rhaenys Targaryen, the most noble Princess of Summerhall. She waited and silently counted to twenty, as they had planned, before she too let herself be announced by the herald and entered.

The Grand Hall was magnificently decorated. Countless candles were burning on the long tables, ornately embroidered banners with the proud Targaryen Dragon hung from all the walls, beautifully lit by as many torches in iron holders on the large columns holding the high ceilings, and above the dais at the head of the hall they had even hung one of the huge dragon skulls from the throne room, in whose empty eye sockets small torches were burning, giving it a mystical aura, as if the mighty beast could come back to life at any moment. As they had planned, all eyes were turned towards the portal when Sansa entered the hall, and although the room was filled with the gentle murmur of hundreds of guests, she thought she could hear how for a brief moment all voices in the hall fell silent as she stepped through the great doorway.

She stepped further into the hall as elegantly as she could and felt the eyes of almost all the guests on her. For a moment she was uncomfortable when she thought about what the men in particular might think when they saw her. But then Rhaenys' words came to her mind again. Men must desire her, must want nothing more than to have her in their bed. Only such a woman, desired by every man and envied by every woman, was worthy of her Aegon. Judging by the looks of the lords and ladies and knights, she was exactly such a woman now, and though she still loathed the looks with which some of the men almost seemed to undress her, she was suddenly filled with a deep sense of pride and almost exuberant joy.

Her eyes were looking for Aegon, who must be somewhere near the dais. But before she could find him, Jeyne rushed at her from one side.

"By the old gods and the new," she whispered, eyes wide open. Sansa couldn't tell if it was admiration or pure shock. "That looks incredible! You look incredible! Your father will lock you up in the highest tower of Winterfell for this until you're old and wrinkled, but this fate is really worth it!"

"Father will not attend. So I will be spared that fate," Sansa said with a smile.

"Where did you get that dress? Septa Mordane will go up in flames if she sees you in it."

"It's a gift from Rhaenys."

Sansa could see the surprise in her eyes, but also admiration and wonder. She could barely explain to herself how she and Rhaenys had become friends so quickly. She was even less able to explain it to Jeyne. Her friend kept on babbling for a while how incredible Sansa looked in this new dress and that she should have a similar one as soon as possible. But Sansa had her doubts that Rhaenys would be willing to pay the expensive spider silk and her good tailor for Jeyne as well. And Jeyne certainly could not afford this herself. Rhaenys was nice and friendly to Jeyne, much nicer and friendlier than one could expect from her because of her rather different status – the one being the daughter of a steward, the other one being a princess of the realm – but nothing more. Sansa also doubted that this dress would have decorated Jeyne in a similar way as it did to herself. Jenye was slim, almost a bit too thin, with a flat chest and flat bottom. She was pretty but not womanly. There were undoubtedly men who liked this in women, but for such a dress this was certainly not the right physique. She said nothing about it, however, but promised to take her to a tailor soon to have new dresses made for her.

It would not be the same tailor, not the same fabric, not the same cut and in the end certainly not the same dress, but still they would get some new ones for her, Sansa decided. Even if Sansa had to pay for those new dresses.

Out of the corner of her eye she recognized Jeyne's young Dornish knight standing at the edge of the room watching Jeyne attentively. For a tiny moment, Sansa wasn't sure if Ser Koryn was actually looking at Jeyne or at herself, but she put the thought aside. She nodded in the knight's direction.

"Your suitor is already waiting for you. You'd better hurry before there's no more room at the table next to him."

Jeyne started to smile a bit more, squeezed Sansa's hand as a goodbye and then went to her knight to take a seat next to him. It was true that Ser Koryn was not Daeron, but still it made Sansa incredibly happy to see how much better Jeyne seemed to feel in his presence and how attentively and gently the young man treated her friend.

She continued her way towards the dais. There would not be much time left before everyone would have to take their seats and the food would be served. She would sit further ahead with the high lords and ladies, but still far away from the royal dais. So she wanted to take a quick look at Aegon, talk to him. Also she could hardly wait for him to see her in her new dress for the first time. So she went on to the head of the hall and actually found Aegon standing at the steps leading up to the dais talking to a young man, probably a knight or young lord. She only saw him from behind, but his beautiful long silver-white hair and imposing stature were unmistakable. She heard him laugh and immediately her heart leapt. She loved his laugh.

She walked towards him, but before she was even near him, she saw Margaery Tyrell approaching him from the side, much closer than she herself. She was, as always, wrapped in a beautiful dress in green and gold, which showed off her feminine forms well. Something tensed in her. Rhaenys must have noticed the approaching threat as well. She had been standing at her brother's side not far from him, watching Aegon, and just as Margaery was about to throw herself at him, she stepped in between, hooked onto her brother and without asking for permission pulled him onto the royal dais with her. She looked around, found Sansa's look and winked at her. Rarely before had Sansa felt so relieved in her life.

It was stupid, she knew. Childishly stupid. What's the worst that could have happened? Margaery would have talked to Aegon, maybe got the promise of a dance from him and then it would have been over. Still... Sansa hated the thought. She didn't want Margaery near her Aegon, childish as this feeling of jealousy might be.

Now Aegon was out of reach for Margaery. Unfortunately as well for herself, as she would not be allowed to get onto the royal dais, but at least Margaery had not been able to get to him. She would later present herself to Aegon in her new dress, would talk to him and laugh with him and dance with him until her feet hurt. So she turned around and searched the rows of tables where she would be seated. Just when she had found an empty seat, close enough to the royal family to suit her status as daughter of a Lord Paramount, she heard a voice behind her.

"Lady Sansa," said the voice. Sansa turned around and looked into the friendly but stern face of an old man in a white armor. She recognized him immediately as Ser Barristan Selmy. "Would you please come with me?"

"Ser Barristan, good evening. And where shall I come with you to?"

"The dais, my lady. You are the Queen of Love and Beauty. At least for this evening you're royalty, so your place is on the dais of course, next to Prince Aegon."

Again her heart leapt, stronger than before, and for a moment she lost her speech. She could see in Ser Barristan's face that he recognized it, too. He smiled kindly, almost fatherly, as he offered her his arm to escort her onto the dais to the side of her Aegon. She loved to follow him, past the lords and ladies at the tables, past the Gold Cloaks guarding the entrance to the dais, past the other knights of the Kingsguard and past Rhaenys and Rhaella, who smiled warmly and friendly to her, honestly delighted to have her with them. Aegon sat almost in the middle of the dais, right next to Daeron, who had taken the place between Aegon and the king.

"My prince, may I present your Queen of Love and Beauty," said Ser Barristan as they reached her seat. Immediately Aegon broke off the conversation with his brother, stood up and turned to her. She could see that he wanted to say something, but when he looked at her, he froze as if struck by lightning, his mouth half open, and looked at her as if for the first time in his life he saw a woman in a dress. It took a few moments before he found his senses again and began to speak.

"Lady Sansa, my Queen of Love and Beauty. I would love to say that you look beautiful, ravishing and beyond compare, but that would not do you justice. You are... absolutely breathtaking. That's all I can say and it's still not enough."

She felt the warmth rise to her cheeks as she blushed heavily. She gave him her most beautiful smile and curtsied deeply before him.

"Thank you, my prince," she breathed.

Quickly he pulled out her chair so she could sit down and immediately took his seat next to her. She heard Daeron say something to Aegon from the other side, but Aegon didn't seem to hear it anymore. He looked into her eyes and seemed unable to tear himself away from the sight, just like she couldn't stop looking into his beautiful purple eyes.

She didn't know how much time had passed when they truly became aware of their surroundings again. Without really knowing where it came from so suddenly, plates of cod cake and baked mussels were placed in front of them on the table, interrupting their gazes. Without them noticing, the lords and ladies had all taken their seats, the king must have already said a few words of welcome and now the first course of the evening was already served.

"Have you finally woken up again?" she heard Daeron say.

"What do you mean?" Aegon asked.

"You were staring at each other for the better part of an hour as if you two had been frozen. I was just about to call a maester to see if you were still breathing."

The better part of an hour… Sansa and Aegon looked at each other again and both laughed at this. She could have looked into those eyes for the rest of her life.

After the cod cake, they were served pigeon pie, peppered boar, venison pie and spiced mutton. They spoke little during the meal but ate even less and they could hardly take their eyes off each other the entire time. He smiled wonderfully when he looked at her all evening and she couldn't help but shine on him as well in return. Here and there their hands touched when they reached for their cups of wine and each time it was as if a lightning bolt struck her. She wondered what it would be like to be touched by him, not only on her hands but… everywhere. Her own thought totally surprised her, shocked her even and immediately she blushed heavily because of her own lewdness.

The meal was almost over when Aegon leaned over to her and began to whisper into her ear in a serious tone.

"My Lady, I need to speak to you about something. Something serious."

"About what, my prince?"

"About the fact that, of the two of us, I am supposed to be the knight, not the other way round."

"I do not understand, my prince," she said somewhat uncertain. It had been a while since she had addressed him by his title when they talked in private, but because of his serious tone of voice she thought it wise to pay attention to etiquette. 

"I have heard from my grandmother how you defended my honor against my uncle, and it should actually be my duty to defend yours," he said and immediately she heard the broad grin from his voice.

"It certainly can't hurt to defend each other," she returned and grinned just as broadly now.

They were served honey cake in butter sauce and at the end each guest got a small lemon cake. Sansa looked over at Aegon again as the servant placed the small plate of pastry in front of her. He winked at her and she knew that this dessert was just for her.

As soon as the meal was finished, the servants began to carry the tables out of the hall to make room for the dance. Aegon and she would open the dance together. Immediately the excitement in her began to swell again. She could hardly wait to dance with him. She looked around as she waited for it to begin and could see the longing looks of the countless young ladies who were no doubt dreaming that Aegon might ask them to dance tonight as well. But that would not happen. She would spend the whole evening at Aegon's side and as long as she was there, he would have no eyes for anything or anyone but her.

She looked around and saw the beautiful and warm smiles on Rhaenys' and Rhaella's faces. Suddenly, Rhaenys' face changed into pure horror. Sansa followed her gaze and saw Lord Tyrell almost in the middle of the open space of the hall, walking resolutely towards dais, leading his daughter by the hand next to him. Shortly before the dais he stopped and sank to one knee, which seemed difficult for him because of its expansive shape. Margaery curtsied deeply and adorably before the king.

"Your Grace," Lord Tyrell said in a loud voice. Gradually the voices of the other lords and ladies in the hall fell silent until it was dead quiet. "As you know, House Tyrell is your most loyal servant. Since the days of the blessed conquest by your noble ancestor Aegon the First, House Tyrell has stood proud and faithful by the side of the beloved House Targaryen. It is therefore a great joy and honor for me to offer you the hand of my lovely daughter Margaery for your still unmarried son and heir. You would do me, my daughter, and my House the greatest honor if you would consent to this most advantageous match."

Sansa's gaze was fixed on Lady Margaery's smile. It was lovely and beautiful and Sansa hated her for it from the depths of her heart and soul. For a while nothing happened. Absolute silence reigned in the hall until the King finally rose and all eyes were on him.

"Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, my most loyal servant," the king said in a thoughtful tone. For a while, the King just stood there, looking down upon the still kneeling Lord Tyrell and his daughter. Panic and terror rose in Sansa. Surely the king would approve. Why wouldn't he? House Tyrell had indeed always been loyal to the crown, was rich and powerful. Then the king began to speak again.

"But as my most loyal servant, you should also know, Lord Tyrell, that I certainly have no interest in diluting the most noble Blood of the Dragon with the blood of a bunch of upjumped stewards. Surely you are aware that your family, however loyal and devoted they may be, is nowhere near worthy enough of a union with royal blood. If I had a bastard, I might consider marrying him to your daughter. Unfortunately for you, I have none. Your house are good bannermen, Lord Tyrell, but you should know your place."

The eyes of everyone present were widened in shock. Sansa could hardly believe what she had just heard. She looked over at Rhaenys and Rhaella, who also sat there with their mouths open and gazed unbelievingly at the king. All color had left the face of Lord Tyrell. Pale as a white nightgown, he still knelt there, as motionless as if frozen to a statue. Lady Margaery hardly gave a better picture. She too had turned pale as milk and her smile had given way to sheer terror. She controlled herself surprisingly well but Sansa was sure she would soon cry into her pillow. She hadn't wanted for anything in the world for the king to agree to this match, but Lady Margaery certainly didn't deserve such treatment. No one deserved it.

It took quite a while until Lord Tyrell finally managed to move and rise again. He bowed to the king somewhat awkwardly.

"Thank you, Your Grace. If you'll excuse us, we'll retire to our chambers now."

He was about to turn and leave when the king addressed him again.

"Retire to your chambers? The feast is not over yet. Surely you won't leave before the dance, Lord Tyrell. I hear your daughter loves to dance. And besides, it would be an unforgivable insult that I would not soon forget."

Even Lord Tyrell, who seemed almost oblivious to his surroundings, noticed the low, threatening tone in the king's voice.

"Your Grace, we-" Lord Tyrell began to speak before the king immediately interrupted him.

"You will stay, my lord. You will stay and dance and your daughter will stay and dance and you and your daughter will not leave this hall until I declare this feast over."

"Very well, Your Grace."

With that, the Lord of Highgarden turned aside and dragged his utterly dismayed daughter with him to hide among the crowd of lords and ladies.

For quite a while everything was quiet again. No one seemed to have the courage to speak. Only when the king sat down again did the quiet murmuring of the guests resume. She looked over at Aegon, who was still sitting next to her. She recognized the surprise on his face, the shock about the spectacle that had just taken place here, but – as she happily noticed – also relief. Aegon looked at her, smiled warmly and wonderfully again and reached for her hand. He squeezed it gently, led it to his mouth and kissed it, his lips as soft and smooth as the freshest petals.

He does not want Margaery. He wants me, she thought and an overwhelming feeling of pure joy spread through her like wildfire.

Aegon stood up and left to discuss something with the musicians then who had arranged themselves at the edge of the hall, when finally the last table was carried out of the hall. The last lords and ladies had now left the middle of the large hall to clear the floor for the dance that was about to begin now. She rose and walked slowly and elegantly to the edge of the dais, where she waited for Aegon to lead her down and open the dance with her.

She looked in his direction and noticed a lady with silver-white hair standing by him, young and slim and beautiful. She spoke with him and gave him an adorably sweet smile. Aegon briefly replied something, but Sansa could neither understand him nor her at that distance. Then he shortly bowed to her, turned back to Sansa and came towards her with a quick step. The moment his eyes found her again, he had his broad, radiant smile back on his face. By the gods, in all the world there has never been a more beautiful man.

He came to her and held out his arm, as befitted a young knight. She took his arm gently but firmly and slowly let him lead her down the few steps of the dais. At his side she walked to the middle of the hall, where they would soon open the dance.

"Who was the young lady?" Sansa asked on the way to the middle, as casually as possible.

"Lady Naelanyra Qoheris," he replied. "The daughter of a rich merchant from Lys. Made a fortune in the spice trade."

"Ah, and since your father has decided that Prince Viserys should take not one but two wives from Valyrian families from Essos, the Lady thought she might give the crown prince a try."

"Exactly."

Rhaenys had told her of the king's decision to give Prince Viserys not one but two wives of Valyrian origin. She could not really understand why this was so important to the king, when political alliances would have been the better alternative. Even Rhaenys had no idea what might have led the king to this decision. Surely it had happened many times before that the Targaryens first searched among the nobles of Essos with Valyrian blood for suitable brides for their sons to keep the Dragon Blood strong, as it was said. But so shortly after a war that almost meant the downfall of the royal family, everyone had expected that King Rhaegar would do his utmost to consolidate the power of House Targaryen with as strong alliances as possible.

Finally they reached the middle of the hall. Aegon took a tiny step back and at first Sansa was irritated until she realized that Aegon could see her better in her entirety this way. Again she blushed slightly when she noticed his admiring look.

"You must be a dream. It is impossible that there is such a perfect woman," he murmured to himself.

Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him.

"So, you and that lady Naelanyra… Once you two are wed, what will you name your first child?" she asked. "Cinnamon if she's a girl? Cloves if he's a boy?"

He burst out in a laugh.

"That will never happen, my lady."

He stepped closer to her again, looking her deeply in the eyes. Now she herself stepped closer to him until there was almost no more space left between them. Her hand went up to his face and she ran one finger softly down his cheek. "Should we ever wed, I'll be all the spice you'll want."

Aegon looked at her for a long time, for half an eternity it seemed, and Sansa already feared that she had gone too far. Just the thought of it made her stomach cramp. She was just about to turn around, run away, out of the hall and out of the Red Keep and out of King's Landing and hide in Winterfell for the rest of her life… when she suddenly felt his hands around her waist. She felt him pull her even closer, saw his face coming towards her and all of a sudden she felt his warm lips pressed on hers.

She willingly opened her mouth to grant him entrance. Her arms shot up and clasped his neck, her hands ran through his silk soft hair and pulled his head even closer to hers so that he would never let go of her again. He opened his mouth as well and without having control over it, she felt her tongue dart forward, enter his mouth and merge with his tongue like in a dance of their very own. Something seemed to explode deep inside her as she felt losing the ground beneath her feet, as he pulled her further and further towards him, as he lifted her off the ground and as they seemed to melt into one. A previously unknown heat spread inside her, went through her whole body and made everything around her disappear as if there were only the two of them left in the world.

Their lips merged again and again, their tongues circled each other in sheer desire, while his strong arms continued to press her against himself not letting her go just one inch. The heat inside her was getting stronger and stronger and for the first time in her life she felt the heat pool in her small clothes, felt the deep desire of a woman for a man getting stronger and stronger between her legs as they kissed and kissed.

Notes:

So, that was it. Hope you liked it. As always, feel free to let me know what you think, what you liked or didn't liked about this chapter. I love to hear your thoughts about it. :-)

Next chapter will be from Aegon's persepective again. See you there.

Chapter 16: Aegon 3

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is already here, because this is a quite short one. All that is basically happening is that Aegon is ordered to the Throne Room by Rhaegar, who has a little "task" for him.

Hope you still like it. :-)

"Come on, just one."

"No. How many times do I have to say it?" Aegon said, starting to lose patience. It wasn't that Aegon wasn't in the mood to go drinking with Daeron, but he had the day already planned. He knew that beer always gave him bad breath and since he planned to spend the entire day with Sansa, bad breath was the last thing he needed.

They were outside the city walls in front of King's Gate, where they had just bid farewell to their mother. She had decided to return to Dorne as soon as possible after the tourney, but since the shorter route via the southern Kingsroad through the Kingswood was not safe and the ships were still stuck in the harbor due to the continuing drought, she had decided to take the longer overland route along the Goldroad, at some point turn south towards Bitterbridge and from there take the shortest route to Dorne via Ashford and Nightsong.

Aegon had hoped to spare his mother these hardships. A little rain might have been enough already to let a small ship leave the harbor again. But it hadn't rained and as far as the maesters could be trusted, it wouldn't start raining any time soon. Now his mother had a thousand miles, about one month, in a carriage ahead of her before she would be back on Dornish ground again. The way from Nightsong to Sunspear would then be just as long. Or maybe they would travel to the much closer Starfall and from there try to make the rest of the way by ship. Starfall, located at the mouth of the river Torentine, had a seaport that could not dry up, so there was a good chance to shorten the journey by a few weeks from there.

He was glad that his mother had been present at the tourney, that she had seen him win and that she had met Sansa. His grandmother had told him that Elia had indeed not been too pleased at first that apparently a Stark daughter was his chosen one. Another Stark snatching a prince from under the nose of the entire court. But the story of how two decades ago the Lady Lyanna had twisted Rhaegar's head and stolen him from her was of course only half the truth, as everyone at King's Landing knew. Not that their marriage had ever been more than pure reason. Aegon knew that there had never been much love between his mother and his father, but the humiliation still gnawed at his mother even twenty years later.

Needless to say, he would have been reluctant to argue with his mother about it, and so he was all the happier when his grandmother assured him that all his mother's doubts had vanished as quickly as snow in the Dornish sun once she had actually gotten to know Sansa in person. The fact that Sansa, with her porcelain skin, full auburn hair and her magnificent blue eyes, looked like a Tully and not a Stark at all and therefore did not seem to bear much resemblance to her aunt Lyanna had undoubtedly helped, as his grandmother had told him with a wink.

Now his mother was on her way home again and Aegon hoped to be able to visit her soon. He was sure that Sansa would love it in Sunspear as well. Aegon knew that his mother would get better in Dorne. The climate did her well and apart from very few exceptions, she could no longer bear the royal court with all the whispers and false smiles. She had, as always, said goodbye effusively, congratulated him again for his great victory and – to Aegon's special delight – made him promise to greet Sansa especially dearly from her when he saw her again. Hopefully this would not take so long now. So he refused another begging from Daeron to go to some cheap tavern with him and instead made his way back to the Red Keep. Daeron would certainly find someone to get drunk with.

Aegon had indeed noticed Daeron dancing with a number of different ladies last night and, as expected, it had not taken long for their fathers, brothers or cousins to throw themselves at him as his new best friends. One of them would certainly not be far away and would be only too happy to help Daeron get seriously wasted.

He himself had not left Sansa's side throughout the entire evening. Only with her had he danced, eight times in total. Never had he enjoyed a more wonderful feast. Never had he seen a more beautiful woman. Inevitably he had to think back to their kiss – or better, to their kisses – with which they had opened the evening in a rather… unconventional way. Immediately this incredible feeling of euphoria returned. Rhaenys had scolded him at the end of the evening for the way he had behaved, but her serious tone had not really matched the barely suppressed cheerfulness in her eyes. His grandmother had seemed slightly shocked at first, but then had smiled contentedly all evening as if it was all her doing. He thought back at her lips.

Sansa's lips. Nothing was as sweet and soft as Sansa's lips.

Ignoring Daeron's chatter, he continued thinking about last night. He could still hardly believe what had happened. He himself had never been very offensive when it had been about women. What had come over him, he could not say. But whatever it had been, it had apparently come over Sansa as well, for she had not only let him kiss her but had willingly and actively answered his kisses. After that they had not left each other's side for the rest of the night and whenever he had looked at her – which he had done a lot – she had shone at him as bright as the sun itself.

They had just passed Cobbler's Square when he thought about whether Sansa might let him kiss her again today. Surely she wouldn't refuse once they would be sitting in the Godswood together later, but he didn't want her to just let it happen. She had to want it, too. There were, he was aware of that, enough terrible stories throughout the realm about the cesspools of sin that King's Landing in general and the royal court in particular supposedly were, about how young ladies were exploited here, robbed of their maidenheads and then thrown away like used napkins. Many of the rumors about the capital were of course made up, mostly by septons or septas or all too devout singers, but unfortunately in Aegon's experience it was precisely the worst rumors that got stuck in people's minds – whether made up or not. Sansa could not be allowed to believe even for a heartbeat that she might possibly suffer a similar fate with Aegon. She wasn't just some lady to him. She was special, precious and unique. She was smart and brave and so beautiful that it defied all description. Absolutely perfect really, he decided.

They were just before the winding road leading up Aegon's High Hill to the Red Keep when a messenger came towards them. Daeron had already said goodbye to retreat to some tavern somewhere in the city, where he could still get something to eat and, more importantly, to drink for some good money. But when the messenger came rushing towards them, he stayed at Aegon's side. The young lad jumped off his horse and immediately knelt down before the two princes.

"Prince Aegon, I bring you a message from your father, the King."

Thank you. I know who my father is, he thought.

"I'm listening."

"The King orders you to the Throne Room. In full armor, my prince."

Aegon thanked him with a nod, whereupon the boy bowed, jumped back on his horse and disappeared towards the Red Keep. He remained motionless for a while and thought about what this could possibly mean now. He saw Daeron standing next to him, looking at him with a worried expression.

"Let's go. I'll help you with the armor," his brother said after a few moments.

They continued their way to the Red Keep, entered Maegor's Holdfast and went directly to Aegon's chambers. It seemed his day with Sansa would be much shorter than he had hoped. Daeron had already begun to remove Aegon's tourney armor from the stand while he was still lost in thought at the window.

"No, not that one. That one," Aegon said, pointing to the second stand in the corner on which his war armor was resting. He answered Daeron's questioning look with a short nod only, then his brother began to prepare the armor while Aegon took off his regular clothes. He put on the appropriate undergarments and then had his brother help him into his war armor. Not that there was a war to fight. But Aegon was used to such silly little games with his father by now. He would occasionally have him appear before the throne in full armor, usually so that the king could lecture him in front of the assembled court that this or that was wrong with him or his armor and that he would certainly never become a great commander or a great warrior, let alone a great king.

When Aegon was finally clad in full armor, Daeron fetched the sword from the corner of the room for Aegon, took it out of the holder on the wall and helped him to put the sword belt on correctly. He thought about the sword that was now hanging at his side and decided that he would have preferred to carry any other sword than this one. His father had given it to him for his fifteenth name day. It was a good sword, no doubt. Forged here in King's Landing by a true master swordsmith. It was precious enough to pay an entire army of mercenaries with it and their mothers as well probably. It was noble and precious and richly ornamented. Too richly ornamented for Aegon's taste.

A sword is supposed to be a knight's weapon, not a woman's jewelry. I may have to take it into battle someday, not to go to a dance with it.

The name irritated him as well. Dragonflame. The sword was good. Better perhaps than most swords in Westeros. But still it wasn't Valyrian steel. It was just an ordinary sword, made of ordinary steel and way too much ordinary gold on the hilt and the sheath. To give such a weapon a name that was not directly but unmistakably reminiscent of Blackfyre, the ancestral but long lost family sword of their House, seemed somewhat pointless to Aegon. Almost silly. But carrying a different sword was not an option for him now if he didn't want to stir up his father's anger unnecessarily.

Aegon then tucked his helmet under his arm and made his way to the Throne Room, Daeron at his side. The way was short enough, but to Aegon it seemed incredibly long. By this time, he had already wanted to be together with Sansa, maybe drink or eat something with her, play cards or just walk through one of the gardens with her, arm in arm. But now he was on his way to the Throne Room to be rebuked by his father for some ridiculous nothingness.

He's doing that because of yesterday, he thought. Rhaenys had told him right after the feast had ended how unhappy their father had been at the sight of him and Sansa, even though he hadn't said anything about it. But his icy gaze had revealed enough about his opinions and thoughts. For a man who started a war because he couldn't keep his pants on, he seems to have a damn strong opinion about Sansa and me.

They finally reached the Throne Room. The herald would only announce Aegon, since it was he who had been ordered here by the king. Daeron entered with him, but then went to the side of the hall to stand with the other spectators. Close enough to stand by him, but far enough not to arouse father's displeasure that Aegon apparently could not bear to appear before him alone. They had made this mistake once and they would not repeat it.

"Aegon of the House Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne," the herald proclaimed in a loud voice.

Aegon walked with long strides along the center of the Throne Room, hoping that he would appear more confident than he felt. It seemed as if indeed the entire court had been assembled. Among the countless spectators – there had to be at least three hundred or more – he immediately recognized the ladies Toland and Blackmont as well as the Lords Qorgyle and Yronwood from Dorne surrounding his uncle Prince Oberyn. Lord Velaryon with his little son Monterys stood not far from him in the first row and from the Stormlands Lord Stannis Baratheon himself was there, along with his two young sons Orys and Steffon. He took a quick look at the two and sadly had to admit that the rumors about them were true. As far as he had heard, the traitor Robert Baratheon had been a handsome man by all accounts, as was Stannis' younger brother Renly. His sons however had both been unlucky enough to have inherited Stannis' dwindling hair, his unloving eyes and their mother's absurdly large ears. Even at this young age – Aegon was not absolutely sure but the boys had to be around twelve name days old – it was obvious that one day they would become the very image of their father. Only just with the ears of a donkey. The one person he couldn't quickly find anywhere was Mace Tyrell. But after yesterday's incident, it was not surprising that the Lord of Highgarden had no particular interest in returning to court immediately. Almost at the end of the hall he recognized Ser Bonifer Hasty from afar, who as always had his eyes fixed on his grandmother Rhaella.

He would have made a fine knight of the Kingsguard, Aegon thought, brave and faithful and good with sword and lance. But his well-known feelings for his grandmother, as charming as he found them to be, were of a kind and intensity that would probably have only made it more difficult for him to be near her all the time without ever being allowed to be really… close to her. And even though his grandmother had never said it openly, Aegon and Rhaenys had long suspected that these impossible feelings were indeed mutual, what would have only made it even harder for both of them. He put these thoughts aside for the moment though and decided to better focus on the here and now. So he made a serious face as he walked towards the throne, knowing how his father hated it when he smiled too much on official occasions.

"You look like a fool when you're always grinning like that. Are you a prince or a court jester?" he had asked him just before he had given him the first smack of his life. It had happened years ago when he had been little more than a boy, but the memory was still fresh in Aegon's mind. He no longer feared his father's beatings, no longer feared the pain and the bruises, but the feeling of being punished for smiling too much had somehow... broken something between them. Whatever affection he might still have held for his father had vanished in that moment, completely and irretrievably.

Aegon's gaze was fixed straight ahead on his father, who was sitting on the Iron Throne, looking back at him with scrutiny. He knew how much his father hated being stared at from afar, but Aegon allowed himself this little rebellion. To his father's left at the foot of the throne sat his grandmother on her own small wooden throne, carved from deep black wood and cushioned in shining blood red. She smiled warmly at him, but he recognized something in her gaze that somehow unsettled him, even though he couldn't say what exactly it was. Rhaenys stood next to their grandmother, surprisingly modestly dressed in light blue and looking lovely, even without the slightest hint of a smile on her face. To his father's his right at the foot of the throne Viserys, the witch and Lord Connington were lined up like chickens on a roost. Viserys looked as smug as always, wearing one of those supposedly Valyrian robes that made him look like he desperately needed to see a maester to have his head checked. The witch, completely covered in bright red from head to toe, had put on her disgusting smile again, which she probably thought looked somehow inviting or welcoming. Lord Connington, straight and stiff as a spear, stood there like he was in the wrong place and didn't know what to do now, looking as sour as ever. Behind all of them, the Kingsguard was completely lined up, all in shining white and with stern expressions on their faces. His father actually surprised him slightly. He was well dressed today, all in royal black and red. He obviously had his beard combed and trimmed and he wore his massive golden crown with the three dragon heads and the ruby eyes on his head. He looked every inch like a king from the stories. A sight he hadn't offered for a very long time.

Halfway to the throne, he suddenly saw Sansa standing at the side, looking intensely at him with those beautiful, enchanting eyes. She wore one of the dresses Rhaenys had given her, way less revealing than the sheer manifestation of female beauty and grace she had worn yesterday, but still it made her by far the most beautiful woman in the hall, in King's Landing and probably in the entire realm, Aegon decided. Her dress was all black and dark red and Aegon noticed how majestic she looked in these colors.

The perfect queen.

She smiled at him then, gorgeous and beautiful as always and for a brief moment Aegon had to summon all his strength not to just walk up to her, grab her and kiss her again. But that would probably have been by far the worst idea in the long, sad history of bad ideas that had already taken place in these venerable halls. Apart from not wanting to risk his father's anger, which would inevitably come down on him should he somehow misbehave here and now, he also saw Lord Stark standing next to Sansa, who had undoubtedly already heard what had happened between them at the dance last night and who – whatever he might think of it – would surely not be at all pleased if it were to happen again right in front of his eyes today.

So he only gave Sansa a short but warm smile, then turned his once again serious gaze forward and continued to walk towards the throne without a pause. He reached the foot of the flat steps leading up to the mighty throne and knelt down, his gaze lowered to the ground.

"I am at your service, Your Grace."

The hall was so quiet that one could have heard a pin drop. His father said nothing for a long time, letting him kneel and wait as if he was still expecting something from him.

"Aegon, my firstborn son and heir," he finally said in his usual not very enthusiastic tone, only to make him wait again afterwards. Aegon silently counted till nine before his father finally spoke again. "You may rise."

Aegon rose then, his back straight as a spear, his gaze still serious and looked up at his father, who imposingly gazed down at him from the dark, iron monstrosity.

"Should you one day inherit my throne, I hope you will have already learned before what a heavy burden it is to wear the crown."

What burden exactly is the crown for you, father? You haven't actually worn the crown for months and months, letting Connington the old sourpuss rule your realm instead, Aegon thought.

"Not only his own life depends on the king's decisions, not only the life of his family and his subjects, but in the case of our family even the life and survival of all mankind."

Oh no, not that dumb prophecy bullshit again. Please don't make a fool of yourself.

"The greatest burden on the shoulders of a good king, however, is to constantly ask yourself whether your own son will one day be able to bear the burden of the crown, whether he will be able to live up to your expectations, the expectations not only of a father but of a king. And to my great regret, I must admit that in your case I'm not sure, my son."

Who would have thought that? Maybe we should one day talk about the expectations of a son towards his father. You certainly wouldn't like the outcome.

"Again and again I have given you opportunities to prove your worth to me. Again and again you have disappointed me, either by failure or by not taking the opportunities you were given in the first place. Just as you have only recently, foolishly refused such an opportunity that I offered you during the tourney."

Are you honestly calling the demand to murder my own brother in cold blood an opportunity to prove my worth to you?

"However, one of the qualities a good king must possess is patience. And no one shall accuse me of having no patience with my firstborn son, despite the constant disappointments he causes me. I therefore grant you one more, one last opportunity to prove your worth to me and to the entire realm and to show me that you are truly worthy and able to be my son and heir."

Wonderful. What now? Murder my mother or Rhaenys or both? Or how about myself while we're at it?

"You, my son, will be sent out to solve a serious problem that is holding this realm in its hideous grip for far too long already. You will find this self-proclaimed Smiling Knight and bring the king's justice to this false knight and his companions."

"As you wish, Father," Aegon said. That was indeed a quest to prove his worth, surprising as that was. "I will not fail you."

Again his father looked at him for a moment before speaking again.

"I wish," he finally said, "I had your confidence in you. Of course, you won't go alone."

Wouldn't have surprised me much either.

"Since you still refuse to turn to the faith in the one true God, the Lord of Light..."

Wait, does that mean you have converted?

"... you shall be given something special from me. Six knights of your choosing will accompany you."

Six?

Immediately there was an uproar in the Throne Room, shouts and protests among the crowd of lords and ladies and Aegon saw the shocked looks on the faces of Rhaenys and his grandmother. Prince Lewyn and Ser Barristan stepped forward and turned to the king.

"Your Grace," Prince Lewyn said excitedly. "Six knights are far too few men. The prince needs ten times as many. At least." Ser Barristan eagerly agreed, pointing out that even seventy or eighty men would still be few when facing an enemy who, apparently without much difficulty, has wiped out hundreds of trained soldiers and knights already.

"Dorne will provide him with these soldiers if the crown is not willing to do so," he heard his Uncle Oberyn calling loudly from behind him.

"Dorne will do nothing of that sort," the king finally said, and immediately it became quiet in the hall. "My decision is made. My son will carry out this duty with six companions. No more."

The witch now stepped forward, positioned herself in the center in front of the throne and began to speak as if she had some kind of authority in these halls.

"My prince, the Seven are nothing but lies and deceit, spread by the Great Other, to keep the simple minded away from the true faith in the Lord of Light."

At once, unrest erupted again, but an angry "Quiet!" by Lord Connington brought the crowd back to silence.

"You will be seven men, my prince. Seven warriors who will fight in your king's name. Seven, your holy number. If the Seven are indeed more than just a wicked deception of the Great Other, surely your gods will acknowledge this gesture and give you their blessing, will they not? Do you not see what opportunity this is for you, my prince? You can free the kingdom from the scourge of these fiends, prove once and for all that you are able and worthy to rule this great realm as king one day and lead its armies into the final battle against the unholy armies of the Great Other."

Aegon looked at the witch coldly and had to control himself not to shout at her or run to her and just break her skinny neck. It would go quickly and then this spook would be over once and for all, he thought, slightly smiling. His father's voice tore him away from his murder fantasies.

"You will choose six companions who will go with you to undertake this most honorable task."

At once, Prince Lewyn and Ser Barristan turned to him and fell to one knee.

"My Prince, let us accompany you," said Ser Barristan.

Behind him, he heard the sound of swift boot steps. A hand lay on his shoulder and he heard his uncle's voice.

"I will accompany you as well."

He was glad. Two of the best knights of the realm and the infamous Red Viper would be at his side. Daeron appeared beside him.

"I will not let you go alone."

"I cannot allow that. Should I not return, you will be the crown prince."

"I don't care. You will not stop me, brother. I'm coming with you."

Aegon smiled at him and nodded. It was true. He wouldn't be able to stop his little brother and though it was foolish to let him go with him, he was happy to have him by his side. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall, thin man coming towards him. Ser Bonifer Hasty sank to one knee beside the knights of the Kingsguard.

"My prince, my sword is yours if you will have it."

In his youth, Ser Bonifer had been a promising tourney knight, good with the sword and excellent with the lance. Now he was an old man and Aegon had no idea if he was still quick and agile enough to face a real fight. Ser Barristan was old as well, as was his uncle Prince Lewyn, but he knew that despite their age, both were still among the deadliest swordsmen in the realm. He was not sure about Ser Bonifer. But what he knew was, that this man would stand by his side, no matter what. He would fight for him, kill for him and die for him if need be. Aegon knew, the man would rather go to his death than waste even a single thought on abandoning him, the grandson of his beloved Rhaella. Ser Bonifer might not be a young man anymore, but he was honest and true and brave. As much as a man could possibly be and he hoped that, should things get serious, this could be worth more than a strong sword arm.

"Your sword is most welcome, Ser Bonifer," he said and saw how happily the man smiled back at him.

Aegon saw that more knights of the Kingsguard wanted to come forward to join him, Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur, but his father held them back.

"I cannot allow the entire Kingsguard to accompany my sons on this adventure. Prince Lewyn and Ser Barristan, you have my permission. The others will stay here in the capital."

Adventure. He calls it an adventure.

At that moment Ser Raymun Darry appeared at his side and also sank to one knee.

"My prince, I will be by your side as well. I will fight and die for you."

"I thank you, Ser Raymun," Aegon said, truly glad to have a good and loyal man like him with him. "Though I'd prefer if we all came back alive."

"We'll see to it," said Ser Barristan.

And so they were complete. Seven men to find and kill the Smiling Knight and his companions, the men who had already raided and slaughtered hundreds of soldiers and knights of Highgarden.

"When shall we depart, Your Grace?" Aegon then asked.

"The horses are already waiting for you in the yard," said his father and apparently could not suppress a slight smile.

"We will not disappoint you, Your Grace," he said, bowing to his father and turning to leave the hall. His companions followed his example and walked behind him. Aegon kept his gaze firmly straight ahead. He knew Sansa would be standing there looking at him. He wished he could say goodbye to her, hold her and kiss her, look into her eyes once more, but he feared what he might find in those eyes. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was to see the fear in Sansa's eyes, in those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

Halfway to the massive doors of the Throne Room, he heard Daeron behind him tell one of the guards to quickly fetch his armor. He would put it on later on the way. Uncle Oberyn gave a similar order to a nearby Dornish guard. Just as he himself, Ser Raymun and Ser Bonifer, as well as the knights of the Kingsguard, were fortunately already in full armor. He had nearly reached the doors when his sister appeared before him. She must have rushed through the crowd to reach the door before he did. He stopped in front of her, tried to ignore her fearful look and smiled at her.

"Watch out for yourself," she whispered, came closer and kissed him on both cheeks. "Don't worry. Grandmother and I will take care of Sansa, but you must promise me that you'll come back alive and well, brother."

He looked at her for a while, trying to smile as warm and sincere as he could at that moment. Then he gave her a soft kiss on the forehead and left the hall past her.

I'm sorry, sister. I don't make promises I may not be able to keep.

Notes:

So that was it. As I said, this chapter is quite short, but I hope that there was still neough going on for your guys. As always, feel free to let me know what you liked or didn't like about this chapter or about this fic in general. Love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

See you next time.

Chapter 17: Arya 2

Notes:

Hi there,

the next chapter is here. Again we follow Arya around the Red Keep a bit. There is not really much "action" in this chapter, but it's sort of laying the groundwork for what is to come soon. I guess you won't have any issues imagining what it might be. ;-)

Have fun.

It was booooring. Arya leapt back and forth through the small training room, practicing some of the stances and the footwork she had learned already and playing around listlessly with the wooden training sword. The most important thing in any fight is a secure stand, she knew, but still it was boring.

She had tried to do some of the exercises Prince Lewyn had done with her on her own, but without his control and his constant "No, not like that" it was just not the same. Most of the easier exercises she had mastered quite well by now, as far as she could judge for herself, but for the more difficult ones she needed his control. How else would she know if she was doing it properly or not? In the first few days she had been sure that she had done almost every move and every stance excellently and had not understood Prince Lewyn's unhappy expression all the time. It was only when he had suggested that she should try to use the stances and movements in a training fight against another squire that the pain and the bruises had made it clear to her how wrong she had been.

"Arrogance is not a virtue of a knight, Arya," he had told her afterwards.

He had already been away for two days and her father had not wanted to tell her when he expected Prince Lewyn back. Her father had been acting strange the last few days anyway. At least he no longer hid in his study all day long, brooding over boring books with nothing but numbers in them. He spent a lot of time out and about, apparently running errands and visiting the stables, with Vayon and Ser Rodrik always at his side. That was a good thing, she assumed.

The day before, she had considered getting books on swordplay from the royal library. She knew from Prince Lewyn that there were richly illustrated books with explanations that might help her. Prince Lewyn had said that these books were only suitable for advanced squires however, and that they would start using these books in three or four years at the earliest if she was a fast learner, but maybe they would help her after all. If only to overcome her boredom. But neither the ancient grandmaester, who guarded the access to the library as if a treasure was buried in it, nor one of the younger maesters, who also had keys to the rooms, had wanted to allow her to borrow or to even look at one of these books. And her attempt to get into the library on her own had only ended with her clothes torn and completely ruined after she had fallen from a fortunately low enough wall into the pigsty.

She put the wooden sword back into the small stand on the wall and left the practice room. Standing around here would not help her, that much was clear. She thought about asking one of the other knights of the Kingsguard to teach her something. But the chances for that were not very good. After all, there were only seven white knights to protect the whole royal family and two of them were not in the city. And even if that hadn't been a problem, she wouldn't have known who to ask.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, was a legendary knight, but also a very grim man she would rather not ask. Besides, he was near the king most of the time and protecting the king himself was probably the more important task for him anyway than doing sword exercises with her. Then there was Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. To be instructed by this knight was the dream of every page, every squire and probably even most knights in the Seven Kingdoms. But even if she had dared to speak to this legendary fighter and ask him – which she didn't – he stayed near the king most of the time together with Ser Gerold. So he was also out of the question.

Ser Jaime Lannister was a famed swordsman as well but he seemed to be something like the personal guard of the Princess – and therefore of Sansa as well lately since they hardly ever left each other's side – and Arya could already imagine what she would get to hear from Sansa should she barge in and ask Princess Rhaenys to give up her white knight.

Ser Barristan Selmy was gone together with Prince Lewyn to protect the princes Aegon and Daeron on their quest to kill this laughing knight. So the only two white knights left were Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Boros Blount. She had already met the former a few times when she had walked through the Red Keep with Prince Lewyn and he had seemed a nice and friendly man, a man who surely would not mind teaching a girl how to wield a sword, she guessed. However, he was already quite frail and, as she had heard from Prince Lewyn, spent most of his days in bed because of the pain in his knees and hips and his back. So he would probably not even be able to teach her anything, even if he would have agreed. The latter was... a very different case. Ser Boros was a fat, ugly man who didn't look like a fighter at all. He looked angry all the time and he had cruel eyes.

Even Sansa, who always behaved like a perfect lady to any man who wore a Ser in front of his name, courteous and polite, elegantly curtseying and constantly smiling, behaved differently as soon as Ser Boros was around. He seemed to unsettle Sansa as much as he unsettled her. Arya wasn't sure if this was a good sign that they both thought of him the same way or if they were doing him wrong. After all, it wasn't his fault he was ugly. But Arya had also noticed the stares he constantly threw at Sansa and Princess Rhaenys and these stares disturbed her far more than his fat belly or his ugly face could ever have done.

She walked through the Red Keep for a while, passed the kennels and the armory, went into the outer courtyard and to the kitchens where she found almost no one. A servant crouched a bit lost in the corner and looked at her sceptically as she – again not dressed in a noble lady's clothes – walked through the kitchen looking for something to eat.

"There is nothing left. Not for us," said the servant. "Didn't you get your chunk of bread this morning?"

Arya had had a good breakfast, had eaten bread with soft cheese, cold codfish pie and a small bowl of nuts and berries. Hard and plain bread was probably only for the servants. She felt sorry for him, sitting there alone in the corner of an empty kitchen, but she couldn't really do anything for him. She had already heard that due to this disgusting heat and the drought the supplies in King's Landing were running low. As soon as it would begin to rain and ships would be able to sail again, new food would quickly arrive in the city. Then there would be more food for the servants, too. But at the moment there was simply nothing there, as it seemed.

She wandered back and forth in the Red Keep for a while without a clear goal and after almost an hour she was even thinking about looking for Sansa. She would be sitting around somewhere with Princess Rhaenys and probably Jeyne Poole, singing or dancing or doing needlework or something similar boring. She decided that she would rather be bored alone than bored being around Sansa, only to be rebuked by her sister afterwards for this or that. She had noticed however that Sansa had become more understanding lately, scolding her less often for every little this and that. Arya was sure the Princess was a good influence on her sister. Princess Rhaenys seemed to not only kindly overlook most of Arya's misbehaviors but sometimes even enjoyed them and Sansa seemed to finally learn to not always take everything so seriously as if her lives depended on it.

She went back to Maegor's Holdfast, walking down long corridors and turning corners without knowing where she was going. Of course she could have gone to Septa Mordane to please her father, but as she understood their agreement, that was not necessary today. She was only allowed to practice with Prince Lewyn as long as she also went to Septa Mordane. But if Prince Lewyn did not practice with her, she did not have to go to the septa either. She crossed several small courtyards when she heard the sound of wooden swords hitting each other in the distance. She ran towards them until she arrived on a small balcony overlooking a small courtyard and found a group of pages and squires below her, practicing their skills with the sword. One of the squires, a tall lad with broad shoulders and raven-black hair, on the verge of becoming a man, was apparently in charge of the boys. Arya squatted down on the railing of the balcony, dangling her feet over the edge in front of her and watching the spectacle. Some of the boys seemed to be excellent, others Arya could certainly have defeated. Even if her own stances, parries and blows were not always perfectly accurate, she had already learned enough to see the mistakes of others.

One of the lads, huge in build but with the soft face of a child, seemed strong as an ox, but his mighty blows were too imprecise. He looked like he was trying to cut down a tree as he thrashed his wooden sword down on his opponent again and again with full force. His opponent was a coward who hid behind his shield almost all the time, as if one could win a fight by not being seen the entire time and a third one, though slim and elegant in his movements, always put his feet too close together, so he could easily be thrown off balance.

"You are clutching your sword too tightly," she finally shouted to one of the lads when she could no longer bear to see his weapon knocked out of his hand for the fourth time in a row. He was a handsome fellow with brown curls and bright eyes. Sansa would probably have liked him. At least if she had ever been able again to think of anyone else but the oh so handsome Prince Aegon. All eyes wandered up to her, most in astonishment, some in anger.

"Piss off," the handsome one yelled. "I don't need no help from a fucking bog scrubber."

"Shut up, you idiot. That's the Master of Coin's daughter," the tall one with the dark hair barked at him. Now his face seemed familiar to her, too. He must have seen her somewhere before with her father and now recognized her, despite her not very courtly dress. "I beg your pardon, my lady. That one," he said, nodding towards the pretty one, "does not know how to behave in the presence of a lady."

"Me neither," she returned with a grin. "But he still grabs his sword too tight."

"Just as you say, my lady," said the tall one. Arya knew right away he didn't take her seriously. She jumped up and ran back into the corridor she had come from. The next staircase had to be somewhere. She found one around a corner behind a row of big columns and hurried down. She turned around a corner again, ran along a somewhat smaller corridor, passed through a dusty storeroom, climbed over a table and jumped out through a small window into the courtyard where the boys were just about to make fun of the pretty one because he had let himself being corrected by a girl.

"Maybe she can also teach you how to dance properly," she heard the slim one say, when she approached them.

"My lady," the big guy said again when he saw her and bowed to her. The others followed his example, though hesitantly and apparently unsure whether it was really necessary to bow to her. If I were Sansa, they wouldn't have hesitated, she thought.

"He clutches his sword too tight. That's why he keeps losing it."

"What do you know?" barked the pretty one again. A fierce look from the tall one was meant to silence him but this time he was not intimidated. "What? It's true. I don't care whose daughter she is. What does that bitch know about swordplay?"

"Apparently more than you do," she snapped.

"Oh, yeah? Then let me show you what my other sword can-"

"Shut the fuck up," the big guy yelled at him now. "I must again beg your pardon, my lady, but as I said, Kevan there has no manners."

"But it's true. Prince Lewyn taught me to hold my sword firmly, but not too firmly. Otherwise, a hard blow can knock it out of your hand too easily."

"Prince Lewyn?" the tall one asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "The Knight of the Kingsguard?" She nodded and the expression on his face began to shift. Arya couldn't tell at first but after a few moments she realized that he was about to lose his patience. "Prince Lewyn of the Kingsguard taught you how to wield a sword?"

"Yes, the very same," she said, but just as she was about to continue, he went on.

"My lady, I do not know what sort of stupid joke this is supposed to be, but I would ask you to leave us to our exercises now. Unlike you, we really have proper work to do here, so if you have only come to tease us with your silly stories, then please stop it now and don't disturb us any further."

"But-"

"Please leave now, my lady!"

For a moment she stood there and wanted to protest, but the angry looks of the boys, no longer just the tall and handsome one, but all the boys around her, made it clear that she was not welcome here. So she turned around and left the courtyard through the nearest door without paying attention to where it was leading.

Just away from these fools.

She again walked purposelessly through Maegor's Holdfast and the surrounding Red Keep, walking down corridors, past countless open and closed doors, turning corners, crossing courtyards and looking bored through windows in all directions. She was wondering if she should try again to catch some cats when she finally went down a stair and arrived in a hidden courtyard that looked familiar to her. She wandered around the next corner only to stand in front of a wall with a low narrow window. It took her a few moments to realize that it was the very window through which she had slipped into the dark cellar under the castle the last time.

She looked at the window and recalled her father's admonishing words from the morning after first time she had been in those dark cellars. How angry he had been that she had gone alone through the darkness. How he had rebuked her that she could have been lost. She decided she needed candles.

She quickly ran back to Maegor's Holdfast, dashing through the corridors and to her father's study. She had seen candles lying in one of the shelves there. As expected, her father was not there, so she grabbed two of the candles from the shelf next to the door, a kindling from the box next to it and ran through the corridors back to the window. She did get lost several times, suddenly found herself in front of locked doors or in dead ends, had to turn around and find her way back. It took her almost an hour before she found the secret courtyard and stood in front of the small window again.

In the last corridor through which she had run, she had lit the kindling on one of the torches, so that she would be able to light a candle with it once down in the dark. So she climbed through the small window, taking care not to let the kindling go out accidentally, and let herself drop into the dark room behind it again. The kindling glowed slightly and she managed to quickly light one of the candles she pulled out of a pocket. For a heartbeat she was startled when the stone monster appeared before her again. Now she could see it better. It was indeed no chair but a throne, she realized, in the shape of a kraken and hewn from oily black stone. It was ugly. No wonder they hid it here in the cellar.

She threw the kindling aside now that she held the burning candle in her hand and walked past the kraken throne to the only door of the room. She pulled it open and slid through it again. She followed the corridor for some time, again letting the fingertips of her left hand run over the rough stone of the walls as if to remind herself that she had indeed been here before. She passed a second corridor she hadn’t noticed last time here to her right and decided to take it. It lead down to a somewhat larger hallway where the walls were smooth, apart from images of dragons finely carved into the walls. Hundreds and hundreds of dragons, flying over absurdly large castles and magnificent cities she was sure were nowhere to be found in all of Westeros.

Valyria, she suddenly thought. This must be what it looked like before the Doom.

She walked along the hallway and looked at the elaborate carvings and reliefs, so lifelike that she almost thought she was looking directly into the past. She saw pictures of great battles, countless soldiers marching in huge armies, only to be consumed by dragon fire in the very next scene. Arya decided that henceforth she wanted to learn more about the history of Valyria. She continued her walk and turned again rather randomly into a somewhat narrower corridor. She came to a corridor with countless alcoves in the walls. Most of the alcoves were empty, as far as she could see, though in some she saw statues in the form of sphinxes and griffins, dragons and sea snakes and all sorts of other creatures she didn't recognize. In a few others, armors were lined up, black steel decorated with dragon wings on their helmets. Relics of the ancient Targaryen Kings, Arya realized. She had heard that the first soldiers of the Targaryens, who had come with them from Dragonstone at the beginning of the Conquest, had all been clad in such black armor. She tried to imagine what it must have been like to face this army. As impressive as they might have looked, they had only been a few thousand men. No real threat to any of the old, proud kings of Westeros until the Black Dread must have appeared in the sky, leaving nothing but death and scorched earth.

Her candle had burned down more than halfway already when she arrived at an intersection where half a dozen tunnels met. To her surprise, on one side there was an ornate iron brazier fashioned in the shape of a dragon's head that was lit. She looked down at her feet and found a large, scuffed mosaic of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on the floor, done in tiles of black and red. Again she looked up at the iron brazier and somehow it deeply unsettled her, as if the dragon's head was following her with his immortal gaze.

She decided to follow the second corridor to her right, although she herself did not really know why apart from simply wanting to flee from the iron dragon's gaze. The stone of the walls was a bit rougher here again, the corridor became narrower and lower with every step and she noticed that it led slightly upwards. The corridor led around some narrow curves, so that she soon neither felt the dragon's gaze not saw the weak light in her back anymore. It was pitch dark around her again, but somehow that soothed her deeply. At some point she stopped when she thought she had heard something. She listened into the darkness behind and in front of her but heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing. She went on, only to stop a second time after a few steps, again believing to have heard something. She listened into the darkness once more, longer this time, but again all she heard was her breathing.

A door to her right, covered with wide bands of dark steel, caught her attention. A symbol was carved into the old wood of the door, only faintly visible. She was unable to really recognize it, only that it was round at the bottom and must have had a sort of spikes or jagged edges on top, like flames or a very twisted crown. She walked towards the door, grabbed the large iron ring that was set into it and pulled it. At first nothing happened. She pulled harder until she heard a slight crack. Arya placed the candle carefully on the ground next to the door, grabbed the ring with both hands and pulled it again. This time the door gave way and opened slowly and creakily. Immediately she picked up the rest of her candle and stepped through the door.

The room behind was so low that a grown man would barely have been able to stand upright and the air smelled so musty and dusty as if no one had been here for half an eternity. The room was filled with almost endless rows of wooden barrels.

A wine cellar, Arya thought.

No doubt Robb would have had great pleasure in opening one of the barrels and tasting the wine now – probably together with Prince Daeron. She had already tasted wine herself, not only the watery wine with honey, which she was allowed to drink from time to time at feasts and celebrations, but pure wine fresh from the barrel. She had found it horrible, sour and bitter, and it was a mystery to her why one should drink such things voluntarily. So she decided not to open any of the barrels and instead went deeper into the room. As she thought about how she would tell Robb about this upon her return to Winterfell, it occurred to her that she didn't have anything to open such a barrel with in the first place and she scolded herself for her stupidity for a moment.

The smell in her nose became more and more unpleasant the deeper she went into the room. The dusty smell disappeared little by little, the air becoming scratchy and biting in her nose and throat. She reached the end of the room where she found another door. It opened easily enough, but behind it she found nothing but another room with barrels. She went inside and walked along the rows of barrels, in the opposite direction to the one she had come from. No doubt this room would lead her back to the corridor where she still thought she had heard something. The burning and biting in her nose became even worse and suddenly she saw where it must have come from. One of the barrels seemed to be leaking. She approached it to take a closer look when she noticed that her candle was almost completely burned down. She quickly pulled the second candle out of her pocket and lit it on the last remnant of the glowing wick. Then she blew out the rest of the old candle and threw it aside. With the new candle in her hand she now shone a light on the leaking barrel and looked at it closely.

The wine must be rotten, she thought. Terribly rotten.

It dripped thickly and oily from the barrel, was of an almost unnatural green color and shimmered like a rainbow in the light of the candle like rotten fish in the sun.

The wine looks almost like lamp oil, she thought. And it even smells a little like lamp oil. Only a lot sharper. Like old, very old lamp oil that somebody had heartily vomited into. But that would be stupid of course. Who in their right mind would store hundreds of barrels of lamp oil under a fortress?

A large puddle had formed at the bottom under the barrel in which Arya had stepped, as she only now noticed. From the puddle a narrow trail of stinking green wine led away like a small river. Arya decided to follow the small green river as it was the most exciting thing she had found down here since the ghastly dragonhead anyway. And she certainly didn't want to go back to that one.

Also I have no more candles. I should find an exit, she decided. She had learned from her father that, should she ever be trapped in a cave, she should follow the water if there was any, because water always left the mountains and with a little luck it would lead to an exit. Maybe this little river would lead her outside as well.

So she walked along the little river, through another door under which it flowed through and into another corridor, which had to be close to the last one she had left. More than once she almost slipped in the little river and nearly dropped her candle. Each time though, she caught herself at the last moment. The river ran along the side of the corridor, which was now going slightly downhill, around a bend and then ended before another door, under which it flowed through. She pressed against the door, which could be opened easily but squeaked loudly. Behind it was a small, round room with a sloping floor. She looked inside but found no other door at first. There were shelves on the walls, filled to overflowing with books and scrolls, all apparently covered with a thick layer of dust. She looked at some of the books and discovered several copies of the Seven-Pointed Star among them.

In one corner of the room the small river had gathered into a proper lake. Arya looked at the oily green, shimmering lake. It looked terrifying, almost unreal, like an enchanted lake from a bad dream, from which a hideous monster could rise at any moment to devour her. Judging by the amount of rotten wine, almost half the barrel must have spilled already and found its way here.

Suddenly she stood still when she heard something again. This time she was sure. It was louder, clearer than before. She stopped moving, held her breath and listened. Singing! She heard singing! She tried to find the direction it was coming from and noticed that the singing seemed to come from above. She looked around again and actually found a narrow door made of almost black wood, hidden between two large shelves. She walked towards it and pulled on the iron ring. The door could not be opened. So she pushed aside some of the old books on the shelf next to the door and put the candle inside. She reached for the ring, with both hands this time, and pulled on it as hard as she could. Reluctantly, the door gave way and allowed itself to be pulled open a tiny crack.

She reached for the candle and saw that the flame had caught on to the edge of one of the parchments that lay on the shelf above it. She quickly took the candle away, reached for the parchment and tried to blow out the smoldering flame. But that seemed to only fuel the fire. For a second she thought about throwing the parchment into the wine. That would certainly extinguish the flames. But someone might still need the parchment, even if it didn't look like it was used very often. Still, she didn't want to risk any trouble with her father or any of the septons of the Red Keep. She knew that her father could use any misbehavior as a reason to forbid her to continue to practice the sword with Prince Lewyn. She decided not to give him any reason to do so. So she laid the parchment on the floor and carefully treaded the flames with her toes.

For a brief moment it looked as if the flames actually got bigger underneath her shoes, almost as if her shoes were on fire as well. But then, after half a dozen more steps, the dust and the dirt seemed to prevail and the flames went out. She went through the small door before she might cause any more fires down here and climbed up the steep steps behind it. The smell of the rotten wine slowly faded as the singing grew louder. The air began to smell of incense. Now she recognized the song she was listening to all the time. It was Maiden, Mother, and Crone. The stairs ended at another door that led to a small room with a small table and a small chair and a small closet next to a small window, in which colorful crystals were embedded that turned the sunlight into small rainbows. She closed the door behind her and was surprised to find that the door was practically invisible from this side. There was no iron ring to open the door, the hinges had smoothly disappeared into the wall and the door itself was of the very same color as the wall around it. Anyone who did not know or at least suspect that there was a door there would probably never discover it.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" she suddenly heard a voice behind her. She jumped around and looked into the face of an angry septa. "Are you trying to steal our incense candles? I'll show you, you thief!"

Arya reacted immediately, threw the burning candle at the septa who tried to keep it away with waving hands and sprinted past her. She ran past two stone pillars and a high statue, jumped over something she only recognized afterwards as an altar and ran as fast as she could to the big door on the opposite side of the room. The other septas, who had just begun to chorus Maiden, Mother, and Crone again, jumped away to all sides like frightened hens as she burst through between them. Ignoring the calls of the septa behind her to stop the thief, she hurried through the great portal and disappeared around the next corner. She raced up a staircase, through an open door and down a corridor until she was finally sure no one was following her. She took a deep breath until her heart started beating slower again and then went to the next window to orientate herself. She looked straight down at the entrance to the sept from which she had just fled.

The septa stood in front of it with a big burn hole in her robe and looked around searchingly, calling some of the guards nearby to help her find the thief, a filthy boy of ten or twelve with a hateful face and at least a dozen precious candles in his dirty hands. Only now did Arya realize that she had just come out of the Royal Sept and had just fled the Inner Cortyard. Hopefully nobody had seen her apart from the old hag. She thought of the shortest way into Maegor's Holdfast that didn't lead past this Sept of all places and ran off. She would change her clothes and then go to Septa Mordane. If someone had indeed seen and recognized her, it would be better if Mordane could testify that she had been with her.

Notes:

So, that was it again. Hope you liked it. As always, please feel free to let me know what you think, what you liked or didn't like. Love to read your thoughts in the comments.

See you next time. :-)

Chapter 18: Viserys 1

Notes:

Hi all,

the next chapter is here. As you can see, this is from Viserys' perspective. I'm not planning on doing many chapters from his perspective (although that may change, depending on how the story evolves while writing it), but in this case I found it fitting. It is a somewhat shorter chapter again, but I hope you still enjoy it.

He could have laughed about it if it hadn't been so sad. His nephew had pushed another man from his horse with a long stick and had been celebrated for it as if he was the Conqueror himself. He had never been particularly interested in these ridiculous games the Westerosi called knighthood. They were, even if they themselves might have seen it differently, nothing more than barbaric rituals performed by uncivilized savages, in which he wanted no part. And as if this charade had not already been bad enough, along with his noble Valyrian kinsmen from Essos, countless of these useless lords and ladies strutted around in their fortress and their city, soaking up their wine and plundering their stocks.

Luckily most of them had left the capital right after the end of the tourney, so he didn't have to bear their sight anymore. Only the most important of the lords and ladies had stayed in the capital on the orders of his brother. He had long stopped pretending politeness to these perfidious parasites. Why should he? He was the blood of old Valyria, they were no more than sheep, bleating for his attention they didn’t deserve. But the worst thing to bear was the continued presence of the traitors in the capital. Besides the loyal servants who had fought at their side, the traitors were also present and would not leave so soon. At the request of his brother even.

The whole Red Keep stinks of the foul blood of the traitors, he thought. How was a man supposed to focus on choosing no less than two wives when he had that disgusting smell in his nose all the time?

Surely Rhaegar had his reasons why Stark, Baratheon and Arryn not only were tolerated here, but had even been called to the capital by the king himself. He trusted Rhaegar, but even Rhaegar could make mistakes. Just as he had done twenty years ago when he made the mistake of letting these men and their families keep their heads. Viserys had sworn to himself at the time that he would not make this mistake himself should he ever find himself in a similar situation.

He stood on the small balcony of his chambers, facing north into the bay, and let the gentle wind blow through his hair. He was not yet fully dressed again – as noble and beautiful as his new wardrobe was, it was not easy to put it on alone – and enjoyed a moment of peace before he would return to his duties. Even if these duties consisted for the moment only of selecting women who would soon have the honor of bearing his children. He drank the last sip of wine that had still been in his cup, threw the empty cup over the balustrade of the balcony and turned around to go back to his sleeping chamber. On his bed he saw the shape of the naked woman, still fast asleep, whom he had taken to his bed yesterday. She was on his shortlist. She talked a lot and did not seem to be the smartest of all, but her hips were wide for a Valyrian woman, her breasts round and full, and she let him use her body very willingly in any way he pleased. Not that he minded that she wasn't very bright in the head. Smart women could often be cunning and crafty, even dangerous. Viserys had a very simple rule though. If a woman could walk around a tree trunk without losing her way, she was too smart for his taste. But this one certainly didn't seem to have that problem.

Yes, she was definitely on the shortlist, even if only for the way she had performed in his bed last night. She could endure pain and she seemed to have no sense of shame at all, that much was certain.

Viserys finally began to get dressed properly and put on his boots. The woman, her name was Saelolla or Solaella if he remembered correctly, was still asleep. He saw her breathing lightly, saw the light red marks on her back and thought for a moment whether he should wake her or not. He did not want to find her in his rooms anymore when he would return later, but he could not yet bear her incessant talking again. So he allowed her to continue dreaming of the children she might bear him one day.

She moved in her sleep so that the blanket slipped to one side a little and her naked ass suddenly stretched towards him invitingly. For another moment he thought about taking off his robe again and taking her into the ass. Last night he had done that already and it had been extraordinary. Afterwards he had decided that only women would be considered as possible wives for him who would let him take them in their asses. She had even tried hard to pretend to enjoy it as much as he had, but even if she had not succeeded, he had appreciated the effort.

He left his chambers and found Ser Boros Blount waiting for him outside the door. He was far from being the best fighter in the Seven Kingdoms, but he was as devoted to him as a hound.

Boros, my hound, he thought and smiled slightly.

"Good morning, Your Grace."

"Good morning, Ser Boros. Please remind me to send some Gold Cloaks to my chambers later to throw the woman out, should she still be in it by then. My bed must be free tonight for the next candidate."

"With pleasure, Your Grace."

Together with his hound he went into the small hall where his breakfast would be waiting for him. There was bread and cheese, some dry meat, fish from the day before and a bowl full of berries that were so sour that he could only eat one of them and threw the rest on the floor. With it he drank a spiced tea that one of his friends from Essos, Rahaelon Qoheris, had offered him as a gift. He was a successful spice merchant from Volantis, with a pretty but somewhat uptight daughter. She had full lips that Viserys had decided would look great tightly wrapped around his manhood. Maybe he would give the girl a second chance today to prove to him how much she wanted to become his wife.

The tea was bitter and strong and left a metallic flavor in the mouth, too bitter and too strong for his taste. Probably the servants in the kitchen had not been following the instructions on how to prepare it carefully enough. He would investigate the matter later and find someone to punish.

He finished his meal with a small cup of strong red wine and then made his way to his brother's study. In the afternoon he would meet more women from Essos and again choose one or maybe two who would be allowed to accompany him to his bed tonight. His mother had been shocked by his behavior when she had learned of it. Fortunately, Rhaegar had been reasonable enough to understand that he could not possibly choose his brides without having examined them thoroughly. Marrying into the House of the Dragon was the greatest honor for any woman in the world, and so losing their maidenhead a little earlier than on their wedding night as price for the privilege to be even considered for this honor was hardly too much to ask to.

But before he would choose one or two companions for tonight, he had an appointment with his brother. Rhaegar had been very excited yesterday and had told him to come to him first thing today. There would certainly be good news. So he made his way through Maegor's Holdfast to Rhaegar's study when he came across Rhaenys and her little shadow walking by her side, as always with Ser Jaime Lannister behind her. It was obvious how the little wolf girl tried more and more to be like his niece. Now she was already wearing dresses similar to hers.

"Uncle Viserys, how nice to see you."

"Rhaenys," he greeted her with a quick nod and a slight smile but refused to greet the others. The wolf girl curtsied before him, as did her own little shadow, a Northern whore called Janice or something. He looked at the redhead thoroughly from top to bottom and seriously wondered how such a thing could please Aegon. But then again, his blood was weak and diluted, and despite his appearance he could hardly be considered a Valyrian anymore, let alone the Blood of the Dragon. So it shouldn't have come as a surprise to Viserys.

"She looks gorgeous, doesn't she? We've just finished making the changes to the dress this morning," said Rhaenys, beaming at her little fosterling like a mother hen.

For a moment, Viserys considered a polite and innocuous answer instead of the truth. But only for a very brief moment. In the end, politeness was nothing else but a pleasing lie and so he had long ago already decided not to pretend politeness in front of ordinary humans anymore. The sheep had nothing to demand from the dragon, but what he would voluntarily offer them was honesty. So why should he handle it differently, just because his niece and nephew had taken this savage into their hearts for some reason?

"Gorgeous, indeed. About as gorgeous as any other whore in town."

He saw in her eyes that she was shocked. That had not been the intention of his reply, but it delighted him nonetheless. She should know her place. They should all know their place and when he made a judgement, whether it was about a woman's dress or a man's head, they had to accept it as the irrefutable truth it was.

"Viserys!" Rhaenys protested. "What's got into you?"

"Why? Because I tell the truth? You really should try it sometime, dear niece. It's liberating."

"Why, you ask? Because perhaps you'd do better not to judge other people's clothes as long as you yourself are dressed like a juggler!"

How dare she? He had now repeatedly stressed the purpose of his wardrobe. How could she seriously not understand that these garments were first and foremost a symbol, a statement? Just as Aegon's, her blood was weak too, thanks to her whore of a mother, but surely she couldn't be that stupid.

"Have you ever thought that-"

"Rest assured, Viserys," she fell into his words, "there is no thought you have ever had that I have not had much earlier. That is the burden I live with."

Slowly he began to lose patience with her. He felt his blood begin to boil, the wake of the dragon inside him.

"My wardrobe is-"

"A proud token of your most noble Valyrian heritage, I know," she interrupted him again in a mocking tone that made it very clear that she had understood absolutely nothing.

"So the good looks are just a bonus?" the redhead now asked in a playful voice.

He didn't know himself what had got into him, but faster than he himself realized, his hand rushed forward and gave the cheeky brat a slap in the face. The little hussy looked at him in shock for a moment, but only a heartbeat later he recognized the anger in her eyes. But as expected, she was too much of a coward to let it run free.

Of course, the wolf does not dare to face the dragon.

"Viserys!" Rhaenys screamed at him now and took a protective stand in front of the girl whose lower lip had cracked open and was now beginning to bleed. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"She should better learn not to wake the dragon!" he shouted back, but then found himself again. He should control himself better, he decided. Such outbursts were not in his nature after all. "But of course you are right," he finally said. "My behavior was unseemly for a prince. A prince does not hit a lady." It was hard for him to even call her that. "Ser Boros, hit her. She must learn her lesson."

"What? You're insane. He will not touch her!" yelled Rhaenys. The redhead stood still as if rooted to the ground as Ser Boros took a step towards.

At least she is brave enough to accept her punishment, Viserys thought. Who would have thought? Or maybe it's just stupidity.

Ser Boros did not get close enough to the girl however, because Ser Jaime Lannister stepped in his way, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it.

"Try it, Ser. Please," he said, fixing Ser Boros' eyes with his gaze. Viserys would have enjoyed to watch this fight, but if he was honest, Ser Boros would probably have achieved little more than drawing his sword and then dying immediately. And Viserys still had need for his hound.

"Ser Jaime, get out of the way immediately," Viserys commanded. But the man did not move a single inch. No wonder he disobeyed. His father, the toothless old lion, had already been a worthless fool who had not known how to properly follow orders. To remove him from the court was the best thing father had ever done.

"Ser Jaime's not going anywhere. Not at your command and certainly not so that this foul swine can lay hands on Sansa," Rhaenys said in a firm voice.

"All right then," Viserys finally said. There was obviously no point in arguing with his niece. She just didn't seem to understand. She was either unable or unwilling to understand that ordinary humans stood below them and owed them absolute obedience. And that sometimes they had to be taught that obedience one way or the other. "I'll leave it at that for now. But you'd better teach your little pet some manners, dear niece. Next time Ser Jaime may not be around and without Aegon in the city to look after this little-"

Immediately Rhaenys rushed past Ser Jaime and stood so close in front of him that their foreheads almost touched. He could see the anger in her dark eyes. Never had she looked more attractive to him. This sight, this image of unbridled rage glowing in her eyes, rage worthy of a dragon, he would remember for tonight for when he would have a woman – or rather two – with him in his bed. Her voice was quiet, menacing like the growl of a predator, when she began to speak again.

"Dare to do anything to her, Viserys, and you will pay for it. I swear to you that you will pay. Aegon may not be here right now, but he will come back and once he is back and you have done anything to her, he will tear you apart with his bare hands."

"He would be welcome to try," Viserys said before he turned around and left.

Ser Boros followed closely. Aegon would indeed be welcome to try. It would be a good opportunity for him to finally get rid of the little shit. The only reason he hadn't cut his head off yet was to spare his mother the pain of losing her grandson.  But if Aegon sought the fight himself... He himself had never been as fond of the constant exercises in swordplay with the Sers Arthur, Barristan and Jaime as Aegon or Daeron had been, and so, despite his mother's constant admonitions, he had stopped seeing them when he was three-and-ten name days old. Fortunately for him, however, he possessed a natural talent for the handling of weapons, be it a sword or a lance or a bow. Should Aegon really want to punish him afterwards for what he had done or would do with the Stark whore, he would be only too happy to show him who truly was of the Blood of the Dragon.

His blood was boiling with rage and he had to control himself not to scream out loud when he made his way through the Red Keep. The little whore had insulted him, and Rhaenys had brazenly stopped him from teaching her some manners towards a royal prince. For a moment he thought he'd better go back to his chambers, have a drink and see if the woman was still in his bed. He could use her to cool off. It would calm his blood if he could hear her scream a little – whether in pain or in ecstasy he didn't care much – and come inside her. But he decided against it. He was already late for his appointment with his brother and should Rhaegar indeed have good news, that would hopefully cool down his blood enough already.

He reached his brother's study shortly afterwards. The sers Arthur and Gerold stood guard at the door and greeted him with a "Good morning, my prince". Viserys simply nodded and walked past them. Ser Boros took up a position a bit further back and would wait for him there. In his brother's study, apart from the king, only he himself and the priestess Melisandre were allowed. Only now and then Aegon or Rhaenys were permitted to enter as well, but only by royal command. He did not knock, but opened the door straight away, entered and immediately closed it again behind him.

Rhaegar stood by the window in front of a small bookstand which was bathed in sunlight, the priestess beside him, and intensely look down at a book with artful depictions of the Doom of Valyria. He wondered if his brother bedded the woman. She looked a little strange to untrained eyes with her unnatural red hair and eyes, but so did they themselves as Valyrians to most regular humans. Her beauty and her desirable body could not be denied however. He decided that he should ask his brother about it sometime soon. Should his brother not make use of the woman's exquisite body, he would.

"Exactly, it has to be the Mother," he heard his brother say to the priestess as he came closer. Rhaegar looked up when he heard Viswerys' footsteps. "Ah, Viserys. There you are. This is it. This is finally it," he said excitedly like a little child.

Viserys did not ask what his brother meant, but greeted him, went over to him and stood beside him. He looked down at the notes Rhaegar had made in the open book.

"I have finally deciphered it, brother. It's incredible how clear everything suddenly is!"

"So you have finally found the key?"

"The key? No, all the keys, brother. I finally understand and so will you! I have finally found the confirmation I was looking for. Lady Melisandre has already verified my suspicions in the flames. Everything will finally fall into place. Born from Aerys' and Rhaella's line… The old woods witch be damned for her gibberish. By the Lord of Light, how foolish I've been. How arrogant to think I must be the prince that was promised."

"You knew you were destined for greatness, my king. And you were right. Just for something different from what you thought. But you accepted R'hllor in your heart and so he has given you the wisdom to understand your mistake and see the truth. Now you can finally carry out His will and bring the Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire into the world. This is a blessed day, my king, a day to remember for all of mankind."

"You know what this means, brother?" Rhaegar asked.

"Yes, I know. And I am ready," he replied in a confident voice. He had always known, had always felt that this was how it had to be and now his beloved brother had finally come to see it too. He was ready and he would accept his duty and his destiny. "We should quickly announce it, brother, so that the lords and ladies of the realm can adjust to the new situation."

"Certainly," the priestess agreed with him. "Surely there will be those who oppose the truth. Therefore, it is all the more important to make it clear as soon as possible that there is no way around the eternal truth and the will of R'hllor. What we do not need is a divided realm. Mankind must stand together in the war that lies ahead, united in the faith in the one true God."

Rhaegar turned around and went back to his big desk. At first Viserys thought he wanted to show him something and followed him, but instead his brother grabbed a cup from the desk and took a hearty sip. He could tell by the smell that it was Dornish strong wine blended with Milk of the Poppy. Viserys knew that his brother's work and duties were exhausting beyond anything a normal person would be able to endure. Oftentimes he didn't sleep for days, staying awake with the help potions and weak poisons that were said to come from all corners of Essos and some even from the lands beyond the Bone Mountains. Often his head would start to hurt terribly after one or two days without sleep and he would then take Milk of the Poppy to ease his pain. He knew that Rhaegar had even tried to get his hands on some Shade of the Evening, but the warlocks of Qarth were reluctant to share their secrets and so he had been unable to obtain any, except for a very tiny sample he had bought from a pirate from the Summer Isles for an outrageous price.

Viserys waited a while and stayed silent to give his brother the opportunity to let the medicine begin to work. The priestess Melisandre stood beside him and waited as well until the king's face was no longer distorted by pain.

"I agree," Rhaegar finally said. "We have no time to lose. There is already evidence of a conspiracy."

"What?" Viserys asked in shock. He knew that there were always lords and ladies with stronger or weaker loyalty towards the royal family and their king, but Rhaegar had never been quick to use such words and the fact that it had already come to the point where his brother openly spoke of a conspiracy worried him deeply.

"The Great Other is already spinning his disgusting web of deception," Melisandre said. "It was to be expected that there would be those who would succumb to his lies. There will always be those who lock their hearts to the truth, but as soon as the cold shadow of the Great Other will fall over the land, the people will flock to the warming light and fire of R'hllor. Or they will perish. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

"What conspiracy? By whom?" As much as he appreciated the priestess' help and advice, religious zeal would not help here. They had to focus on the here and now, on the immediate threat to their rule, otherwise everything would be lost before the real war even began.

"I don't know much yet, but I've been given some leads," Rhaegar said in a calm voice. Apparently, he had already given the matter a great deal of thought. Otherwise he would have been boiling with rage, Viserys knew. "It's not much to go on, but it's already enough." He took another deep sip from his cup before continuing. "At times like this, I regret having cut Varys' fat neck after the Trident. Devious as a snake he was, but unlike the useless whoremonger Oberyn, Varys would have already given me the names of the conspirators by now. When this is all over, I'll have to find a new Master of Whisperers."

So Rhaegar did not want to tell any names. Viserys assumed that was a wise decision. The walls of the Red Keep had always had ears and who could possibly tell who was listening even here, in the king's study?

"So what are we going to do about it? We can't just let these traitors have their way."

"We're not. Don't worry, I'm already on it, brother. I'm just waiting for the final confirmations in some cases."

"That is a relief to know, my king," said the red priestess. "Then perhaps we should get back to announcing the impending changes to the realm. We will need a grand ceremony to celebrate the coming changes and we could also use this to proclaim the joyful news. It is a suitably solemn setting and all the high lords and ladies of the realm will be gathered there so that you can stifle any possible opposition immediately."

The proposal was excellent and Rhaegar and Viserys both agreed to it. The ceremony that Melisandre proposed in colorful details would surely impress the lords and ladies of the realm. She and Rhaegar had obviously already talked about it before they had really understood all the subtleties of the prophecy, had discussed what could or should be done to prove their loyalty and obedience to the Lord of Light and so most of the planning was already completed. Only a few details still had to be changed to reflect Rhaegar's new understanding of the prophecy. Now Viserys also understood why his brother had let the traitors of old come to the capital in the first place. Surely most would accept the changes. Why wouldn't they? And the few who would resist would be directly in the hands of the king, who would be able to wring their allegiance from them with a little pressure if necessary.

"But there is something else we need to discuss, brother," Viserys said after another moment of silence. "Your children."

"Yes, my children," Rhaegar said in a thoughtful tone. After that he was silent for a while and Viserys felt it was better to leave him to his thoughts for some time. The red priestess seemed to notice it too, looked at the king expectantly but didn't say a word either. Rhaegar wanted to take another sip from his cup, but found it was already empty and put it back on the table, unnerved, before he began speaking again.

"I should have known their blood was too weak. It's diluted. If only I could have persuaded my father to send out another, a better man than the old stag to find me a bride. Father trusted him because they were friends in their youth. A dragon must never trust a lesser man, I tell you. See where that got us? The old stag failed, and I suffered for it."

"Do not underestimate the value of your children," Melisandre said. "Their blood is still strong, my king. There's power in king's blood. And no blood holds as much power as the holy blood of the most noble House Targaryen, blessed by R'hllor himself."

"Are you sure about this, venerable priestess?"

"Absolutely, my king. Should your sons accomplish their task and return alive, it would be proof of R'hllor's blessing and the power of their royal blood."

"Then they may indeed still be of use to us," said Rhaegar and went over to the small table by the door to pour himself a new cup.

"Indeed, my King. Should they return, we shall soon make good use of this power."

Rhaegar wanted to respond something when there was a knock at the door. He went back to his table and then called the new visitor inside. It was Grandmaester Pycelle who dragged himself through the door with small and slow steps, breathing heavily as if he had just climbed a mountain. When he spotted the priestess, he stopped for a moment, shocked as if the sight of her was something terrifying to him he had never seen before, but then went on with his annoyingly small and slow steps as if he had already forgotten she was there in the first place. Viserys then said goodbye to his brother and the priestess, walked past Pycelle without giving him a glance and left the room. He really didn't need the senile gibberish of this old fool now.

The moment he walked through the door, he overheard Pycelle telling Rhaegar that he had intercepted some ravens with extremely disturbing news. For one heartbeat, Viserys was tempted to stay to find out more, but then decided against it and left. Whatever his brother would learn from Pycelle now, he would certainly tell him as well soon enough. Viserys had better things to do. He had to go and choose a woman for the night.

Ser Boros Blount immediately followed Viserys again as he passed by his white knight. Walking through the corridors, he had to think about Rhaegar's children again. What was to come was certainly not what he had imagined for them. At least not for Rhaenys. Of course, with her soiled, impure blood he would never have allowed her to bear him any children. But she was definitely beautiful enough, so that she could have been a truly extraordinary mistress for him. Even if only so that he could have lived out some of his more... delicate desires on her, which he would not have wanted to impose on his wives.

Aegon and Daeron though... He would have enjoyed cutting their heads off personally. Maybe even in a duel, so that Rhaenys could have watched. The bloodshed would no doubt have made her blood boil in desire for him. But now things would turn out differently. Should they indeed still be alive, and should they indeed return to King's Landing in whatever miraculous way, he would greatly enjoy watching the two brats burn.

Notes:

So, that was it. Hope you had fun reading it. As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think, what you liked or maybe didn't like about it. I always love to read your thoughts. :-)

See you next time.

Chapter 19: Eddard 5

Notes:

Hi ladies and gentlemen,

the next chapter is here. We again see Ned's perspective and so far it's the longest chapter. First Ned will have to deal with having told Sansa that they are going to leave King's Landing, then there will be another Small Council meeting and after that Ned has a talk with a "wizard and an angry man". ;-) And finally, the cahpter will end with a bit of a ... surpise.

Hope you enjoy reading it.

Ned paced up and down outside the door and wanted nothing more than to rush in and take his daughter in his arms. For almost an hour he had heard her crying and sobbing even through the door's thick wood but Sansa had made it very clear she didn't want to see him.

At least she is not alone, he thought.

Jeyne and Princess Rhaenys were with her and as far as he could understand their muffled words through the door, they did their best to comfort her, although it didn't really seem to work. The argument of the princess that no matter if half the continent would lie between them nothing would change about Prince Aegon's feelings for her had calmed her down for a while. Ned had become all the more unsettled at the thought, though. Prince Aegon was an excellent young man, but he still could not imagine how this could ever lead to a good end. Eventually that little comfort had melted away like summer snow and Sansa had started to cry again.

It pained Ned to listen to it without being able to hold her in his arms, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had to tell Sansa they were leaving, of course. The princess had gone as far as to agree with him that at the moment, it was not safe in King's Landing for them. She herself had had some confrontations with the king and his brother in particular, it seemed. The princess had even said on her own accord that Ned should please be very careful to keep their departure as secret as possible as the King would undoubtedly not show much understanding for it. He had been grateful that she understood the situation and supported him instead of opposing him. King's Landing indeed was not safe anymore, even if his daughter did not want to acknowledge this.

Two days ago, Sansa had appeared in their chambers with a bloody lip and although she had not wanted to tell how this had happened or who had been responsible and had insisted that it was nothing serious, Ned had been terribly worried. With Arya he probably wouldn't have worried for more than an hour if she had looked like that but with Sansa, things were different. Arya had often enough fallen off somewhere, run into something or had gotten into a fight with a scullion or a stable boy, so that Ned was almost used to seeing her with bloody knees, a bloody nose or a split lip, but Sansa... She was sweet and soft and gentle and there was simply no reason why anybody should do that to her. This morning after breaking the fast together he had then told her that they were leaving King's Landing on the next morrow. Sansa had cried, sobbed, even yelled at him, only to lock herself in her room with Jeyne and Princess Rhaenys afterwards.

"Sansa, sweetling," he said as he again knocked softly on the door, hoping she would let him in. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes," she finally said after a while, which she needed to get her sobbing under control. "You can go and leave me alone!"

Catelyn would have known what to say. Ned was sure of it. He himself had never been too sure when it came to his daughters. One was too much of a lady for him to know enough about it and the other was the exact opposite, so much so that he hadn't known how to handle it or what to say in this or that situation either. Things were easier with sons, he concluded.

He had hoped that at least the news of Robb's impending marriage to Wynafryd Manderly would cheer her up a bit. As expected, Lord Manderly had agreed to the match as he had learned from Catelyn's last letter just yesterday, and if their journey back home would go as planned, they would still arrive at Winterfell in time for the ceremony in front of the Weirwood Tree. The prospect of seeing her brother marry while she was torn from the arms of her beloved, as she had put it a bit too dramatic for Ned's taste, had only made her cry harder though.

It was of course true that she would not see Prince Aegon again. At least for some time. For how long or if ever again, he could not say. Who could say how things would turn out in the future? Ned's hope was however – even if he would have never told Sansa – that after some time she would get over it, keep Prince Aegon in good memory but then eventually accept another match he would find for her, come to like the young man he would choose for her and be happy with him. There were more than enough good sons of lords and ladies in the North, from good houses with old and proud names, who would kill for the privilege to court such a ravishing young lady as Sansa. Perhaps it would be better that way.

Whatever his daughter might think of it now, the decision was made. They would leave tomorrow before sunrise. The arrangements had already been made. Rodrik had gotten them horses and had secretly prepared the Northmen that had come with them to King's Landing for their departure, Vayon had purchased supplies for their journey – albeit at prices that could only be described as theft – and he himself, together with Howland, had called in some old favors to organize the necessary passages by ship. They would travel the distance to Maidenpool on horseback, with two small wagons for the bare necessities and a carriage for his daughters. There they would board a ship that would take them to Gulltown, and after a stay of two or three days at the most, they would take another ship to White Harbour. And if the weather was favorable enough – Ned was hoping that the drought hadn't hit the North as hard as the South – they might even be able to take a river boat up the White Knife for another part of their way, which would save them at least another week on horseback.

The last confirmation for their passages by ship had arrived by raven three days ago and he had written the letter to Catelyn only yesterday morning, telling her they were coming home. He had skipped the reasons however, in order not to frighten her unnecessarily.

For the moment, however, he had to fulfill his duties while they were still in King's Landing. If only to avoid attracting attention. So he decided not to knock on the door again in the hope for permission to enter and instead went directly to the Small Council chamber. He walked past the two Valyrian sphinxes at the entrance and, as every time, had the unpleasant feeling that their dead eyes were following him. He had never given much thought to bad omens or forebodings, but these stone witnesses of Valyria's once great past... touched something in him, shook him to his core whenever he looked at them. No matter how beautifully crafted the statues were, Ned would have sunk them into the sea rather than look at them every day, had it been his city and his fortress.

Lord Connington and Grandmaester Pycelle were already there. Ned took his place and after a very short greeting, they remained silent for a while until the rest of the council members arrived. Prince Oberyn and Prince Aegon were of course not there and apparently and unsurprisingly, although it had happened without official announcement, Mace Tyrell had also given up his place in the Small Council. The last to arrive was Ser Myles Mooton and Ned was surprised to see him so sour faced that he almost resembled Jon Connington in that regard. Without waiting for the Lord Hand to officially open the meeting, he began to speak while still taking his seat.

"Have we received a raven from the princes yet?"

"Not yet," said Pycelle, visibly irritated by the deviation from routine. "I'm sure we'll receive word very soon."

"They should have sent word long ago. I went to the king's study and wanted to talk to him about it, but I was not allowed in."

"They are only a few days on the road so far," Jon Connington replied.

"The Kingswood is not so far away," said Ser Myles, clearly upset. "Only the gods know what might have happened to them by now. They could already be lying dead on the ground somewhere, the Seven may protect them."

"He's right," Lord Velaryon interjected. "The Kingswood is close and they could have already crossed that madman's path by now. To send the princes on such a dangerous mission with so few men was nothing but sheer folly."

"Perhaps you would like to tell that to the King," Lord Connington hissed.

"With pleasure, Lord Connington. If only the King would grant me an audience for once."

"Don't you care about the two?" asked Ser Myles.

"Rest assured, I am as concerned for the safety of the princes as the King himself. But that is not something we should be dealing with right now."

"Nothing we should be dealing with?" Ser Myles didn't seem to believe his ears.

"We're not going to deal with it now because there's nothing we can do about it anyway," Jon Connington said in a tone that made it clear to him that he wanted to put an end to this matter.

"We could send soldiers after them to back them up," Ned now suggested. He knew it wasn't really his concern, but deep inside he felt this... tugging in his guts. To do nothing and leave these good young men and their companions to their deaths simply seemed wrong to him. And when he thought about it for a moment, he had to admit that the two princes had become very dear to him. Daeron was his flesh and blood of course, but Prince Aegon had become precious to him as well. Although he was still no friend of the connection between him and Sansa, he could not help but notice how wonderful he treated her and how honestly happy he made her. If things were only a little different, they would undoubtedly be perfect for each other and he would be all too happy to offer Sansa's hand in marriage for the Prince.

"And go against a direct order of the King?" Ser Gerold asked from the backside of the table in a tone as if Ned had just suggested an open rebellion.

"The King has made his decision, Prince Aegon has accepted the mission, and now all those involved must see how they cope with the situation," Lord Connington continued. "But that's not our concern now. We have our very own problems to take care of." He paused for a moment, as if he had to prepare himself mentally for what he was going to say. "There's no way around it now. The food in the city is used up. The Gold Cloaks are already digging large graves outside the city walls. Some have already starved to death, but so far fortunately only beggars. But that will hardly remain so. There are more and more raids on just about every house and every shop where some drunkards still suspect food. More than a dozen horses of the Gold Cloaks have already been stolen and slaughtered. There is open violence in the streets almost every night. It's hard for the Gold Cloaks to keep order anymore. Recently there have even been some attacks on the Valyrian quarter, which the King did not appreciate at all. The King has therefore ordered that the manpower of the Gold Cloaks' patrols be increased."

"Do we have enough men for that?" asked Ser Gerold.

"That is the problem. The Gold Cloaks are just as hungry as anyone else in the city and some have already deserted. Our strength is waning."

"So where are we supposed to find food?" Lord Velaryon asked. "The drought has weakened the entire realm. There have been no harvest surpluses in any part of the realm that could be ordered to the capital. We cannot expect supplies from anywhere and since it still hasn't rained yet, our ships still cannot leave to reach Essos."

"Of that I am aware," said Lord Connington. "The King has found a solution. He has sent out ravens to call for the supplies from all the great strongholds of the realm that are stored there in case of siege."

"What?" asked Ser Myles in disbelief. "This is supposed to be a solution? Even if the lords of the realm would answer that request-"

"This royal command!"

"Even if they would obey this royal command, it would take weeks, sometimes months, for the food to get here. What good will that do us now?"

"You assume," Connington began, and for the first time Ned saw the man smile, "that the King sent out those ravens just recently. His Grace, however, is more farsighted than you would grant him. The ravens are long gone, and the first fortress to receive this order was Dragon Shield."

The Strangler. Ned was shaken by the very mention of that name.

"Dragon Shield had a garrison two thousand strong but supplies for three years and for three times as many soldiers. Probably even more."

Had?

"Three hundred men now hold the fortress against possible hostilities from the North, the rest are on their way to King's Landing with most of the supplies. They'll be here in a few days."

"This is... wonderful news," Ser Myles stammered. "But why have we not been informed? If that was an option, it could have been ordered much sooner, before the situation at King's Landing became too precarious."

"Perhaps the King just wanted to see the members his Small Council come up with that solution themselves," Connington said. "Either way, time is running out."

"Indeed," Pycelle mumbled. "Even if His Grace's soldiers march swiftly, more people will starve every day and-"

"That is not why," Lord Connington interrupted him. Every trace of a smile had long since disappeared from his face, as if it had never existed. "More and more men are gathering around the High Septon, the old fool. They call themselves the Poor Fellows, renouncing all worldly possessions, most of which probably didn't have much anyway, and then cutting big stars into their own foreheads as a sign of their devoutness. A band of madmen, no more, but the King expects us to take care of it."

"And what does the King expect us to do?" Ned asked. "They are believers who cling to their faith in times of trouble. We can hardly punish them for that."

"Believers? I know your kind still prays to trees in the North, but still, I would've expected you to know a bit more about the history of Faith. The Poor Fellows were part of the Faith Militant, and the realm bled heavily to get rid of these lunatics back in the days. The King has not allowed the Faith Militant to be reestablished, but since a few starving people here and there have plundered and burned down a few septs and raped a few septas, the High Septon clearly seems to care little about what the King wants anymore."

"I know what the Faith Militant was, Lord Connington," Ned returned in a stern voice. He would not be here much longer anyway, but he certainly did not intend to be treated like a child by this man to the very end. "Perhaps it is not so much the loss of a few septs or whatever terrible things have been done to the poor septas as much more that the King is surrounding himself with a red priestess from Asshai who constantly dismissed the Seven as lies and fairy tales."

Ned heard Ser Myles, Ser Richard and Lord Velaryon agree while Grandmaester Pycelle and Ser Gerold stayed silent, yet Lord Connington didn't pay any attention to them. Instead he looked at Ned so menacingly as if he wanted to wring his neck right here and now.

"I will convey your concerns to the King, Lord Stark," he finally hissed back. "But there's something else we have to deal with. We finally received an answer from the Iron Islands."

"I know of no raven from Pyke, Lord Hand," Pycelle said in surprise.

"Not a raven, a messenger. Guards, bring it in," Lord Connington yelled.

A moment later the door was opened and two Gold Cloaks with serious expressions on their faces entered, carrying a heavy crate between them. They placed the crate on the foot of the table and released the first latch at the front. After a brief questioning look at Lord Connington, one of the soldiers released the second latch and quickly stepped back. The front of the crate folded down. Immediately, all but Jon Connington jumped up when they saw what rolled out of the crate onto the table. Pycelle tried to get away as well but was so slow that he might as well have stayed seated.

"Heads!" cried Ser Richard.

"Well seen, Ser," Lord Connington returned sarcastically.

For a moment everyone stared in shock at the horrible image in front of them, unable to say or do anything. Lord Velaryon was the first to catch himself again, walking towards the heads and turning them back and forth with careful fingers. Their eyes had been burned out, their lips had been cut off and their teeth had been broken out, as only splinters of them were left to be seen. Now Ned went closer as well, looked at the horribly disfigured heads and saw that words had been cut into the foreheads. Names, he realized. The cuts were so frayed at the edges that the blade must have been terribly dull and jagged. Ned hoped the poor souls had already been dead when this had been done, but he somehow doubted it.

Rodrik. Maron. Asha. Theon.

"This is not good," said Ser Richard. "If that's the answer from Pyke, then it's clear what it means."

"Rebellion," Lord Velaryon said. "I already said at the end of the last Greyjoy rebellion that the Greyjoys should not have been treated so lightly. Taking their ugly throne from them was not enough. They should have been hanged, most of them anyway. And the rest would have been held hostage here at King's Landing or somewhere in Dorne or Widow's Watch for all I care. As long as it would have been far enough away."

"We can't change the past," Ser Myles said in a toneless voice. "We'd do better to consider what we can do now?"

"There's not much we can do," Lord Velaryon said. "The royal fleet is still stranded in the harbor and cannot set sail because of the drought. The Iron Islands have mostly seaports. They will not have this problem."

"Some do," Pycelle said. "We have received reports from some of the maesters on the Iron Islands that they too are suffering from the drought and that the shallower, more sandy harbors at Kenning Keep or Pebbleton are also lying dry. Yet most of their fleet will indeed be able to set sail."

"But at least they can't reach most ports on the mainland. They would run aground and be an easy target for any defender long before the first raider would even get near the city," Ned added. "At the moment, the ironmen could only land far away from the larger cities and attack on foot. But without horses or heavy equipment, they should pose no threat to any of the strongholds from Bear Isle to the Arbor."

"Lord Stark is right," Lord Velaryon agreed. "For the moment, the ironmen are no real threat. At least in this case, this damn drought is playing into our hands. Still, we should send out ravens to all major strongholds between Oldtown and Seagard, maybe even to Deepwood Motte or Bear Isle, just to be sure. Have them prepare as best they can for an attack from land."

"And we should send word to Lord Redwyne as well," Ser Richard added. "Starfish Harbor may be as dry as the cunt of a septa, but most of the Redwyne fleet lies at Ryamsport. The port's basin is deep and cannot run dry. Lord Paxter can patrol the coast with his ships until the Royal Fleet can come to his aid. Perhaps this ridiculous game of ironmen will be over sooner than we all fear."

They discussed which Lords they would write to, briefly debated some of the wording, but eventually agreed relatively quickly on a text that some maesters under the supervision of Grandmaester Pycelle would copy and send by raven to the respective Lords this very day. Lord Connington then told them that the King was planning a large ceremony of some sort for which preparations would have to be made in the coming weeks. To the objection that there was already no food in the city, Lord Connington very briefly said that there would be no feast at this ceremony. It would be a religious celebration of sorts, but the King would have some proclamations to make at it. What exactly, however, he himself did not know. They would learn more in the next few days. After that the meeting was over and everyone went their own ways.

Normally Ned should have retreated to his study and finished the report on the incomes and expenses of the tourney now. But with their departure so close, he could not bring himself to do so. Should his successor, whoever would be granted this dubious honor, take care of it. He walked a little through the Red Keep and considered going back to Sansa. Maybe she would have calmed down by now. However, that was rather unlikely and since there was still nothing new he could tell her to cheer her up, he decided not to make himself unhappy by listening to his daughter cry and sob.

He decided to look for his other daughter. Originally, he had planned not to tell Arya about their departure at all, but simply to carry her out of her bed sleeping at night, put her in the carriage and leave. When she would have woken up, they would have been on the road for hours already. But by now this idea seemed rather sordid to him. Arya was young, but she was no longer a little child. He decided she deserved to know about it. He searched for her in her room first and tried desperately to ignore the sounds from Sansa's chamber. Arya was not there, however. He didn't find her with Septa Mordane either, but he was hardly surprised at that. He went to the small training room where she had always met Prince Lewyn before, but apart from the equipment – wooden swords, blunt spears and training shields – which was neatly placed in the stands, the room was empty. He went to the Small Hall then to see if Arya was perhaps about to eat something, but he didn't find her there either. After a servant hinted that his daughter preferred to get her food directly from the kitchen, which again did not surprise him much, he went there. The kitchens, however, were completely deserted. Without food in the city, apart from rusks, onions and very little dried fish and meat, there was of course nothing for the servants to do in the kitchens.

Slowly he began to worry. He called some Gold Cloaks to him, asked them if they had seen his daughter and gave them the order to take her to her rooms if they should run into her. He walked around the Red Keep and although he knew that the Red Keep was much smaller than Winterfell, he felt more lost than he had ever felt in Winterfell. The fortress was indeed a labyrinth of corridors and chambers, dead ends and courtyards, galleries and staircases. In fact, after nearly an hour he got so lost that he had to ask a passing servant how to get back to Maegor's Holdfast. Almost another hour went by before he finally passed the barracks of the Gold Cloaks, reached the lower courtyard and saw the entrance to Maegor's Holdfast towering up in front of him.

He went inside and was just about to make his way to their chambers, hoping that Arya might have returned there by now when he was hit so hard from the side by something that it almost tore him off his feet. Someone had run into him at full speed. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw a black and white spotted cat scurrying around the next corner when he turned to the person who had run into him and saw Arya standing right there.

"Sorry, father," she said and wanted to run off immediately, but Ned held her arm. "I have said sorry, father. I must go now or she'II get away!"

"Who will get away?"

"The cat. I have to catch the cat. Oh, great. Now he's gone."

"Arya, that doesn't matter now."

"Yes, it does. I have to practice or Prince Lewyn will know I've been lazy when he comes back."

"Arya, that doesn't matter now," he said as insistently as he could. She seemed to understand. "Please come with me. I have something important to tell you."

"Then tell me."

"Not here. Come now."

Without further ado, she followed him to his chambers. He turned the little chair in front of his desk around and sat on it while Arya took a seat on the large bed with her legs dangling.

"Arya," he began, but was immediately silenced by her raised hand.

"Do you hear that, father? I think someone is crying."

"Arya, listen to me."

"I hear it clearly. Close your eyes and you'll hear it, too. Prince Lewyn told me that trick."

"Arya!" She looked at him in shock at his loud tone, but now was not the time for games. "Listen to me. We are leaving the city. Tomorrow morning already."

"And go where?"

"We're going home, Arya. To Winterfell."

For a moment, she seemed to need to think about what he had just said. Joy and uncertainty alternated on her face, constantly back and forth.

"But... we can't. What about my exercises with Prince Lewyn? The King surely will not permit him to accompany us."

"No, he will not. The King does not know we are leaving, so it is very important that you keep quiet about this, do you understand? Do you understand that, Arya?"

"Yes, father," she said in a serious tone.

"I'll explain everything to you when we're on our way. Right now all that matters is that you pack your things. As little as possible. We don't have much room on the wagons. And about your exercises… it will not be with Prince Lewyn, but I promise that we will find a way that you can continue once we are back at Winterfell. As long as your mother doesn't find out."

A slight smile returned to her face. This promise obviously comforted her and Ned decided that he would definitely keep it. Cat would not be pleased at all but it would be a small price to pay to be back in Winterfell with his daughters safe and sound. To be back with Catelyn. Ned was glad that Arya reacted so much more calmly to leaving King's Landing than Sansa. It was true, he could still hear her crying even through the tick doors and the ticker walls.

Perhaps he would teach Arya himself. It would be unusual, to say the least, but perhaps he would enjoy it as much as Arya hopefully would. He was just about to suggest it to her when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened and immediately Ned was beaming all over his face. Jon Arryn entered his room. Ned jumped up and went over to his foster father, embracing him tightly. Before he had come to King's Landing, he had not seen the old man for half an eternity and since he had been here, he had only been able to exchange a few brief words with him. It was good to have him around again.

"It's good to see you, Ned."

Ned embraced him again, then offered him his chair and sat on the bed next to Arya who looked at his former foster father with big eyes. He offered him something to drink, but Jon refused and said he could not stay long. He asked Ned to accompany him as there was something important to discuss. Ned suggested that we discuss it right here and now but Jon insisted that this was not possible here, not safe. He should come with him, please. There was someone else they needed to meet. Ned was confused, but Jon was so insistent that he could not refuse. So he got up, helped Jon to his feet and walked him to the door. He was almost out when Arya grabbed him by the sleeve.

"Father, that's him," she whispered.

"Yes, that's Jon Arryn. You probably don't remember, but he was in Winterfell when you were no more than-"

"No, that's the wizard. I swear it."

"Arya," Ned said. "You don't swear on such nonsense."

"But it's true. That's the one who has to be a wizard. The one who talked to the angry man."

Ned wanted to scold her but had to smile instead. She was right that Jon, with his long white beard, indeed looked like a wizard in a play. So he left it at that, assured Arya that Jon was certainly no wizard and left his chamber to follow him through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. He would probably have to talk to Arya again about why one should not make up such stories.

Jon only made slow progress but walked unerringly along the corridors and crossings. Several times Ned asked where they were going but got no answer. They left Maegor's Holdfast and entered the inner courtyard. Jon led him into a tower, down a stair, across a small sunken courtyard, and along a deserted corridor which was so dusty, that it was hard for Ned to breathe. They followed more stairs deeper down until at some point there were no more windows and Jon had to grab a torch from one of the holders on the walls to light the way in front of them. Ned wondered for a moment why the torches were burning at all, since this part of the fortress seemed completely deserted, but said nothing. They went on, along dark, windowless corridors, around corners and turns, down way more stairs than up. Several times he stopped in between when he thought to have heard something behind them. Jon's admonitions not to fall back, however, made him ignore it and keep going. The walls were no longer made of bricks but were hewn from the bare rock. So they had to be under the fortress, in the middle of Aegon's High Hill, he concluded.

They passed through a round room where half a dozen corridors met, with a huge Targaryen dragon on the floor, made of black and red tiles. On the wall hung an iron brazier in the shape of a dragon's head, which somehow unsettled Ned. Jon unerringly took a passage to his left and led him further through the darkness. Ned had lost all sense of time as well as his orientation. It was impossible for him to tell where he was and if it was day or night, if they had walked through the darkness for one or five hours. Again several times he had the feeling that there was someone behind them who followed them through the darkness.

Hopefully not Arya, he thought.

Jon obviously did not share his concerns, so he decided not to stop again but to ignore the feeling of being followed. Finally they reached a small room with an open door. They entered the room and Ned was startled when he saw another man standing in the dim light of a single candle. It took him a moment to breathe normally again. He recognized him at once. It was Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Storm's End and brother to his long dead best friend.

At that moment a realization shot through the head. He looked into the dark, angry face of Stannis' Baratheon, looked at his foster father with the long beard of a wizard and realized that Arya hadn't made up a story after all. He would have to apologize to her later. But the bits and pieces she had told him about the conversation she had overheard still made no sense.

"Lord Stannis, Jon, why am I here?" he finally asked after a few moments.

Jon and Lord Stannis looked at each other briefly and the face of the Lord of Storm's End seemed to become even darker. He reminded him unpleasantly of Jon Connington. It was almost unbelievable that this man should be the brother of Robert Baratheon. Never had he met a more jovial, cheerful man than Robert, who loved to laugh that much and make friends more easily. Stannis Baratheon, on the other hand, seemed to be all that might have been left of Robert if all the joy of life had been let out of his body like blood during a bloodletting. Then Jon Arryn finally began to speak again and took Ned out of his thoughts.

"Ned, I'll make this quick so you'll immediately be fully aware of what we're about to do. But before that, I just want you to know that we're not planning this for our own benefit, but for the good of the realm."

"Go ahead and say it, Jon. Surely you didn't drag me down here to have me solve a riddle."

"We will overthrow House Targaryen once and for all," Stannis finally said impatiently.

Ned was speechless. He simply didn't know what to say to that. Whatever he had expected, that wasn't that. He looked at Lord Stannis' face, hoping he'd misheard or that the man had made a bad joke. But there was probably no man in the world, apart from Jon Connington, who understood less what the word joke even meant than Stannis Baratheon. He looked at Jon Arryn, still in disbelief, hoping his old foster father would say something that would clear all this up. It just had to be a misunderstanding.

"You... want to overthrow the King?" he finally asked.

"Not the king, the entire House Targaryen," Stannis said.

"You must have noticed the state of House Targaryen as well, Ned," Jon said. "Aerys was a madman who burned people alive and Rhaegar is on his way to become just the same."

"If you want to overthrow House Targaryen as a whole, you can't want Prince Aegon on the throne. Who's to be king then?"

It wasn't the first question that came to his mind, not the best or surely the most important, but that was all he could say right now.

"Our best option is right in front of you, Ned. Lord Stannis. The Baratheons have the best claim after the Targaryens. Had we won the war back in the day, Robert would be on the throne now."

Once again, Ned was speechless. He was trying to understand what he had just heard. It was true of course. If the rebellion had been successful twenty years ago, Robert Baratheon would now be sitting the Iron Throne. King Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name. Somehow it sounded downright silly in Ned's mind. Just as silly as King Stannis.

"But why not Aegon?" he asked after a while when his mind had cleared. "He's a good boy. He'll make a good king one day."

"Rhaegar also was a good boy," Stannis said, almost spitting out the last words. "Just like Aerys before Duskendale. And we all know where that got us."

"Aegon has not experienced a Duskendale of his own and if the gods are good, he never will."

"Ned," Jon now said in a tone like he was trying to explain the simplest thing in the world to a child unwilling to listen. "Rhaegar didn't have a Duskendale of his own either but also didn't need done to obviously lose his mind. All he needed was the birth of a second son instead of a second daughter. No one can say what little it will take for Prince Aegon to go mad too. Maybe marrying brother to sister for generations has finally taken its toll, maybe it has made their blood sick somehow, or maybe it is the punishment of some god. I don't know, Ned. But it's obvious it can't go on like this. Lord Stannis is our best option."

Ned tried his best but still could not wrap his head around the words of his foster father. How could Jon seriously talk about not doing all this for themselves only to then put Stannis on the throne? Prince Aegon would be an option if all this was as selfless as they claimed, Daeron would be an option, even Princess Rhaenys would be an option if she would be given the right husband.

"What will happen to the princes and the princess then?"

"Don't worry about that, Ned. We'll make sure nothing happens to Prince Daeron. You have my word. I know he is your blood and you care for him. Once Stannis sits on the throne, he will declare the marriage between Rhaegar and Lyanna null and void. Daeron will be nothing more than a bastard. He will live."

"If he bends the knee," Stannis interjected, "he may live. He will be allowed to go to the Wall and take the Black. There he can make honor to his name before he dies of old age."

Arya's panicking voice echoed through his head. The old man wants to send a bastard to the Wall.

"And Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys?"

Stannis and Jon looked at each other again. They didn't seem sure what to say to Ned before Jon finally began to speak again.

"There's nothing we can do for them, Ned. Please understand that. They would be a threat. Whether they would be sitting in a dungeon or be sent to the Wall and the Silent Sisters, there would always be those flocking to them to threaten Stannis' reign."

"So you want to murder them," Ned said, again scarcely believing what he had just heard.

"Dorne won't like this," Stannis said untouched, as if they hadn't just been talking about killing two innocents, a prince and princess of the realm at that. "But they will come to terms with it. One quick strike and King's Landing and the Iron Throne is ours. On the same day, the headsman will put a swift and merciful end to them both. Assuming the prince is still alive in the first place. Dorne will rage, no doubt, but I can live with that. Let them hate me as long as they bend the knee. After all, a Dornish rebellion wouldn't bring them back to life. To save the realm, I gladly accept their hatred."

"To save the realm? How is treason going to save the realm?"

"We will save the realm by giving it a new order and a new king before the next Mad King completely destroys it.  And if Rhaegar won't do that, his son certainly will once the Targaryen madness breaks through. It is only a matter of time, Stark."

The madness of the Targaryens was well known. Aerys' coin had landed on the wrong side and the realm had bled for it. Sadly, the same had happened to Rhaegar as it seemed. But he could not and would not believe that Aegon and Daeron would have to suffer the same fate. They were noble young men, honest and honorable and good at heart, he knew. Ned had heard from Maester Luwin more than once that the Citadel suspected that the Targaryen's custom of marrying brother to sister was responsible for their madness. Ned had not really understood the details of the explanation Maester Luwin had given him, but he remembered well that it had sounded plausible enough. But the parents of Prince Aegon, Prince Daeron and Princess Rhaenys were not siblings. They were not related at all and since the three of them would surely not marry each other, the next generation would not have this problem either. Who could really say if the Targaryens would indeed descend further into madness or if the night was just the darkest before the first sunlight?

"You can't possibly be serious," he finally said. "There's no way I'm going to support this. I'm sorry, Jon, but my answer is no."

Ned started pacing up and down the small room, not knowing what to do or say now. His old foster father, who had even been closer to him than his real father for most of his life, had tried to persuade him into a rebellion and the murder of innocents. Jon tried to follow him through the room as best he could, attempting to say something to him, but probably didn't know what. Stannis stood as motionless as a statue in the corner and scowled at him so angrily that at that moment Ned would have preferred the two Valyrian sphinxes to be here in his stead.

"Jon," Ned finally said and stopped. "I'm sorry, but I cannot rebel against my king. I have knelt before him, I have sworn fealty to him and I will honor that vow."

"You rebelled before," Stannis growled at him.

"That was different and you know it," Ned said nervously. How could Lord Stannis seriously compare the situation back then to their insane plan of today? "Twenty years ago, we were the innocents but Aerys demanded our heads. The rebellion happened out of self-defense. This time it's nothing more than plain treason."

"Better be careful what you say, Stark."

"Are you telling me this is not so? You talk about saving the realm and not doing it for personal gain, but the first thing that comes to mind is putting your own arse on the throne."

"Does someone need to be burned alive again before you wake up, Stark?"

"You forget, Lord Baratheon, that it was my family that was murdered by Aerys, not yours. So you needn't lecture me on the atrocities of the Mad King. The safety of my family is the most important thing for me right now. That is why I'm leaving King's Landing on the morrow."

"Then you obviously don't consider Prince Daeron a part of your family," Jon suddenly said in a calm voice. "After all, you're leaving him behind."

Ned was stunned again. Of course Daeron was a part of his family. He was not only the son of his sister, not only his flesh and blood, but a true part of his family. That's what he had become in his time in Winterfell. But there was nothing he could do for him. He could offer to take him north with them when he and Aegon came back. If they ever came back. But he couldn't wait that long. He needed to leave quickly to protect his family, to protect his daughters. He decided that he would try to leave Daeron a message somehow, to let him know that he would be welcome in the North if the situation here became too severe. However, he was sure that even if he received the message, Daeron would not come.

He had seen the two together and he knew that Daeron would never leave Aegon behind. Also there were still Rhaella and Princess Rhaenys, who both of the princes would never leave alone here to flee north, should the situation become too severe. The list of people he would have to secretly smuggle north became longer and longer and less and less likely the more he thought about it. Ned considered for a moment whether he would be willing to call the banners for Aegon, possibly even against Rhaegar if needed. But whether the answer to this question was yes or no, it would undoubtedly already be too late to do anything by the time the news would have reached Winterfell of whatever would have happened here in King's Landing.

"Ned, listen to me," Jon finally said. "We don't even expect you to call the banners. We have to act fast now and the North is too far away, so your soldiers would not be here in time anyway. We already have an army. Many of the Stormlanders and a good part of the Knights of the Vale are already in place, hidden a few days north of here, just waiting for our order. Even if we wanted to, we couldn't wait any longer without risking our soldiers being discovered. It's dangerous enough already. All we want you to do, Ned, is to bend your knee to Stannis when it's all over. It is vital that we form a united front once Stannis is on the throne. That will keep many lords and ladies of the realm from calling the banners in the first place. If everything goes as planned, it will be a very short war with only one real battle. Basically, all we're doing is avoiding unnecessary deaths, Ned."

"Apart from Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys," Ned said.

"I'm afraid this is unavoidable, Stark. You know that as well as I do. So don't pretend to be so naive. If that's not enough, I have another offer for you. But rest assured, it was Lord Arryn who talked me into this. I have two sons who will be the most desirable matches of the realm after I will have taken the throne. Your first daughter will marry my second son, Steffon. Orys is already betrothed to Margaery Tyrell, because Mace will give me twenty thousand swords, should I need them."

"Pardon?"

"I know," Jon said. "The boys are a bit young, but then your daughter will wait a few more years for her wedding night. In exchange, she'll be married to the new crown prince's brother."

Ned couldn't even think about that proposal. Since their ludicrous reasoning to completely overthrow the ruling dynasty in order to put Stannis on the throne, supposedly for the good of the realm, hadn't convinced him, they now tried to bait him with a betrothal. Ned had already seen Stannis' sons, and it almost seemed wrong to even compare them to Prince Aegon. For the time of a heartbeat, he almost had to smirk when he thought of what Sansa might answer if someone were honestly suggesting she forget about Prince Aegon because she could marry Steffon Baratheon. Then his thoughts returned to the here and now, however.

"How long have you been planning this?"

"Long enough," Stannis said.

"We've been watching Rhaegar for some time already, Ned. Our original plan," Jon began explaining, "was to convince the King to make concessions, to limit his power willingly so there could never be another Mad King. But as our plans progressed, it became more and more clear that limiting his power was simply not going to be enough."

"Convincing the king to make concessions? If what you plan is not treason, why did you think it would take an army to do it?"

"Because I have found that friendly words and an army behind you can get you further than friendly words alone," Lord Stannis growled.

"Jon, please don't do this," Ned pleaded. “For all the love you have left for me, I beg you to stop this madness before it is too late. The gathering of the troops alone is already an act of treason for which the king will demand your heads. Please do not go any further."

"What choice do we have, Ned? We've gone too far already, there's no going back."

"Then send out ravens to settle your affairs, board the next ship to Essos and never return. You and your families will be safe there, old friend. I know it's not much, but it's the best you can hope for now."

"So you will not support us?" Jon Arryn asked and Ned could see in his eyes how painful it was for him to already know the answer.

"I want no part of this, Jon. I'm sorry, but I will not risk my family's lives because the two of you are unhappy with your sworn king."

Ned could see that Lord Stannis wanted to protest again, but a sad glance from Jon was enough to dissuade him. Ned then took the torch from Jon's hand and left the room without a word or another look at his old friend. He was already in the corridor in front of the small chamber when he heard Jon say that they would leave the city today to prepare for the attack and that they were sorry not to have him on their side. Should he change his mind, he would still always be welcome to do so.

"Should you call the banners for the Targaryens, Stark, I won't be as merciful to your family after my victory as Rhaegar apparently was in a weak moment back in the day," he heard Lord Stannis shout before he was too far away to understand anything else.

He wandered through the darkness and could only now really understand what an odyssey Arya must have gone through down here all alone. He tried to find his way back, but got lost several times, ended up in dead ends or came out where he had been before already, which he only realized thanks to his own footprints on the dirty ground in some of the corridors. It took him almost an hour to find the round hall with the iron dragon's head and the great Targaryen emblem on the floor again. From there he had at least a rough idea where to go.

All the time he tried to understand what had just happened. There would be war. Again, parts of the realm, including his foster father Jon Arryn, would take up arms to overthrow a king. But this time it was indeed nothing more than bare treason. Sure, he had witnessed Rhaegar, who had seemed confused indeed, trapped in reveries and prophecies and the fear of betrayal around every corner. It scared him to think what Rhaegar might be capable of if his condition worsened even further. But if the old and the new gods were good, Prince Aegon and Prince Daeron would soon return from their mission. They would, unlike Rhaegar back then with Aerys, certainly not close their eyes for so long to what kind of a man was sitting on the throne.

He was sure that if things got serious, they would take action against Rhaegar themselves and dethrone him to save the realm from worse. Aegon would become king and Ned felt deep inside that he would gladly bend his knee to this young man who would then be his new king.

But perhaps it was already too late for that. Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon, along with who knew how many allied lords and knights, had already positioned themselves to wage war. Rather than simply removing Rhaegar from the throne, they had planned to attack and remove the entire House Targaryen. Ned shuddered at the thought of how his old foster father, one of the kindest and most benevolent men he had ever known, had come so far in his conviction that he could justify not only obvious treason but even the murder of innocents.

Finally he found the way out of the catacombs. The day had already progressed further than he had hoped. He would have to meet with Howland, Rodrik and Vayon to finish the last preparations for their departure soon. But in this moment, no matter how much time was pressing, he could not yet bring himself to go to them. He still needed some time for himself, he decided. So he walked through the inner courtyard, climbed the steep stairs in one of the mighty round towers and walked along the outer wall of the Red Keep, looking down on the city that was still burning hot even in the weaker evening sun.

He looked down at the city, at the tiny people going about their daily work, barely visible in the great distance, and for his eyes hardly more than small dots that squeezed through the maze of streets. Memories of his youth returned to him, of how he had stood on his balcony in the Eyrie and savored the majestic view down into the beautiful Vale of Arryn. How overwhelmed he had been by the sight. He remembered that he had been convinced then that this must be what it felt like to be a bird flying above the clouds not caring about the fates and concerns of humans. A majestic falcon or a mighty eagle. Or a dragon.

He thought back to Jon Arryn, the man he had once been, kind and gentle, and who had given him the sense of honor and responsibility that he now lived his life by. Very soon his foster father would finally become a traitor, Ned knew. He loved the man as deeply as if he were his real father. And yet he hoped their plan would fail. Such betrayal, committed for whatever motive, could never be the foundation of a new kingdom. At least not a better one. And the fate that would await Aegon, Daeron, and Rhaenys should Lord Stannis ever actually sit on the throne was the ultimate proof that such a kingdom, this new order as he had called it, was not something Ned wanted to be a part of. He sent a quick prayer to his nameless gods that it would not come to this. Perhaps they would try and fail, but if the king would not show an almost inhuman amount of mercy – which he strongly doubted after their last encounter – then Jon Arryn was already a dead man walking. Ned fervently hoped that they would follow his advice and leave Westeros. It would not save their honor and their families' names, but it would save their lives.

It saddened Ned terribly, but there was nothing more he could do for Jon. Only Jon himself could still save his life. With Rhaegar's children, however, Ned could still do something, had to do something. His honor demanded of him not to look away when such a fate threatened the princes and the princess.

He wondered how he could possibly get a message to Prince Daeron. He could not stay in the city any longer if he did not want to endanger the lives of his daughters. And who knew how long it would take before the princes would return from their mission. If at all. He did not want to think about this possibility though and so banished the thought from his mind. Perhaps, he thought, it would be easier to get a message to Prince Aegon. A connection between Prince Daeron and him, his uncle, would be quickly discovered by whoever might be suspicious, but there was no blood bond between him and Prince Aegon. It might be safer to leave a message for Prince Aegon that they would all be welcome and safe in the North should they need to leave the capital. But how could he possibly deliver such a message? He could hardly just leave a note in the Prince's bedchamber for the next servant to find. And he also did not know enough people in the city to know who he could trust. A guard, maybe? He would have to bribe on of the guards, but whoever let himself be paid by one side would surely let the other side do the same. Or maybe a knight of the Kingsguard. But which one? Prince Lewyn would have been an obvious choice, but he wasn't in the city either, and of the others he couldn't tell how devoted they really were to Rhaegar, so whether they would deliver the message or run straight to the King with it once Ned was out of earshot.

Then it hit him like a slap in the face and he scolded himself for his stupidity for a moment. Rhaella and Princess Rhaenys! Both would certainly help him. Both knew without a doubt about the condition of Rhaegar and both would surely support him in this. He was sure that he could trust the Queen Mother, with whom he had been friends for so long already, and the Princess, who had become such a good friend of Sansa in no time.

The thought that he finally found a solution, and such an easy and obvious one at that, immediately filled him with new energy. He began his descent, down the equally steep stairs in the nearest round tower, to quickly meet up with Howland, Rodrik and Vayon. They only had a few small things to discuss and then he would seek out Rhaella or Princess Rhaenys as quickly as possible. One of them he would surely be able to find easily, either in the Queen Mother's chambers or with Sansa.

He walked with quick steps through the outer courtyard towards the stables where he had agreed to meet with his three loyal men. Already from a distance he saw Rodrik and Vayon standing there. Howland was nowhere to be seen yet. At this time of day nobody would disturb them at the stables, so that they could talk without interruption for a while at least. Only when the guards changed, there would be Gold Cloaks again to saddle up their horses and bring tired horses back to the stables.

"My lord," they both greeted him with a slight bow.

"Vayon, Rodrik, it's good to see you. Has everything been prepared so far?"

"Yes, my lord," said Vayon. "The supplies for the first part of the journey are prepared. The wagons have been packed, hidden in one of the back corners of the stables. Behind the royal carriage. No one will stumble over them there by accident. Your men know the situation and are ready to leave. They'll gather near the main gate just before sunrise. The carriage for your daughters and Jeyne though will only be able to meet us halfway out of the city. So the young ladies will have to ride for a short while on their own, my lord. There was no other way."

"That's all right. Our plan will certainly not fail because of that," Ned said with a smile.

Everything was prepared indeed. In a few hours they would leave King's Landing and soon they would be back home, safe and sound. Ned looked around searching for Howland. There were some minor questions about their passage between Maidenpool and Gulltown that they still needed to discuss. Apparently the captains of the ships were charging downright ridiculous prices for a passage at the moment and Howland had been reluctant to agree to any payment of that amount without having discussed it with Ned beforehand. Ned was happy to see how dutiful Howland was, but right now he would have given all the gold and silver of his family to be able to return safely to Winterfell with his daughters and his men.

Then he saw Howland in the distance coming out of the door of a small tower nearby. Howland saw them standing by the stables and went straight towards them. But before he could get any closer, they were suddenly surrounded by Gold Cloaks. Two dozen men had appeared out of nowhere and had surrounded Ned, Rodrik and Vayon. Half of the men drawn their swords while the other half was aiming at them with loaded crossbows. Rodrik wanted to draw his sword as well but Ned held him back with a quick gesture. They could not hope to win such a fight by force of arms. Quickly he gave Howland a signal with his eyes to leave as inconspicuously as possible. Immediately his old friend retreated and after a heartbeat he had already disappeared in the shadow behind the next corner.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ned then asked in a loud voice.

"You're under arrest," said one of the soldiers. Ned could not make out which one it was.

"What is the charge?"

"Treason," he heard Jon Connington say even before seeing him. Then he stepped out from behind one of the Gold Cloaks and scowled darkly at Ned.

"This is absurd!" he protested. But it only seemed to anger Lord Connington even more.

"Don't try to fuck with me, Stark. The king and I are both very aware of your betrayal."

"And what betrayal would that be?"

Like a charger given the spurs, Lord Connington shot forward, almost to arm's length, and Ned was already expecting the man to draw his sword against him. But instead he kept his distance and looked at him so menacingly that Ned was sure to see the lust for blood in his eyes.

"Your foul scheme to get your daughter into the crown prince's bed for once. Don't even try to deny it. The entire court has already seen it. Then there is your conspiratorial meeting with the traitors Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn only a few hours ago, and then your preparations to secretly leave the city, no doubt to join them somewhere or perhaps even to call the banners against your rightful king yourself. You are a traitor, Stark, and this time the King will not be so merciful with you. I will see to that personally."

Then Lord Connington gave a short signal to the soldiers and immediately some of the Gold Cloaks came up to them and took off their sword belts. The very next moment, Ned felt his arms being twisted on his back and heavy irons closing around his wrists. Rodrik briefly tried to resist but was sent to the ground with a strong blow against the head with a sword pommel.

"Take the traitor to the Black Cells," he heard Lord Connington say. "And kill the others."

Notes:

So, that was it. As said, it was the longst chapter so far because as you could see, there were quite some things to tell. As always, please feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments. I love to hear what you think, what you liked or didn't like.

See you next time, hopefully ;-)

Chapter 20: Daeron 5

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. So we will see how our small band of "adventurers" are doing on their search for the Smiling Knight in the Kingswood. Their trip doesn't exactly go as planned and they have some small encounters with some bandits. Hope you have fun reading.

The ride to the Kingswood had taken only little more than a day. He could still remember that when he had still been a child, the Kingswood had begun merely two hours on horseback south of King's Landing. But in the last twelve or fifteen years, the King had had so much of the northern part of the forest cut down for the various new constructions in the capital – particularly the Valyrian quarter –, for the expansion of the royal fleet, and for the trade with Essos, that one now had to be on the road for an entire day, to not only ride between scattered trees here and there, but to really be in the thicket of the forest. Daeron had been happy to finally escape the relentlessly burning sun when the trees on either side of the Kingsroad had grown more in number and density, and had finally covered it completely like a roof of dry brown and brave remnants of green when they had really entered the Kingswood. He had not been here since he had been hunting with his father the first and last time at the age of twelve. Daeron had not missed it though. After that he had been hunting here a few more times with Aegon and a small escort and it had given him greater pleasure. Still... if he had to choose, he would always favor the dark, cool forests of the North over the Kingswood. He had imagined what it would be like to go hunting here with his cousin Robb and hoped that one day they could do so together. Just Robb, Aegon, and him spending a few days in the wild.

As beautiful as these daydreams had been, they had distracted him too much. So he had pushed them aside, hoping to return to them one day and had started to ponder more about their task. These had been less cheerful thoughts. The Kingswood was huge, nearly three hundred miles in diameter, and Daeron had not had the slightest idea how they were supposed to find this Smiling Knight in this vast area.

"I'm afraid that will be the least of our problems. The Smiling Knight will most certainly find us," Oberyn had replied when he had asked him about it. "I'd be surprised if he didn't already know we were here."

The first few days they had ridden along the Kingsroad, they had paid little attention to the forest to their right and left. They had agreed that the most likely hiding place for the Smiling Knight would be further south in the heart of the dense forest. Here and there they had turned into the smaller side roads, not to offer a too easy target by riding all the time on the wide, well observable Kingsroad. In the unlikely event that the Smiling Knight did indeed not yet know of their presence, they might be able to gain a small advantage this way. They had passed a few small farmsteads and had crossed some miserable remains of tiny creeks, side arms of the Wendwater. Most of these creeks had completely been dried up, however. Only very rarely did they find rivulets that still carried enough water so that they could refill their water hoses and did not use up too much of their supplies. Often enough, however, these rivulets were muddy and stank brackishly so that they did not dare to drink the water.

The peasants had all claimed to know nothing about the Smiling Knight, and since they all appeared not to have been raided, but also looked so poor and starved that they could hardly be in cahoots with him, they decided to believe them.

The nights in Kingswood were surprisingly cool, almost cold. At first the nightly cold under the dense canopy of leaves, which never allowed the forest ground to get really warm, had been refreshing for them all. But little by little this cold had crawled into their bones. They had decided early on not to light a fire at night, however. On the one hand, they didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves, as they couldn't know who might be nearby, and on the other hand, the forest around them was so dry that one false spark could be enough to turn everything into a flaming inferno.

"If we just burn the Kingswood completely to the ground, we will no doubt get rid of the Smiling Knight," Oberyn had tried to joke.

So they sweated during the day when they sat on their horses or led them by the reins and froze at night when they lay close together without a warming fire and tried to cover themselves with the sparse clothing they had brought with them.

The more days passed, the more unsettled they became. The conversations, at the beginning still frequent and cheerful, became fewer and darker, until at some point they hardly spoke at all, but followed the roads and ways wordlessly through the ever denser forest. The prospect of soon having to face this Smiling Knight and his gang of who knows how many raiders, without really having any idea how they were going to win this fight, undoubtedly depressed the mood. More than once, however, it was the feeling of being watched that made them uneasy. Daeron had said nothing at first, dismissing it as sheer nervousness, but after four days in the forest without having found a single clue where to go or what to do, Aegon one night had dared to speak it out first.

"We're being followed," he had said softly when they had laid down to sleep in a small hollow beside the road, hidden from view by a row of old beech trees, with only Ser Barristan and Ser Bonifer still on their feet as guards nearby. No one had replied, but not having objected had already been enough of an answer. They all knew it. They all sensed it, the feeling of having a stranger's eyes in their backs.

On their sixth day they finally found something. Ser Raymun had ridden ahead to scout out the area ahead of them and had returned excitedly shortly afterwards, having found a camp in the forest. They dismounted from their horses, tied them to some trees a little off the road and followed Ser Raymun as quietly as possible.

"How many are there?" Lewyn asked.

"I don't know, I haven't seen anyone," Ser Raymun whispered back.

"Then how do you know there is a camp?"

"I stepped into the latrine," he returned somewhat hesitantly and in a contrite voice. "Fortunately, it wasn't... freshly filled. But I could also see the tents through the leaves. There it is," he said quietly and nodded ahead.

They spread out to both sides and crept forward until they crouched behind the last bushes and trees surrounding the camp, their swords drawn. For a while they crouched there, looking at each other and listening to the silence of the forest. Nothing could be heard, except the singing of a few birds nearby. No voices or snoring, no cracking of a fire or simmering of a soup. Ser Barristan had taken the middle position and was the first to slowly rise from his squat. He had taken the lead and gave them a sign with his hand. Immediately they jumped forward, pushed through the bushes and raised their weapons, ready to face their enemies.

They stopped right away when they had broken through the last green and were standing in the middle of the deserted camp.

"Well done," Oberyn said mockingly. "We have conquered a completely empty clearing."

"It is better to be too careful a hundred times than to be too careless only once," Ser Bonifer replied.

They looked around a bit, but apart from some dirty, ragged clothes, the tattered remains of simple tents, a few cold fireplaces and two more latrines they found absolutely nothing.

"It looks like the camp has been abandoned for several days already," said Ser Barristan. "At least now we know someone has been here."

"And what good does that do us?" Oberyn asked visibly annoyed.

"That way we know we are on the right track. Such a camp does not belong to farmers or foresters. You see that? There are shavings here. Fine shavings."

"Someone was making arrows," Daeron said.

"Exactly."

"Hunters maybe?" Ser Raymun threw in.

"Not in a group this large. Their stench would scare off any prey before they could get within a mile of it. Besides, in these woods, only the King may hunt big game."

"Then perhaps poachers," Ser Bonifer gave to consider. "Should we come across them, we might as well bring them the justice of the King."

"Do you really think poachers are our problem right now?" Lewyn asked.

"Maybe not, but we don't know if they are poachers. It's just a possibility."

"Even if they are," said Oberyn, who obviously had no air left over this conversation. "Why should we waste our time? People are starving. What does it matter if someone hunts himself a deer or a boar? Let them go into sept afterwards and confess their sin to the gods. Then they can be forgiven and we don't have to deal with it."

"Sins can be forgiven, Prince Oberyn," Ser Bonifer said, "but crimes must be punished. Either they are raiders, in which case they may be the very people we're looking for. Or they are poachers, and then it is our duty as knights to bring them the justice of the King."

"We should definitely continue to look around. We may find clues nearby as to whose camp this was and where they went," said Ser Barristan. Then he began to divide the group. He himself would go with Aegon and Lewyn, Daeron would go with Ser Raymun, Oberyn and Ser Bonifer. So they scattered and began to search the area around the camp. They would meet back here in an hour. Should they come across anything, they would return immediately, wait for the other group and report.

Oberyn took the lead of their group and led them east, further away from the road. Before he disappeared into the thicket, Daeron glanced at Aegon, who was about to fight his way through the green on the opposite side of the camp. He had his typical slight smile back on his face as he nodded to him. Daeron nodded back, though without being able to smile. All of this was a folly and his only hope was, that they would make it back alive to King's Landing in a few days, regardless of whether or not they had found the Smiling Knight by then. He could not care less as long as their group would make it home unharmed.

They trudged through the dense underbrush for almost half an hour. Here and there they found broken branches, traces that someone or something had come along here. Once they found footprints that had been pressed into the soft ground but considering how long it hadn't rained and how hard the ground was even under the dense canopy of leaves, the footprints must have been at least a few weeks old.

The most exciting thing they found were fresh tracks of deer, which couldn't have been far away. The tracks, as Ser Raymun had called them, turned out to be a very fresh pile of deer shit. Ser Raymun suggested to find and kill the deer so that they would have something splendid to eat tonight, but Ser Bonifer quickly reminded them that they still could not light a fire because the forest was too dry and it was therefore too dangerous, which immediately put an end to their first enthusiasm.

They went a little further until they reached a small pond. The water was brownish and stank terribly, and from the banks you could see how little of this actually quite large lake was left. It was undoubtedly overcrowded with dead fish and frogs and toads, which were rotting away under the water surface and made the water undrinkable. They looked around the banks for a while, hoping to find traces that someone had come along or maybe tried to fish here, but still found nothing useful. Daeron crouched down on the shore for a while and looked out at the small lake. Usually it had to be beautiful and peaceful here, but at the moment everything seemed bleak and depraved. Once again, an inner restlessness came over him when he couldn't escape the feeling of being watched. The eyes of a stranger bored themselves into his back. He felt it as clearly as he felt the sun in his face. Cautiously he looked around, inspecting as inconspicuously as possible all the trees and bushes nearby, but didn't spot anything suspicious. Oberyn had also completed his search around the lake but had not found anything useful as well. So they decided to go back and meet up with the others and Daeron was thankful to leave this place behind. This place and these hidden stares.

They had almost reached the abandoned camp again when Oberyn suddenly stopped them.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. Everyone remained silent and listened into the forest, but at first nothing could be heard. Then Daeron heard something and immediately a cold shiver ran down his spine when he recognized the sound of steel on steel.

"A sword fight!" shouted Daeron. "The others are under attack!"

Immediately they ran off, fought their way through branches and twigs. Daeron felt nettles and thorns wrap themselves around his legs more than once, as if the forest itself wanted to stop him from coming to the aid of his brother. His clothes tore as he stormed forward without paying attention to the thorns. Oberyn was running as fast as Daeron, while Ser Raymun and Ser Bonifer fell further behind with every step.

The sounds came closer. Daeron still heard the clash of steel on steel and the screaming and gasping of men fighting for their lives. They rushed through the abandoned camp and without a second thought they threw themselves through the bushes on the opposite side in the direction from which the sounds of the fighting could be heard. They ran on and on. He had lost sight of Ser Raymund and Ser Bonifer, so far they had already fallen back. But Oberyn was still beside him, storming through the wood at Daeron's side as fast as he could. There could only be a few more steps until they were with them, when he was horrified to realize that the sounds had stopped. With all his strength he stormed through the last bush, the sword in his right hand ready to strike down anyone who stood against him. With Oberyn at his side, they jumped around the last trees to a small clearing not far from the road.

Before them stood Aegon, Lewyn and Ser Barristan, all three with bloody swords in their hands. They were breathing heavily but seemed unharmed. At their feet lay five dead men in battered rags, some with swords or spears still in their hands. Two of their heads had been cut off cleanly, one had a slit throat, two had pierced chests and bellies. Daeron dropped his sword, went over to Aegon and embraced him as tightly as if he wanted to crush him.

"What happened? Are you unharmed?" Oberyn asked nervously.

"Yes, we are fine," said Ser Barristan. "We were on our way back to the camp when we were attacked. One got away, the others we were able to fend off."

"As can be seen," said Oberyn, who now approached Aegon with a proud grin. "How did my nephew perform?"

"He fought excellently, Prince Oberyn. Truly excellently."

"Thank you, Ser Barristan. A great compliment from your mouth," Aegon said, bowing his head towards the old knight, and Daeron could tell how honestly proud this made him. Now Ser Raymund and Ser Bonifer broke through the underbrush with frightened faces as well and swords in hand. Ser Barristan calmed them down and told them again in one short sentence what had happened.

"If one has escaped, more of them may come here soon," said Ser Bonifer. "So we'd better get moving, lest we be taken by surprise."

"The last one won't get far," Aegon said. "I managed to slit his thigh before the other one attacked me. There's the blood trail."

"That's a lot of blood," Daeron said.

"Yeah, he's probably dead already."

"If not, we could question him," Lewyn suggested.

They followed the trail of blood across the nearby road and back into the forest. The last attacker had indeed not gotten very far. They found him a quarter mile off the road, leaning against a tree, dead and pale as milk. They searched his body but found only an old blunt knife and two half copper pennies. So they decided to go back to the horses and continue on their way.

"Fucking shit!" cried Oberyn as they reached the group of trees where their horses should have been waiting for them. "The horses are gone. So they were not alone. Bastards!"

To their shock, all their horses had been stolen and their supplies had been completely plundered. All the water and food were gone, except for a small, hidden remnant of dried meat in one of Lewyn's saddlebags, lying on the ground carelessly and otherwise empty. This was so few however, that it would hardly be enough for half a meal for each of them. Even the ravens, which they had taken with them to report back to King's Landing, had been stolen together with the horses and their supplies.

"They even took the ravens with them. What do they want with ravens? Send a message to the king?"

"The ravens will probably end up in a stewpot tonight," Ser Raymun said.

"What do we do now?" asked Ser Bonifer.

"We go on," Aegon said with determination in his voice. "I don't like it either, but we can hardly go back to King's Landing, step in front of my father and tell him that unfortunately we had to abort the mission because some muggers tricked us."

"Well, at least there's a few less of these muggers now. They paid a high price for the horses, some water and a raven stew," Ser Raymun said.

So they spread the sparse remains of their belongings and went on their way. They set off south, where they would meet the wider Kingsroad again after half a day. After a few hours walk they took a short break. Daeron sat down beside his brother and leaned against a tree.

"Which one was yours?" he asked. Aegon looked at him, not knowing what he meant at first. After a short moment he understood.

"One of those without a head. The first one was just limping away with his bleeding leg when he came rushing towards me, screaming like a madman. I parried his first blow, he parried my first, I parried his second. I threw him off balance with a little nudge then. Didn't think about it at all, just reacted, swung my sword and hit him as hard as I could."

"How does it feel?"

"I don't know," he said after a while. "I feel exactly the same as before and yet... different. Somehow. I can't describe it. Whenever I close my eyes, I see his head flying to the side when I hit him with the sword. The expression on his face the very moment he died."

"Frightened?"

"No, not at all. I don't think he noticed it really. It happened so fast that he didn't even realize he'd just lost his head. A rather merciful death, when you think about it."

They remained silent for a while, looking up at the dense canopy of leaves and enjoying the coolness until Ser Barristan drove them on to continue their way shortly afterwards. About an hour later they were back on the Kingsroad and continued their way west. Daeron had no idea how deep they were in the Kingswood, as they had taken countless side roads and small footpaths over the past days. Ser Barristan seemed to know pretty well where they were and where they had to go, however. They continued their way until shortly before sunset and then looked for a camp for the night. Again it was cold at night and Daeron did not sleep well, resting his head on a gnarled root of a birch tree. He looked over to his brother who lay there with open eyes and stared up into the night sky through one of the gaps between the leaves. At some point he must have fallen asleep, however, for the next morning he was awakened by Aegon with a light kick to his side.

They got ready and after a very sparse breakfast of not quite fresh-smelling water and half a handful of dried meat and some berries, they set off again. During the morning they came past other small farmsteads a little off the roads, but the peasants also claimed to know nothing about this Smiling Knight. They told stories of other gangs of bandits hiding regularly in these woods but were quick to assure how grateful they were that Lords Fell of Felwood and Errol of Haystack Hall regularly took care of these outlaws. Daeron had his doubts that the Lords Fell and Errol were indeed taking care of these bandits so wonderfully. The almost effusive expressions of gratitude more often than not sounded as if the peasants were just saying what they thought they had to say to avoid problems.

Noon had long past already when Aegon nodded at him and pointed upwards. Only now did Daeron turn his gaze to the sky as well and saw to his relief that the sky above the leaves no longer was blue but dark gray. Finally, there were clouds in the sky again. So the next rain could not be far away anymore. Daeron could not remember ever having been so happy about bad weather in his life.

They walked further for another hour when Daeron thought he had heard thunder in the distance. So the rain really came. Finally. It took another two hours before it actually began to rain and when it finally did, Daeron felt as if that the world was about to end. The masses of water that were fighting their way through the dense canopy of leaves were so immense that it took only a few heartbeats until they were all soaked to the bone. The road turned into a slippery trail of mud and dirt and they only made slow progress as they could barely see far enough through the curtain of water to keep the man in front of them in sight.

Another hour had passed when Ser Barristan, who was going in front, led them away from the Kingsroad, along a narrow path into the forest. He shouted something, but Daeron could not understand what he was saying because of the pounding of the heavy rain all around them. The rain and the grey and black clouds had meanwhile darkened the sky so much that it was almost as dim as in deepest night. They walked along the path through thick mud and deep puddles and finally reached a small building. It was only on second glance, after Daeron had rubbed water from his eyes again, that he realized that the small house was a rather shabby sept. There must have been a sign along the road to guide travelers here, which Ser Barristan had fortunately seen. They went up to the entrance of the sept. The door was open and so they entered to flee the heavy rain.

The room was small and dark and smelled dusty. Plain statues of the Seven, poorly carved from a light stone, stood around them and had there not been some candles burning in front of each one, Daeron would have thought that the sept had been abandoned long ago already. They went further inside and the water of their clothes dripped in streams on the old, creaking wooden floor. When they were almost in the middle of the room, a small door opened at the back of the sept, which they had not noticed before, and a small man stepped out, bent by age and so thin that he looked like he was about to starve. In the faint light of the candles it could be seen that he was wearing what had once been a white robe, but which had now turned reddish brown from dirt and sweat. Around his body he wore seven belts of thin leather and cloth in different colors and around his neck hung a small pendant with a tiny crystal.

"Welcome, travelers," he said in a surprisingly loud and clear voice.

"Thank you," said Aegon, who had apparently decided to do the talking for them. "We mean you no harm. We only seek shelter from the rain, septon..."

"Septon Cayle. If you seek shelter, you have come to the right place, young man. Come forward then," the septon said with a smile that revealed the absence of half his teeth. But instead Lewyn stepped forward first and stood before the septon.

"You are old, so His Grace will no doubt forgive you, but you should speak with more respect to the Crown Prince."

The smile vanished for a moment from the old man's features, made room for surprise and uncertainty, his gaze wandering back and forth between Lewyn and Aegon. Then he seemed to grasp the situation and fell to his knees before Aegon.

"Please forgive me, Your Grace. I'm an old man and my eyes have grown dim."

Aegon now approached him.

"It is all right, Septon Cayle. No need to apologize," his brother said with his warm, open smile while helping the old man back on his feet. Aegon introduced them one by one and again the septon almost seemed to be unable to believe his eyes and ears. In his little sept stood both royal princes, two legendary knights of the Kingsguard, a most infamous Prince of Dorne, the heir to the powerful House Darry... and Ser Bonifer Hasty, for whom he had no more than a friendly nod, however. "We do not wish to trouble you, septon, but would it be too much to ask you for food and fresh water? Our supplies were taken from us in an ambush."

"I have little, Your Grace, but I'm happy to share what I can offer."

The old septon disappeared with surprisingly quick steps through the small door then. Daeron heard him digging in cupboards, chests and shelves and after a while he returned with a basket of dried fish, some turnips, onions, a handful of herbs and a small, half-full wineskin. He led them through another door into another adjoining room, where there was a small stove in the corner. The fire was quickly lit and after they had all taken off their wet clothes and wrapped themselves in dry, albeit somewhat musty blankets, which Septon Cayle had handed them, a small kettle with a thick stew was soon simmering over the weak fire.

The stew was terrible and Daeron didn't know if that was because of the old fish, the old turnips or the suspicious herbs that the septon had put in it, but it filled their bellies nevertheless and everyone was grateful for his generosity. Septon Cayle even brought them one more wineskin, fresh water and more food for the next days. It was little and most of it smelled half rotten, but it was better than nothing. Aegon promised to see that he and his little sept would be better cared for once he was back at King's Landing, but the old man declined with thanks. This was a sept for travelers, he explained, it lived on donations and his own hard work and his offerings were open to anyone who asked for them.

The rain hardly lessened throughout the day, so they decided to spend the night here, let their clothes dry properly and then continue their journey the next morning. In the evening they wanted to talk to the septon about the Smiling Knight as well, hoping to learn something helpful, but to their surprise, the old man never seemed to have heard of the bandit.

"The Smiling Knight was sent to the Seven by Ser Arthur Dayne to answer for his crimes long ago, was he not?"

"Yes, that's right," said Ser Barristan. "But apparently there is another bandit who calls himself that very same name. We are here to bring him the justice of the King."

"Hmm, I haven't heard anything about that man. Though lately not many travelers have entered my sept to bring me news anyway."

"One would think that word would get around if such a bandit was running loose here, slaughtering hundreds of soldiers," Daeron whispered to his brother, who nodded in agreement but otherwise keeping his eyes fixed on his stew. Ser Bonifer spent half the evening talking lively to Septon Cayle, even praying with him, but everyone else decided it was better to go to sleep early. They slept on the hard benches in the prayer room and even though his back hurt terribly when he woke up the next morning, Daeron was more refreshed than he had been in almost a week. It was still raining as they continued their way, but not as much as the day before.

They left the sept and made their way along the Kingsroad again. They remained silent for a long time, until at some point Lewyn began to speak.

"How can this actually be? No matter who we talk to, nobody seems to have heard of this Smiling Knight."

"Something strange is going on here," said Oberyn. "This whole story doesn't make sense. By now so many supplies have supposedly been stolen that they could have fed five cities the size of that stinking shit pile called King's Landing. Even if this Smiling Knight has gathered a hundred, two hundred or even a thousand men around him, they'd all be so fucking full and fat by now that they could hardly stand on two legs."

"What are you saying?" Ser Bonifer asked.

"That something smells very foul here. The Reach was hit by the drought just like all the other regions of the realm, and yet the Reach is not only the only region from which we've had no reports of famine, but instead Lord Tyrell has again and again been able to send more and more supplies to the capital, but miraculously not one of them ever arrived."

"So you are saying that… these supplies never existed in the first place?" Ser Barristan asked.

"Perhaps."

"That's a serious accusation, Prince Oberyn. This would be treason."

"Uncle Oberyn is right. Something is off about all this," he now heard Aegon say. "Don't you also find it strange that Lord Tyrell has never tried to send these alleged supplies the longer but safer route further north along the Mander? His soldiers always took the path through the Kingswood, almost as if he was counting on them being ambushed. Whatever is going on, it's-"

"Quiet," Ser Bonifer suddenly said. "There, between the trees!"

All looked ahead and indeed, two men could be seen who immediately pulled back behind the tree and disappeared into the thicket. Calls were suddenly heard nearby, the sound of men getting ready to fight, the breaking of branches and twigs as they seemed to come towards them. All seven of them drew their swords, getting ready to defend themselves. From the bushes in front of them and between the trees on their sides, men jumped out. Daeron had no time to count how many there were when the first one jumped on him and tried to hit his head with a club.

Daeron dodged from the first blow, parried the second blow from above, and kicked with full force against the man's stomach, who was writhing in pain and remained on the ground. Another came from the side, armed with a rusty sword. He wore light armor of steamed leather but had the crooked back and the sloping shoulders of a peasant. The man swung out as if he wanted to cut down a tree, Daeron reached forward and plunged his sword between his ribs. Immediately the man collapsed and Daeron tore the bloody sword from the dead body. A quick glance around revealed to him that everyone in their group was fighting at least one opponent, Ser Barristan and Prince Oberyn even two at the same time. Aegon had severed the sword arm from his first opponent and was now in a frantic back-and-forth with a giant guy attacking him with a morning star.

The first guy had picked himself up and jumped at Daeron again, now with his dead companion's sword in his hand. Again Daeron parried the blow, and with a quick volte, went over to the counterattack. He struck, disarmed his opponent and slit his neck with a quick cut. Before he could react, he heard another bandit storming towards him from the side with a loud cry, thrusting his spear forward. He would have pierced Daeron lengthwise, but at the last moment the sword of Ser Raymun hammered down from above. The tip of the spear pierced the ground in front of Daeron's feet. Ser Raymun kicked the attacker against his knee, causing him to lose his balance and dropping his spear. Ser Raymun pursued, piercing his chest with a powerful thrust with the tip of his sword and literally nailed the man to the ground. He turned back to Daeron, nodding with a smile. Daeron returned the nod and looked around quickly, expecting the next opponent. But no one approached him anymore. He looked around, counting the men standing in front of him, then the dead lying on the ground. All seven had survived the attack. Twelve dead lay at their feet. Aegon came up to him, hugged him tightly and brotherly. Only now did he begin to realize what had just happened here. They had been attacked and survived. He had killed a man. No, two men. Something was happening inside him. For a moment the world seemed to turn, his guts seemed to cramp. Aegon jumped back at the last moment when Daeron bent forward and vomited on his own boots.

Ser Barristan approached him immediately.

"Is everything all right, my prince?"

"He's fine," he heard Oberyn say, as he choked out the next gush of bile. "Just killed his first man."

More bile came up, gathering in a small puddle on the ground in front of him.

"Why don't you shout a little louder, Oberyn? There might still be one or two people in King's Landing who haven't heard you already," Daeron squeezed out between the last spasms.

"No big deal, little brother. That happens to many men on their first kill."

"To you too?" Daeron asked his brother.

"Of course not," he said in a tone as if he was shocked at the stupidity of the question. "I'm not a little girl. Now come. We'll find you some water so you can wash the testimony of your heroic deed off your boots."

The better part of an hour had passed when they returned to the place of the attack. Daeron's boots were clean again, even if his self-confidence was a little soiled. He had fought well, as the others – including his brother – had told him several times, but the crooked grin that Aegon still threw at him every now and then reminded him more than clearly that what Aegon would be talking about in King's Landing after their return were not the two outlaws he killed, but his boots.

Oberyn, Ser Raymun and Ser Bonifer had searched the bandits' nearby camp, while Ser Barristan and Lewyn had not taken their eyes off them for even a moment while Aegon had helped him clean his boots.

"What did you find?" Aegon asked.

"Well, what you'd expect to find in a bandit camp. Some petty coins, cheap weapons, dirty clothes. We found one of the horses they stole from us. Or rather what's left of it," said Oberyn.

"They ate it," Ser Bonifer added.

"But there was no sign of this Smiling Knight," Oberyn continued.

"So they were just some bandits?" Aegon asked.

"I don't think so," Oberyn said. "In the middle of the camp there was a slightly larger tent, probably from the giant you felled, dear nephew. Inside was a small chest and inside was a small bag and at the bottom of that bag was this."

Oberyn reached out his hand and held something out to them.

"A letter?" Ser Barristan asked.

"A transport list with the seal of Highgarden on it. A pretty old list though," Oberyn said.

"But none of these were the Smiling Knight," said Ser Barristan. "At least none of them looked like it. The Smiling Knight of old had painted a big grin on his helmet, and if this bandit calls himself that, he'll do something similar, won't he?"

"Certainly. But we are getting closer to him."

"So we now have a first, clear hint," said Aegon. "We are on the right track. Since the peasants and Septon Cayle, all northeast of here, have not heard of this Smiling Knight and his men until now, they are probably doing their mischief in the south and west of the Kingswood. So we're indeed getting closer. If we go further, we'll eventually run into him."

"Still, it's strange that no one wants to have heard of this Smiling Knight when the stories about him are even carried all the way to King's Landing," Daeron said.

"Maybe people are just too scared to talk about him."

"Even the septon?"

"He's just a man, old and alone in the forest," Aegon said, shrugging his shoulders.

"If the septon has in fact lied to us, we will talk to him about it after we have killed the Smiling Knight," Ser Barristan said. "But before we go any further, we must first go back to the sept."

"I thought you wanted to kill the Smiling Knight first before talking to the septon again?" Aegon asked. "So shouldn't we be going further rather than back?"

Ser Barristan looked around in the group but passing over Aegon and Daeron with his eyes. Everyone seemed to understand and answer his asking look with a silent nod. Aegon and Daeron were confused, but the others insisted on going back to the sept. Shortly after sunset they reached the small building, and the better part an hour later both brothers, dressed in nothing but white robes, were standing vigil before the altar of the Warrior, their swords laid down upon it and their armors in piles at the statue's base. They prayed in silence for almost two hours before Ser Bonifer picked them up and led them barefoot out of the sept and through the dark of the night to a nearby clearing bathed in pale moonlight. Septon Cayle and the rest of their group awaited them there. Both brothers knelt down, receiving their anointing with the seven holy oils from Septon Cayle.

Ser Barristan and Prince Lewyn stood in front of them, looked at them with serious faces and drew their swords. Ser Barristan placed his sword on Aegon's left shoulder. "Aegon of House Targaryen," he said, lifting his sword and placing it on Aegon's right shoulder. Prince Lewyn now placed his sword on Daeron's left shoulder. "Daeron of House Targaryen," he said, also lifted his sword and laid it on Daeron's right shoulder. Then both spoke in chorus.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave." The swords moved from their right shoulders to their left. "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just." Back to the right. "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent." The left. "In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. Do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your king, to fight bravely when needed and follow the laws of gods and men even if it costs your life?"

"I swear," both brothers said. Ser Barristan and Prince Lewyn put their swords back in their sheaths then.

"Arise as knights of the Seven Kingdoms."

Notes:

So, that was it. I hope you had fun reading it. As always, please feel free to let me know what you think, what you liked or didn't like. I always love to read your thoughts in the comments.

See you next time.

Chapter 21: Sansa 3

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. This one took me a little longer, mostly because my life has been pretty stressy lately. As a little compensation, with this you will get the longest chapter so far. It is mostly a combination of several chapters from AGoT and ACoK, adapted to my fic. You will probably quickly see which chapters those are ;-)

First, Sansa will speak to Lord Connington on behalf of her father in front of the court, then she will have an encounter with Viserys again and in the end, she will try to make a short trip to the Sept of Baelor with Rhaenys and Rhaella to pray.

Hope you all will have fun with this one.

Her father was no traitor. She was sure of that. It was simply impossible. Her father was a good man, an honorable man, a man who did his duty and was true to his King. Sure, he had rebelled in the past, but that had been long ago and had been for a reason. But not now. He was a good man. For whatever reason he had been imprisoned, it must have been a mistake, a misunderstanding of sorts. Everything would be alright again, she hoped, she prayed.

The last days, she had been confined to her rooms together with Jeyne Poole. At least she was not alone. Even within the thick walls of Maegor's Holdfast, with her door closed and barred, it was hard not to be terrified when the killing had begun. She had been thankful to have Jeyne with her. She had grown up to the sound of steel in the yard, and scarcely a day of her life had passed without hearing the clash of sword on sword, yet somehow knowing that the fighting was real made all the difference in the world. She heard it as she had never heard it before. But more terrifying than the sounds of swords clashing on swords had been the other sounds, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men.

Rhaenys had visited her several times every day after the fighting had been over, had brought food and wine and had done her best to calm them down. But even Rhaenys knew nothing about how all of this could so suddenly have happened and what exactly the accusations against her father were. She herself had been confined to her rooms during the fighting as well. The only thing she knew was that her lord father's retinue had been imprisoned or killed. Vayon Poole was, amongst most others, dead and Jenye had not stopped crying and weeping and sobbing ever since Rhaenys had told her the news.

Rhaenys had even slept in Sansa's chambers with them, in the same bed, cradled in each other’s arms like sisters to comfort them. The Queen Mother had not been allowed to visit her, she knew, but Rhaenys had let her know she was safe and well and that she wanted to see her again as soon as she was allowed to again.

Arya had not been seen anywhere, Rhaenys had told her. Just as Howland Reed and very few of the Stark's household guards. Apparently they had managed to flee the Red Keep, probably heading North to bring the news of what had happened to her brother Robb and her mother. The King and Lord Connington believed they were trying to meet with other traitors, but Sansa was certain they were heading to the North. Her brother and mother needed to know what had happened here. Sansa hoped and prayed that Howland had taken Arya with him, so that she would be save. Deep in her guts, however, she felt that Arya was still hiding in the Red Keep. She wished she had listened better when Arya had wanted to tell her about hidden cellars and secret passages.

The last time she had seen the Queen Mother, she had sung for her and Rhaella had told her that her singing voice was as sweet as honey and as soft as the singing of a bird. Maybe that was what she was. A little bird, nice to look at and sweet to listen to, but easy to keep in a cage. Arya was no bird though. She had the Wolf’s Blood, her father had always said, just like their aunt Lyanna. She was a wolf indeed and a wolf needed its freedom. Locked in a cage, Arya would die like a plant without water. Again she hoped that Arya was fine, that she had found a place to hide and did nothing stupid or dangerous that would get her locked up as well.

On the seventh day Rhaenys came to them early in the morning again, brought a sparse breakfast and ate with them. She had not slept with them the last night, hoping to be able to talk to the King late in the evening. There was bread, so hard that it was certainly already several days old, water and a little milk, hard cheese and dried fish, some sour berries and a sweet apple for each of them from one of Rhaella's gardens.

"Have you spoken to the King?" Sansa finally asked at the end of the meager meal. "May I speak with him? Oh please, I must speak to him. Whatever my father is accused of, he is not a traitor. Please, I must tell the King."

"No, sweetling. I haven't seen him. He has locked himself in his study and won't let anyone in, not even his daughter. Yesterday alone, I tried half a dozen times. Only Viserys, Lord Connington and the Red Witch are allowed to see him. You will not be allowed to see the King, Sansa."

She looked around looking for help, but Jeyne just stared down at her food, which she had hardly touched, her eyes fiery red and her face puffy from crying. She had hardly spoken for the entire week and apparently she did not want to do so now either.

"But what can we do? What can I do? There must be something!"

"There is something we can try," said Rhaenys. "But you'd better not get your hopes up too high."

"That doesn't matter. I must try. What is it?"

"If he is not with my father, Connington now rules the realm pretty much all by himself. Today he is holding court, for the first time since the fighting and your father's arrest. There you can come forward and speak on your father's behalf. Perhaps we can buy some time until Aegon and Daeron return."

"When will they return?"

"I don't know, dear. They've still not been heard from. That can be a good thing because they've succeeded and they're already on their way back. Or not and... I don't know."

"Then I would like to speak before the Lord Hand. Maybe I can convince him of my father's innocence."

"Sansa, please do not hope for too much. It doesn't matter what Connington thinks or what you convince him of. He is more loyal to my father than any hound could ever be to his master. He would never do or say or probably not even think anything that could somehow contradict my father's wishes or orders. And if my father ordered your father to be arrested, there is no way Connington will set him free."

"Still, I would like to speak to him. Maybe just to buy us some time," Sansa said in a pleading tone. Rhaenys just had to help her, had to make that possible. "Please, Rhaenys, you have to help me."

"Of course, Sansa. I'll see you're escorted to the Throne Room before Connington holds court today. But please be careful when you speak to him, Sansa. Don't ask for too much, be humble and gentle when you speak. Connington is a bitter man, short-tempered and angry, who knows words like mercy and kindness only from stories. Don't provoke him, don't make him angry. I have to keep you safe, sweet one. Aegon would never forgive me if anything happened to his precious."

The mention of her being Aegon's precious made her heart beat faster for a moment and she felt the warmth rising to her cheeks again. She was his precious. The thought of her Aegon gave her strength. She just needed to buy some time to delay whatever the King had planned for her father until Aegon returned. He wouldn't let anything happen to her father. Or to her. He would save her.

Shortly thereafter, Rhaenys left to make all the necessary arrangements so that Sansa would be allowed to leave her chambers and enter the Throne Room. She decided to get dressed to make a good impression before the Lord Hand. She had briefly considered whether she should wear one of Rhaenys' dresses to look more regal, but she remembered all too well the disparaging looks Lord Connington had given her when he had first seen her in one of Rhaenys' old dresses. To appear meek and mild, restrained and chaste, seemed the better choice for her. She chose a simple dress of dark grey wool, plainly cut but richly embroidered around the collar and sleeves. It was one of her old one. One of the dresses that, according to Rhaenys, made her look as if she wanted to become a septa one day. She didn't like her old dresses anymore really since she had become more and more comfortable with the new ones she had gotten from Rhaenys, but for this occasion, it was perfect. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the silver fastenings without the benefit of servants.

It took another three hours before there was finally a knock at the door. A group of Gold Cloaks stood outside to escort her. She had hoped that Jeyne would accompany her, but her friend had made no attempt to change her dress and go with her. And as red and swollen as she looked now, her hair a wild and unwashed mess, it was probably better that way. Sansa promised her to be back soon but received no answer. She followed the soldiers wordlessly through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, through the inner and outer courtyard to the massive hall that housed the Throne Room.

The Throne Room was full, but not nearly as full as she had seen it in the past. The balconies on both sides were empty and so was the space behind the last two rows of columns that held the enormous ceiling. In front of the Iron Throne and at the sides, lords and ladies, knights and courtiers had gathered and looked towards the still empty throne, a black beast of twisted iron which caused Sansa's stomach to tighten. Sansa slipped in among the spectators, murmuring greetings as she worked her way toward the front. She recognized many old and young men, ladies and daughters she had seen, talked to, spent time with… only none of them seemed to recognize her. Or if they did, they shied away as if she had the grey plague. Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when Alara, a young lady from the Westerlands who she had begun to befriend, was just about to greet her, a knight to her right whispered something in her ear and she turned away.

She looked for some friendly faces but found none at first. All those present seemed to either ignore her or avoid her gaze, and the few men and women who did look at her glanced at her frowningly. When one of the doors behind the Iron Throne was opened, Rhaella and Rhaenys finally entered the Throne Room, announced by the loud voice of the herald, and took their seats next to the foot of the iron monstrosity. They quickly found her in the crowd, smiled and nodded at her. Rhaenys had warned her that they would be there but would not be able to speak on her behalf. She feared that, given what she knew Lord Connington thought about her and her grandmother, any word from them would only make matters worse. They would be there and surely would not speak up against her of course, but they would also not dare to say a word on her behalf to avoid making things worse for her or her father. Still she was glad to know that they were close by, supporting her in thoughts and hearts.

Grandmaester Pycelle was seated alone at the council table that had been set up to the right of the throne, seemingly asleep, his hands clasped together atop his beard. She saw Lord Velaryon hurry into the hall and taking his seat at the council table next to the foot of the massive throne. A moment later Ser Gerold Hightower entered through the tall doors in the rear. The Sers Myles Mooton and Ser Richard Lonmouth, both former squires of the King, followed shortly afterwards. Butterflies fluttered nervously in Sansa's stomach. I shouldn't be afraid, she told herself. I have nothing to be afraid of, it will all come out well. She just wished she could have believed herself.

The herald's voice rang out. "All hail the Hand of the King, Lord Jon of House Connington."

Lord Connington entered the hall through its great oak-and-bronze doors, walked along the aisle with long strides, his serious gaze fixed on the throne. He climbed up the high and narrow steps, sat down on the throne and looked down in silence for a moment at the waiting people, as if he enjoyed making them wait, before he finally began to speak.

"It is the duty of the Hand of the King, to punish those who are disloyal and to reward those who are true, in the name of his Lord, the King. A treason has been uncovered, a plot to deceive the rightful King and overthrow him in order to put a vile usurper on the throne. Some of these traitors are already sitting in the dungeons thanks to the quick and wise actions of our King, others will have to answer for their crimes very soon. Grandmaester Pycelle, I command you to read the King's decrees."

Pycelle pushed himself to his feet, shaky and heavily breathing. He drew a parchment from one of his drooping sleeves, unrolled it, and began to read a long list of names, commanding each in the name of King and council to present themselves here in King's Landing and swear their fealty to King Rhaegar. Failing that, they would be adjudged traitors, their lands and titles forfeit to the throne.

The names he read made Sansa hold her breath. Lord Stannis Baratheon, his lady wife, his daughter. Lord Renly Baratheon. Lord Jon Arryn, his lady wife and their son, the little Lord Robert. Both Lord Royces and their sons. Ser Loras Tyrell. Lord Mace Tyrell, his brothers, uncles, sons. Lord Hoster Tully, his brother Ser Brynden, his son Ser Edmure. Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, and all his sons. So many, she thought as Pycelle read on and on, it will take a whole flock of ravens to send out these commands.

And at the end, near last, came the names Sansa had been dreading. Lady Catelyn Stark. Robb Stark. Brandon Stark, Rickon Stark, Arya Stark… Sansa stifled a gasp. So they hadn't found her yet. Sansa sent a quick prayer to the old and the new gods to keep it that way.

Grandmaester Pycelle rolled up the list, tucked it up his left sleeve, and pulled another parchment from his right. He cleared his throat and resumed. "In the place of the traitor Eddard Stark, it is the wish of His Grace that Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, take up the office of Master of Coin. So the King has decreed. The small council consents."

Ser Arthur Dayne as Master of Coin. Sansa was confused and judging by the murmurings in the hall, she was by far not the only one. She didn’t know much about the Sword of the Morning, apart from what everybody knew about him. That he was the most formidable swordsman in the realm, one of the best of all times, probably. But she had never heard that he was good with numbers. Then again, so had nobody ever heard about her father as far as she was aware. But he was loyal to the King, she knew. His loyalty to the King was absolute. Rhaenys had told her so, almost as loyal as Lord Connington. But before she could think about it any further, Gandmaester Pycelle went on.

"It is also the wish of His Grace that Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen give up his place as a special member of His Grace's small council. His place will be taken by the King's most honorable brother, Prince Viserys Targaryen. So the King has decreed. The small council consents."

More murmuring went through the crowd, stronger than before. Giving a place in the small council to a man whose loyalty was unquestionable was one thing. Even if he was not familiar with his duties, some might argue, unfit for office. But to have the Crown Prince removed was quite another matter. Again she had no time to further think about it. When the King's herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. The herald's voice boomed out. "If any man in this hall has other matters to set before the Lord Hand, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence."

Sansa quailed. Now, she told herself, I must do it now. Gods give me courage. She took one step, then another. Lords and knights stepped aside silently to let her pass, and she felt the weight of their eyes on her. I must be as strong as my lady mother.

"Lord Hand," she said in as loud and clear a voice as she could.

The height of the Iron Throne gave Lord Connington a better vantage point than anyone else in the hall. He was the first to see her. "Come forward," he called out, but his voice made it clear that he would have preferred her not to.

Sansa lifted her head and walked toward him, not too slow and not too fast. She must not let them see how nervous she was.

"The Lady Sansa of House Stark," the herald cried.

She stood before the foot of the mighty throne, lowered her gaze and curtsied as deeply as if she were standing before the King himself.

"My Lord Hand, I beg your mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark."

"Mercy?" Connington said almost with shock. "Your father is a traitor and you would do better to look after yourself instead of him. If His Grace is under the impression that you played a part in his treason, you will share his fate, whatever that will be."

"No, my lord. My father's no traitor. I'm sure he's not. Please allow him to come forward and speak for himself. Then all will become clear quickly, I'm sure."

"It's all very clear already," Connington said, giving Grandmaester Pycelle a short signal with his left.

The Grandmaester handed a letter to a page, who quickly brought it to Sansa, showed it to her briefly. The paper was torn and stiff with dried blood, but the broken seal was her father's, the direwolf stamped in pale wax. Then the page turned around and then ran up the steps to the Iron Throne. The Lord Hand took the letter and unfolded it. "We found this on the captain of your father's household guard, Lady Sansa. It is a letter to the traitors Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn, reporting that your father plans to go back to Winterfell, most probably to call the banners against his rightful King."

"No, this is all a misunderstanding. I beg you, Lord Hand, fetch my father. He will be able to explain. I'm sure he will. My father feared that it would no longer be safe for him and his family at King's Landing. So he wanted us all to leave."

"Surely because he knew an attack was coming. Or to even join other the traitors with forces of his own from the North."

"No, he just wanted us to be safe. He-," Sansa said, but was interrupted by Lord Connington.

"Furthermore, he met with the traitors Baratheon and Arryn in secret to plot their treason, just before the two of them disappeared from King's Landing."

"He would never do that," she now pleaded, falling to her knees before the throne. "My father was fostered at the Eyrie. He was as close to Lord Arryn as to his own father. I am sure he just wanted to talk to his old friend, Lord Hand. Please, you must believe me."

"Does your father always meet his old friends in secret? And is Lord Stannis such an old friend of your father's as well, Lady Sansa?"

"No, but… He would never… My… My father is true to the King," she stammered, barely able to hold back her tears. This was not how is was supposed to go. This was all a misunderstanding. Her father was no traitor. Why couldn't they see that?

"Your father has committed treason against his King before," Grandmaester Pycelle now said in a voice as thin as an old parchment, rattling with every breath. "Why should we think he would not do so again? Lord Hand, if I may suggest that the Lady Sansa be locked in the dungeon with her father? It seems unwise to let her run around in the Red Keep, freely spreading her treasonous poison into the ears of lords and ladies and knights at court. No doubt she is as guilty as her father."

"No, I'm not. Please, you must believe me," she pleaded and felt the tears rolling over her cheeks. Aegon, please come back to me. You must save me. Please.

"She's hardly more than a child," said Lord Connington, but without the smallest hint of genuine compassion in his voice. "I don't feel comfortable locking a child up in the dungeons."

"A child born of traitor’s seed will find that betrayal comes naturally to her," said Grandmaester Pycelle. "She is a sweet thing now, but in a few years, who can say what treasons she may hatch? She should be locked up immediately, preferably in the black cells, where she cannot cause any harm. Let the rats and the dark listen to her treasonous talk."

Lord Connington seemed to think about it for a while before he finally began to speak again.

"No, she will not be put into the dungeon. Not yet."

At another short signal of the Lord Hand, the herald's voice dismissed the court. Sansa's head felt dull, her own thoughts perceived only slowly as if through a thick fog. She wanted to look at Rhaella and Rhaenys, wanted to see their faces and their smiles but did not find the strength to lift her head high enough. Armored hands reached under her arms, pulled her up and out of the Throne Room, through the courtyards and into one of the smaller halls in Maegor's Holdfast. There she sat alone at a table for a while. Some servants brought her watered wine with honey and weak tea, but she didn't touch any of it. She didn't really know what she was supposed to do here, but the guards probably didn't know where to take her either apart from out of the Throne Room. She was glad not yet to be back in her chambers however, having to watch Jeyne weeping and sobbing. After what had just happened, she simply didn't have the strength to try to comfort her friend in her grief at the moment.

She had achieved nothing, possibly even made it worse. The King had probably already made his decision about her father's life, purely based on a letter that said nothing more than that he wanted to leave the capital. But the letter had been addressed to Lord Stannis Baratheon and Lord Jon Arryn who, from all she had heard and understood, were apparently in rebellion against King Rhaegar. The King had not been informed by her father, however. Neither about the apparent plans of the Lords Arryn and Baratheon, assuming that he knew about those, nor about his intention to leave the capital. Still, he was no traitor. That was not possible. Soon Aegon would come back. He would believe her. Surely he would. He would speak for her father, protect him. And her of course. Everything would be fine if only her Aegon would return to her.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she finally had enough control over herself to stand up again. She went back to her chambers. Jeyne sat at the window and looked out silently. After an hour in which the two hardly spoke and Sansa couldn't bear to do anything else but sit on the bed and stare at the walls, the door opened and Rhaenys entered. Sansa jumped up and fell into her arms, now letting her tears run freely on her friend's shoulder.

"I have failed," she sobbed.

"No you haven't, dear. No one could have done more."

Rhaenys did her best to comfort Sansa and Jeyne and after a while, Sansa managed to stop sobbing. They only talked little and went to bed early afterwards. Rhaenys stayed with them and so the three of them slept together in Sansa's bed, cradled in each other's arms again.

The next days were as monotonous as a white wall. Sansa and Jeyne were together confined to Sansa's chambers and whenever she was not with her grandmother, Rhaenys was with them to keep them company. It took three days until Rhaella been finally been allowed by the King again to visit Sansa briefly. Apparently, Rhaella had so vehemently defended her lord father in front of the King, that he had believed she was somehow involved in this treachery. If she had not been his mother, she would now be sitting next to Sansa's father, chained to a wall in the dungeons, Rhaenys had said. Sansa was happy she was with her now. It was good to see her again and to hear Rhaella say that her words to Lord Connington in front of the court may not have changed the Lord Hand's opinion but had made an impression on the people at court nevertheless. Still, it was not enough. The court might have been touched by her, by her word or her tears, but in the end, the King decided over her father's life. And over hers.

At least Rhaella brought her the news that Sansa and Jeyne were now allowed to leave her rooms again, provided they swore to stay within the walls of the Red Keep. Where else were they supposed to go anyway? She was happy not to be locked up anymore. Of course, she only traded her small cage for a slightly larger one, but she was still grateful for that little bit of freedom. They would be allowed to see each other again every day from now on when Sansa visited her in her gardens during the days.

She spent the next two days walking through the Red Keep or sitting with Rhaenys and Rhaella in their gardens. Jeyne came back to life little by little as well, accompanied her on most of her walks and for tea – as little as there was left of it in the city – with Rhaella and Rhaenys but still spoke very few words. There was still no trace of Arya however. That was a good sign, Sansa tried to convince herself. The hope that Howland Reed, who according to all that Rhaenys and Rhaella knew also had not been captured so far, might have taken her out of King's Landing and back to the North, kept her upright. But as wonderful and relieving as this hope was, their mood was still dark. Fresh food and supplies still barely reached the city. People were dying of hunger in the street and a large part of the Gold Cloaks spent half of their days burying the bodies of the starved or the victims of the latest riots in the north and south of the city, south of the Rosby Road and east of the southern Kingsroad.

Just as worse however – at least for Rhaella, Rhaenys and Sansa – was the fact that still no raven had been received from Aegon and Daeron. They were gone for well over a week now and still there was no sign of life from them. Rhaella said again and again that this didn't mean anything and that they were probably already on their way back. Rhaenys tried hard to speak after her grandmother and to appear confident but Sansa noticed quickly how hard it was for her to suppress her tears every time they talked about it.

The next morning Sansa was again wandering through the Red Keep without a clear goal. She tried to take new routes through the maze of stairs and corridors every day, to at least find a bit of variety in her daily routine. Later she would meet with Rhaella and Rhaenys again. She had left Jeyne behind her room. She felt better and better by the day, but this morning her mood was dark again.

She stood at the edge of a pillared gallery and looked down into a small courtyard, in the middle of which stood an impressive well showing fighting dragons and basilisks, hewn from reddish stone. There was no water in it, but the fine work was still an impressive sight to behold. Some servants and a few knights and soldiers came by every now and then, greeted her briefly, but otherwise took no notice of her. She was just about to leave when she heard a noise behind her. A hissing like from a small snake, she thought at first.

She turned around and searched the wall behind her but could not find anything at first. Only when she heard the sound again did her gaze fall on a dark corner behind one of the columns. It took a moment before she realized that there was a small recess in the wall behind the column. She walked towards it and looked into the shadows. Suddenly a little boy stepped into the corridor in front of her, thin and seemingly half-starved, dirty from head to toe like the inside of a pigsty, dusty like one of the bookshelves in Maester Luwin's study, hair all greasy and messy. It was Arya!

Immediately she fell to her knees and hugged her sister as tightly as she could.

"Arya! By the Seven, you're all right."

"Shhh, quiet," she hissed. "Yes, I'm fine. I've been hiding in the cellars under the fortress since they arrested father."

"Have you had enough to eat? You look half-starved."

"Gods, Sansa. You sound like mother. Yes, I've eaten enough. I stole a little from the kitchens every now and then. Not that there was much to steal though. Listen, we have to get out of here. Get out of the city. Quick, come with me. I know a way."

Sansa looked at her for a moment, eyes wide in surprise. Arya had found a way out, to escape from the city. She could hardly believe her ears. It took a moment for her to realize the folly.

"No we can't," she said. "Jenye's still here and father's imprisoned. We cannot leave them behind." And where else could they have gone anyway? Even if they were able to make it out of the Red Keep and out of the city somehow, they'd be thousands of miles away from Winterfell with no food or coin or protection. The idea of fleeing was tempting, but it was madness all the same. Sansa was just about to speak again when they heard a noise. They looked down the hall when they heard heavy footsteps in the distance heading their way.

"Quick, hide again. Quick. Promise me you will not do anything stupid, Arya. Stay hidden, stay safe. We will find a way out, but not now. Please."

Arya hesitated briefly, but then Arya retreated behind the column without another word and immediately disappeared into the shadows as if she had never been there. Arya was still here in King's Landing. So she was not heading north with Howland Reed, but at least she was alive and well. Arya had found a way to be safe and would be able to stay safe as long as she had to. That was the most important thing now. Sansa's heart beat faster with joy and relief as she stood up, quickly tapping the dust off her dress and walked down the hall so as not to get caught before the hidden entrance in the wall. Who was to say who else knew about it?

She was just going around a corner when she almost collided with a man in white armor, the source of the heavy footsteps.

"I beg your pardon, Ser," she said softly, curtseying to the knight. Whatever people in King's Landing might think of her, she was still a lady and a lady remembered her manners. She raised her eyes and looked up into the face of Ser Boros Blount, an ugly man with a big belly, bandy legs and a flat nose that looked like it had been broken a few times too often. Ser Boros looked down at her, examining her critically from top to bottom, but his eyes and his slight wry grin speaking volumes about what was filth going on in his head. But before he could say anything to her, another man came forward behind him. Prince Viserys. As always, he wore one of those ridiculous robes that looked as if it had been sewn together crookedly from scraps of cloth. She also curtsied in front of him.

"Good morning, Your Grace" she said, keeping her eyes down.

"Look who we have here. Lady Sansa," he said, spitting out her name as if it made him sick. "The daughter of the traitor Eddard Stark. Actually, that's not true. He's no common traitor. He is already a double traitor, isn't he, Ser Boros?"

"Indeed he is, Your Grace."

"My father's no traitor, Your Grace. This is all a misunderstand-"

"Shut up, stupid brat," he interrupted her. The prince's face hardened. "Don't take me for a fool. My brother was once gracious enough to let your father live after his first treason. He will not make the same mistake again. And this time your entire kin will bleed for it. Treason lies in the blood of traitors, so we will not take chances this time."

Sansa wanted to protest but held herself back. Here and now there was nothing she could do or say that would have helped her or her father in any way. Prince Viserys was convinced of her father's guilt, as was the King most probably.

"Does my brother allow you to send ravens to your family?" the prince asked.

"No, not yet. But the Queen Mother said that she is trying to convince the King that I may write a letter to tell my mother and brother that I am well."

The prince seemed to think about it for a while.

"Yes, this might help," he finally said. "Let us hope that your brother is not as stupid as your father and bends the knee. Then again... if he's like you, I don't have much hope."

"Thank you, your Grace," she said. It was a stupid answer for an insult, but what else was she supposed to answer? It was all she was able to say.

"Maybe I should send your brother a message of my own," he yelled at her. "I would love to send him your head in a basket as a little warning not to mess with the Dragon, but my brother won't allow it. Not yet, at least. But as soon as your brother is here and pledges his fealty to his King, a number of Stark heads will roll, and yours will be among them. I will see to that personally."

"Thank you, your Grace."

Again was all she was able to say. The rage and the grief and the anger in her grew stronger and stronger. She was about to scream at him, cry and weep, scratch his eyes out, run away, all at the same time. That was simply all she was able to say.

"Are you trying to fool me, cunt? You may be able to wrap my stupid nephew around your finger, but with me, you have come to the wrong place." The prince gave a petulant shrug. "It would be great fun to beat some sense into you. But my mother wouldn't like it at all if I hit her little pet. Women are all weak, even my mother, though she pretends she isn't. She always taught me that it is not fitting for a prince to hit a woman. Ser Boros!"

The knight was on her before she could think, yanking back her hand as she tried to shield her face and backhanding her across the face with a gloved fist. Sansa did not remember falling to the ground, yet the next she knew was that she was down on the ground on one knee. Her head was ringing. Ser Boros stood over her with blood on the knuckles of his white silk glove.

"You are unworthy of the Blood of the Dragon. You are pretty, I give you that. I guess at least for a regular human. Still I don't know what my feeble nephew sees in you. I might marry you off to one of my knights, I think. As a little reward for good service. Would you like that? Or maybe I'll just allow you to give birth to a few bastards. Ser Boros, don't also you think we should get her with child as soon as possible?"

"Absolutely, Your Grace."

"If your first child is as stupid as you are, I can still have your head cut off."

"Aegon will never allow that. He will come back and he will protect me from you and that foul swine of yours," she pressed between her bloody lips.

"Aegon?" Prince Viserys laughed heartily, the ugly laugh of a spoiled child. "My dear nephew is long dead and if he isn't, he soon will be. One way or another. Let's hope he's still alive and returns, then I'll give him your head on a plate as a welcome present."

"Or he'll come back and give with yours."

Viserys scowled. "Shut up, cunt! Do not try to mock me. Humans do not mock the Dragon. Boros, teach her."

This time the knight grasped her beneath the jaw and held her head still as he struck her. He hit her twice, left to right and right to left. Her head flew from side to side. More blood ran down her chin, mingled with the salt of her tears.

"You shouldn't be crying all the time," the prince told her. "You're more pretty when you smile. Not that his changes much anyway. Ser Boros, get her up!"

The knight grabbed her by one arm and roughly pulled her back onto her feet.

"I wish my brother would let me take your head. Or your father's at least. I would do it myself. With pleasure. Last night I killed a man. Some rats from the city came to the gates of the Red Keep, shouted my brother's name and demanded bread, but I taught them some manners. I shot a crossbow bolt through the throat of the loudest screamer. Straight through. Great shot."

"And he died?" It was a stupid question, she knew, but looking into the prince's smug grin talking about killing a starving man just for demanding bread, she just couldn't think of anything better to ask.

"Of course he died. He had a hole in his throat as big as my thumb. Gods, you are stupid. There was also a woman, throwing stones and calling my brother names. I got her too, but I missed the throat. Hit her only in the belly. I wish I could just shoot a bolt through your throat as well. It would make things so much easier. But my brother insists on keeping you alive. At least until your brother has pledged fealty to him. So instead, we will punish you and send a message to your brother telling him what will happen if he doesn't get here soon enough. Ser Boros!"

Ser Boros seized Sansa, twisted one of her arms on her back until her shoulder hurt so much that she screamed.

"Leave her face," the prince commanded. "I like her pretty and very soon, my knights will too."

Boros slammed a fist into Sansa's belly, driving all the air out of her. When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and pulled her up again. He slammed his fist in her belly again and again she could not breathe. She would have fallen to the ground as all strength left her body, but his tight grip to her hair held her up. Again he hit her, this time in her side. Sansa screamed. Tears were now running down her face like rivers. She soon lost count of the blows.

"Is that enough, Your Grace?" Ser Boros asked when he stopped beating her and let her fall to the ground after what felt like an eternity. She looked at him, hoping for a tiny bit of mercy and compassion in his face. But there was... nothing. She could see it. He didn't hate her, but he didn't love her either. He just didn't care about her. To this man, she was nothing more than... a thing, totally meaningless to him. And he hadn't stopped because he felt compassion for a defenseless lady, but because the beatings had become too boring or maybe too exhausting for him.

"No, it's not," the prince replied. "Make her naked. Let's see what my nephew sees in that treacherous bitch."

Ser Boros shoved a fleshy hand in the front of Sansa's bodice and gave it a hard yank. The silk tore as easily as old parchment under the force of his grip, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands.

"What's the meaning of this?"

Rhaenys' voice cracked through the corridor like a whip. Never before had she been so relieved to her friend's voice and had she not cried already, she would have started to cry in relief now. She fought her way up to her knees, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her breath erratic from the sobs and the pain in her belly. She turned around and saw Rhaenys with eyes wide in horror running towards her. She took Sansa in her arms as soon as she was close enough to reach her. She recognized Ser Jaime and two Gold Cloaks behind her friend. Ser Jaime took off his cloak and wordlessly handed it to Rhaenys who immediately put it around Sansa's shoulders. The knight then immediately took a stand between her and Ser Boros.

"Have you gone completely mad?" she heard Rhaenys screaming at her uncle like crazy. "Whatever her father is accused of, this lady is innocent and under the protection of the King. Have you no respect for her honor? Or yours?"

"I punish her."

"For what crime?"

"For her stupidity. Isn't that enough?"

"If stupidity had to be punished, you would have dangled from a gallows a hundred times already," Rhaenys hissed at him. "You'll pay for this, I swear to you."

Ser Boros took a step forward. "Nobody threatens a member of the royal family in the presence of the Kingsguard."

"I am also a member of the royal family, in case you've forgotten, you stupid ox," Rhaenys said. "So you better not dare threaten me. Ser Jaime, the next time Ser Boros opens his mouth, kill him."

"With pleasure, my princess."

Ser Jaime now took a step forward as well, hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes fixed on Ser Boros. Sansa's eyes became dull, she became dizzy and she felt how Rhaenys had to topple her so she wouldn't fall to the ground. She couldn't remember much after that. She was led down a few corridors, then carried on someone's arms. She didn't know whose arm. She only remembered that Rhaenys was with her all the time, walking next to her, gentle stroking her hair and crying, apologizing over and over again. It took a while for her to regain consciousness. When she did, she wasn't in her rooms, Sansa noted. She was Rhaenys' chambers. She was sitting in a wide tub filled with warm water and sweet smelling oils that thankfully seemed to ease the pain. She looked around and found Rhaenys and Rhaella sitting next to her on some chairs, looking at her worriedly. Rhaenys still had tears in his eyes.

"Sansa, I'm so sorry," Rhaenys said.

"Are you all right, dear?" Rhaella asked.

She pondered for a while. Her body felt good, the pain in her belly and at her sides had disappeared, but that could have been due to the oils and warm water. But she was safe, she was with her friends. That was all that mattered and that was the best feeling in a long time.

"Yes, I'm fine," she brought out, but immediately regretted it again when she felt a biting pain in her lower jaw.

"It must hurt terribly, but Maester Gerwin says that fortunately you're not seriously injured. I'm so sorry, dear. From now on you will stay with us until all this nonsense is over," Rhaella said. "We'll send for your things and then you and Jeyne will move in with Rhaenys. The chambers are big enough and they are protected day and night by men we can trust."

"Yes, that's what we'll do. Ser Jaime will always be near me and so near you as well. Viserys will never come close to you again. I promise you that."

Shortly afterwards, servants arrived with Sansa's clothes and belongings. Jeyne followed them on their heels. She came to her immediately, her grief seemed to be wiped away by the horror Sansa had experienced. Rhaella left them shortly afterwards to talk to the King. Probably he would not want to see her, but she was raging with anger and Sansa hoped that this would be enough to be allowed to see him, tell him what Viserys had done. After the water had become cold, Sansa stepped out of the tub. She let Jenye and Rhaenys help her dry herself off but didn't bother to get dressed afterwards and went straight to bed. Jenye handed her a small cup, half full with sweet wine and some Milk of the Poppy and after she had finished it, she and Rhaenys came to her immediately, lay down with her and hugged her as they all fell asleep together. She still felt Rhaenys softly stroking her hair when she sank into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke up the next day, the pain in her body was back. She had bruises in her face, spread over her ribs and her belly and her jaw hurt so horribly that it was hard for her to speak at first. Rhaenys gave her some more diluted Milk of the Poppy and after a short while, the pain began to ease. A least a bit. Somehow Rhaenys had managed to get them a real breakfast with – almost – fresh bread, three types of cheese, dry meat that was too hard for her to chew on with her aching jaw, sweet spread made of fruits and berries and honey, strong tea and some sweetened milk. Sansa could not imagine how many favors she might have had to call in for this meal.

Rhaenys wanted to persuade her to better spend the next few days with her in her chambers or at most to go with a sufficiently large escort to her grandmother's gardens, but Sansa refused. She decided it was better to show strength. Just because Viserys was not a worthy prince, Sansa still had to present herself as a worthy favorite of the Crown Prince, she told Rhaenys. For a brief moment, the princess seemed unsure what to think or how to react, but then hugged her and gave her hearty kisses on both cheeks.

"I am proud of you, dear. So very proud."

They decided that after noon they would go to the Sept of Baelor to pray for her father, so that the Seven would let the King see his innocence, to pray for Aegon and Daeron and their safe return and for the souls of Vayon Poole and the other Northeners that have been slain inside the walls of this very castle. Jeyne preferred to stay in Rhaenys' chambers and pray privately and later perhaps pay a visit to Godswood to pray to the old gods of the North. Sansa and Rhaenys understood her, said their goodbyes and made their way to Rhaella.

The Queen Mother was sceptical at first if Sansa should just walk around and be seen again, but it didn't take long until Rhaenys had convinced her. Rhaenys and Rhaella also thought it a good idea to publicly present their firm belief in the Seven, since the King and his brother had recently been so openly surrounding themselves with the Red Witch and other red priests from Essos and had practically locked the High Septon out of the Red Keep. It was no secret that the King's turning to this foreign religion of a strange fire god was not well received, neither by the smallfolk nor by many devout lords and ladies of the realm, and unsurprisingly, the Faith did nothing to alleviate this growing resentment. Quite to the contrary, more and more septons had recently been thrown into the dungeons, as she had learned from Rhaella, who had publicly preached against the King and claimed that the drought and famine was a divine punishment of the Seven for the blasphemous misdeeds of His Grace.

Of course, there were enough men and women of no strong faith who were only too happy to ignore the King's behavior or even publicly support it in the hope of making themselves popular at court and especially with the King. In fact, as Rhaella had reluctantly admitted to Sansa, there were quite a few of them. She was certain, however, that it could not end well to tear the kingdom apart as harshly and ruthlessly as the King was doing right now, by almost worshipping the Red Woman and at the same time dismissing the High Septon like a pesky fly.

Rhaella had ultimately selected a sufficiently large troop from the Gold Cloaks to accompany them on their way to the Sept. The number of Gold Cloaks had almost tripled in recent years, but the Queen Mother trusted only very few of these new soldiers. So she had chosen thirty soldiers whom she knew and trusted for years already. Good men with serious faces, all of whom, though no longer youthful, were well trained and loyal, as Rhaella assured them.

A double line of ten Gold Cloaks marched ahead of them when they left the Red Keep. At Rhaella's side rode Ser Jaime Lannister as the only member of the Kingsguard to accompany them on a magnificent white palfrey. He had helped Sansa mount her horse beforehand as she could hardly move her shoulders and her body hurt everywhere like that of an old woman, so she would never have been able to get into the saddle of her brown mare on her own. Another double row of twenty Gold Cloaks formed the rear.

They had left the winding Hook down from the Aegon's High Hill behind and had come halfway to the Guildhall of the Alchemists when more soldiers came out of a side street to their right. They lined the road on both sides and held back the crowds of people with the shafts of their spears, who followed shortly after and tried to push in front of them on the streets. It took only a moment for a wedge of mounted lancers, led by Ser Jacelyn Bywater, to appear from the side street. Shortly after that, soldiers in fiery red, richly ornamented armors followed, presenting large banners with the coat of arms of House Targaryen.

"Viserys' new Flameguard. What a silly nonsense," Rhaenys whispered to her. Apparently, the King had decreed that Prince Viserys was to have his own honor guard of soldiers and knights would be directly sworn to him. She pondered how long it might have taken Prince Viserys and the King to find enough young knights with ambition and Gold Cloaks or mercenaries with the hope of better pay and more bread to swear allegiance to the prince directly and put on these red armors. Their shields were also in a dark red color and richly ornamented with depictions of dragons and flames surrounding a coat of arms, red on black, which at first glance looked like the Targaryen Dragon as well, but which at second glance was not a dragon but a red and orange lambent flame. On each of the red great helmets sat a flickering flame, which looked as if it was forged from solid gold, and over their backs hung long capes of red and orange silk, also decorated with this new coat of arms.

His own Kingsguard, Sansa thought.

She pondered for a moment how long the formation of this Flameguard might have taken. Such ornate armor all in fire red with golden flames on the helmets and embroidered silk capes did not fall from the sky after all. Sansa counted sixteen men in red. But before she could come up with an answer, Rhaenys whispered again that seemingly both the King and Prince Viserys had been planning this for over three months already, as she had learned just yesterday. For what purpose, she did not know.

Behind the Flameguard she saw Prince Viserys on a magnificent sorrel, to his left rode Ser Boros, so fat and round that he hardly seemed to be able to hold himself in the saddle, to his right the Red Woman, both on white horses that almost gleamed in the sun. Immediately, Sansa's stomach twisted at the sight of the two men and she felt how the pain in her belly suddenly got worse again. The bruises all over her body felt fresher than ever, almost as if Ser Boros was still slamming his fist into her belly again and again. She found it difficult to breathe. Rhaenys had obviously noticed her stare, briefly put her hand on her arm with a warm smile to calm her down and then led her horse in front of Sansa to block Viserys' and Ser Boros' view of her.

The small groups came to a halt opposite each other. The two groups of soldiers split up and formed a somewhat wry circle around both groups. Surrounding them, countless peasants pressed themselves against the rows of spearmen. Empty eyes in unwashed faces stared at the riders in fine silk with dull resentment. She knew that there were hidden soldiers of the Gold Cloaks and paid mercenaries in the crowd as well, ordered to stop any unrest before it even began. After looking into the eyes of the starving people around her, however, Sansa had no faith that this would be enough should the situation escalate. If the fire was burning too hot, throwing in a few onions in the soup would not save it from boiling over.

Here and there, a few voices raised a cry of "All hail King Rhaegar!" or "All hail Prince Viserys!" but for every man who picked up the shout, a hundred kept silent. She was almost sure that either the prince or the king himself had paid those few for their cheers. She continued to look around but saw nothing but a sea of ragged men and women with grey skin, sunken cheeks and sullen eyes.

"Mother, niece, how lovely to see you," she heard Prince Viserys purr. She was glad not to have to look at him.

"Alas, we cannot return your kindness," Rhaenys hissed back.

"And Lady Sansa is with you as well. Good to see you too, my lady," he said and Sansa heard the mockery in his voice. She wanted to answer, wanted to greet him with "My Prince" or "Your Grace" for she was a lady and a lady remembered her manners. She did not want to grant him the pleasure to have triumphed over her, but before she could say anything, she heard Rhaella speak already.

"You should be ashamed, Viserys. Your behavior is disgusting. If there weren't so many people standing around, I'd put you over my knee right here and now."

"What are you doing here in such illustrious company anyway?" Rhaenys asked and Sansa saw her nodding towards the Red Woman and his new Flameguard.

"The most venerable priestess Melisandre and I are of course looking for a location for the new temple in honor of R'hllor, which will soon be built at King's Landing."

"Away with the witch," Sansa heard some voices calling from the crowd. "Burn the witch" and "The Seven are punishing us" shouted more and more now. Sansa looked around uncertainly but either Rhaenys and Rhaella did not seem to take note of it or they ignored the increasingly louder voices.

"Wouldn't it be a better idea to spend the King's gold to provide food for the people instead of building a so-called temple for this foreign abomination in our city?" Rhaella asked.

"This crisis will pass, but the splendor and the glory of the one, true God will shine forever, once this city is finally blessed with a High Temple of the Lord of Light," she heard a woman speak, and could only assume that it was the Red Woman.

"Bread," Sansa now heard cries from the crowd. "Feed us" and "Give and bread" followed. On one side there was suddenly a small scramble as a small, half-starved looking man forced his way between two soldiers and ran out into the street right between the two groups. He was barefoot and so dirty that Sansa would have taken him for an ordinary beggar if he hadn't worn seven belts around his skinny waist and a chain with a small crystal around his neck. Only now did she realize he was wearing the robe of a septon, dirty and ragged. In his arms, he carried the corpse of a naked child, a young boy of no more than six or seven names days, his body blue and black and swollen. She leaned over to see past Rhaenys now and saw the prince fumble in his purse. He flung the man a silver stag. The coin bounced off the child's body and rolled away, under the legs of the Gold Cloaks and into the crowd, where a dozen men began to fight for it. The septon never once blinked.

"I just offered you way more than you deserve. So be grateful and be gone," Prince Viserys spat at the man now.

The septon heard him. Somehow the voice of the prince cut its way through to the man's wits, as if only the fury about those words had been able to awaken him from his poisonous sleep. His face twisted in loathing and anger. "Traitor!" he shrieked. "Traitor to the gods! Heretic! You and your vile brother bring this calamity upon us. You allow the witch to spread her blasphemy like poison in this blessed city!" The dead child fell from his arms and dropped to the ground like a sack of flour as he pointed to Viserys and the Red Woman. "Traitor. Traitor. Traitor."

Sansa never saw who threw the dung. All she heard was Viserys' bellowing curse and as he looked around for the culprit, the Prince wiped brown filth from his cheek. There was even more caked in his silver-white hair and spattered all over the Red Woman's dress.

"Who threw that?" Viserys screamed. He pressed his fingers through his hair and threw away more of the dung that had just stuck to him. "I want the man who threw that!" he shouted. "A hundred golden dragons for the man who gives him up."

"He was up there!" someone shouted in the crowd. The Prince jerked his neighing horse around to search the roofs and open balconies around them. People in the crowd pointed in all directions, pushing and shoving, cursing each other, the king and the prince.

"Bring me the man who flung the filth!" Prince Viserys commanded. "I'll personally take his head for this. Flameguard, bring me the man!"

The red knights in their shining armors swung from their horses like one man, scattered to all sides, but there was no way for them to get through the crowd. Those who stood closest tried to evade and make way while more and more people pushed forward from behind to see better.

"Leave off, the man is long gone," she heard Rhaenys call. The men in red did not react, however, but tried to force their way further and further through the masses of people.

"I want that man!" cried Viserys. "Bring him to me. If need be, cut through the stinking mob and-"

A loud roar drowned his last words, a rolling thunder of rage and hatred that seized them from all sides. "Traitor," Sansa now heard men and women shouting, "Traitor to the Gods" and "Heretic." Other voices yelled "Red whore" to the woman next to the prince and "Burn her." Mixed in with the abuse, she heard cries of "Bread" and "Feed us!"

From both sides of the street, the crowd surged against the spear shafts while the Gold Cloaks struggled to hold the line. Stones and dung and fouler things whistled overhead. "Feed us!" a woman behind Sansa shrieked so loud that it must have been heard all up to the Red Keep. "Bread!" boomed a man somewhere to her right. "We want bread!" In a heartbeat, a thousand voices took up the chant. "Bread," they clamored. "Bread, bread!"

Rhaella turned around to Rhaenys, Sansa and Ser Jaime, her otherwise so soft and friendly purple eyes now wide in terror. "Back to the castle. Now!"

Ser Jaime nodded briefly and then drew his sword. Ahead of the column, Jacelyn Bywater was roaring commands. His riders lowered their lances and drove forward in a wedge. Prince Viserys was wheeling his palfrey around in anxious circles with a frightened look on his face, seemingly not knowing what to do or where to go, while hands reached past the line of Gold Cloaks, grasping for him. One managed to get hold of his leg, but only for an instant. One of the knights of his Flameguard swung his sword and separated the hand from the arm.

They all gave their horses sharp smacks to the sides. The animals snorted briefly, Rhaenys' horse reared up, then they all thundered forward. They rode sharply along the passage that the mounted lancers cleared for them. More stones and all sorts of litter flew past them. One of the Gold Cloaks was hit by a stone on his helmet and fell from his horse, the beast of the soldier behind him rode over him and Sansa was sure that for a brief moment she heard the man's bones break amongst his screams. Shortly before the Hook, more Gold Cloaks were knocked down from their horses by the flood of stones and dung and debris.

She saw one of the red knights slowing down close behind them as his horse stumbled briefly over the body of a fallen comrade. Immediately, countless hands reached out for him from all sides, pulled him off his horse and he disappeared under a brown sea of ragged people who beat him with stones and clubs and bare fists until Sansa saw blood spatter.

Prince Viserys had now caught up with them again and galloped beside them, the Red Woman and Ser Boros following closely. His face was pale as milk, except for the remains of the dung in his hair and on his cheek. She heard a short, shrill shriek as someone ran into the street in front of Prince Viserys and was ridden down by him. It happened so quickly that Sansa couldn't see if it was a man or a woman or a child but from one moment to the next there was nothing left but a bloody mass of skin and broken bones.

And suddenly the madness lay far behind them and they were clattering across the cobbled square that fronted on the castle's massive gatehouse. A line of spearmen held the gates. The spears parted to let their party pass under the portcullis. Pale red walls loomed up about them, reassuringly high and aswarm with crossbowmen.

Sansa did not recall dismounting but when she finally was able to breathe again and think clearly, she stood beside her horse, Rhaenys at her side, with their arms around each other's waist, breathing heavily. Sansa was only dimly aware of a maester asking if she was injured. Rhaella was with them as well, close to tears. She saw Ser Boros riding through the gate then, blood glistening on the blade of his sword. Red knights of the Flameguard followed, their capes torn to pieces, some without helmets, others even falling off their horses injured. She counted eleven.

"Fire!" cried a voice from the top of the gatehouse. "My lords, there's smoke rising over the city. Flea Bottom is on fire."

"What part of Flea Bottom?" she now heard the prince ask in a surprisingly calm tone.

"The northern end, my prince."

"Guards, take as many men as you need and ride out again. Make sure the water wagons get through. The north end may burn for all I care, but the south side must be protected. The fire must not be allowed to get close to where the corpses lie, near the Guildhall of the Alchemists. Protect it at all costs."

Sansa was confused why the one side of Flea Bottom where most people lived might burn down but the other side where the corpses of the starved were lying must be protected at all costs. But her thoughts were still too wild and chaotic and overwhelming to ask this question. Not that she thought the prince would give her a serious answer.

Immediately the Gold Cloaks rushed out of the gates again, reinforced by dozens of fresh men from the castle. Prince Viserys turned away and was immediately swarmed by the Red Woman like dung by a horsefly. Rhaenys' look became hard and hateful as she followed Viserys with her eyes. Without saying a word, she broke away from Sansa and stormed towards the Prince, pushing past the men around her. Sansa and Rhaella tried to follow her.

"Traitors, all of them," they heard Viserys babble as they got closer. "They'll all hang for this as soon as I-"

Rhaenys went at him, shoved the red woman aside with a strong push and hit the prince in the face so hard that his head flew to the side. She saw Ser Boros reach for his sword but a glance from Ser Jaime, who had also followed Rhaenys and shook his head towards Ser Boros, must have stopped him. Without waiting for a word from the prince, Rhaenys shoved him against his chest with both hands. The prince lost his footing probably more from shock than from the force of the thrust, but still fell backwards and landed on his backside.

"You bloody fool!" she yelled at him.

"They were traitors," Prince Viserys squealed from the ground. "They insulted me and attacked me!"

"What did you expect? The people are starving but instead of providing food you talk about building a damn temple to your stupid new god."

"R'hllor is the one, true-" the red woman was about to say, but Rhaenys yelled at her before she could finish her first sentence.

"If I want one of your sermons, witch, I'll ask for it. Until then, keep your mouth shut in my presence or I'll have your tongue ripped out." She looked down on Viserys again, who was still sitting on the ground as if he couldn't get up on his own. Sansa stepped beside her friend, put her arm around her waist again and gently pulled her away from her uncle. Her hateful look never left his face for a second though. "Damn you, Viserys," she hissed before Sansa, Rhaella and Ser Jaime tried to take her away.

They were already a few steps away when she heard Viserys being helped to his feet by Ser Boros. He ran after them, grabbed Rhaenys by the shoulder and pulled her violently around to him.

"You'll never treat me this way again or you'll end up on the gallows just like those traitors down there in the gutter!" he screamed almost hysterically. Before one of them could react, the prince had already reached out and given Rhaenys a resounding slap in the face. Ser Jaime charged forward, burst in between them and pushed Viserys away from Rhaneys. She saw the shock in the prince's eyes, saw how he was about to protest or insult Ser Jaime, but before he could utter even a single word, Ser Jaime's fist had already smashed into Prince Viserys' face. His head was thrown backwards and Sansa saw blood splattering from his mouth and nose. It didn't take a heartbeat until a bunch Gold Cloaks and red knights of the Flameguard surrounded Ser Jaime and wrestled him down. Viserys lay unconscious on the ground, the Red Woman and two maesters crouched beside him.

Rhaenys wanted to protest but the Gold Cloaks had already cuffed Ser Jaime and now dragged him away. "You are under arrest for assaulting a member of the royal family," she heard one of the men say. She saw Rhaenys trying to intervene, but Rhaella held her back, apparently having regained her composure.

"No, leave it. There is nothing we can do for him now," Rhaella whispered. "He is safe in the dungeon for the night. Tomorrow we will see to it that we help him."

She signaled to some of the guards and immediately Rhaella, Rhaenys and Sansa were escorted by the soldiers back into Rhaenys' rooms. When she was sure that Rhaenys and Sansa had arrived safely, Rhaella kissed both of them goodbye and went to her own chambers, escorted by half the men that had brought them here. They sat there then, telling Jenye what had happened and drowning their confusion in sweet, Dornish wine that Rhaenys conjured out of a secret compartment in her big closet before they went to bed together.

By evening, the city was still in turmoil. Most of the fires were quenched as they could see through one of the large windows, but there was bitter fighting in several parts of the city and the cries of the wounded and dying could be heard all the way up to Maegor's Holdfast.

Notes:

So, that was it. I hoped you liked this chapter. As I said, many things here are an adaptation of several chapters from AGoT and ACoK, so this was all pretty familiar to you guys, I guess. I hope you still liked it. As you can probably see, the situation in KL is getting a bit serious now.

Hope you stay tuned for the next chapters to come.

As always, feel free to let me know what you liked or disliked about this chapter. I always love to hear/read your thoughts on my fic.

Chapter 22: Aegon 4

Notes:

Hi everyone,

as your can see, the next chapter is here. This is from Aegon's persepctive again and we are to conclude the little adventure in the Kingswood with this one.

Ever since the very first day in those damn woods, he was sure that they were being followed. The others were sure as well and so they had tried to find evidence for it, maybe small hints on who exactly this might be. But no matter how many times they had split up, searched the surrounding area or even set up traps, they never found a clear clue as to who was after them or how many of them there actually were. Apart from a broken branch here or a small, blurred footprint there, they had found nothing. It was frustrating. And not least threatening.

They had also not met anyone who could have helped them really. Only a few peasants, who had their small farmlands deep in the woods, had crossed their paths. But they had not had any helpful clues either, neither about their pursuers nor about the Smiling Knight. The only real help they had found was an old man with a somewhat larger farmstead who had been able and willing to sell them some horses and food for good money. Very good money. They did not know how a simple peasant could own several horses that were more valuable than all his other possessions combined, but they did not bother to ask. Daeron had said afterwards that these must have been horses of killed soldiers from Highgarden, which he probably had found somewhere in the depths of the Kingswood and had taken with him. Lewyn had suspected that he might have bought them from the Smiling Knight, what would have been a treasonous act and punishable by death. That was unlikely however, as he did not look like a man able to buy a number of horses – even if those horses were merely the leftovers of some murdered soldiers. Not to mention what he might have done with these horses in the first place if their group had not happened to pass by his farm by chance. So they paid him the coins and left him unharmed.

Daeron's words sounded reasonable enough, even though the horses didn't seem to come from a very good breeding, which seemed unusual for Highgarden. On the other hand, the animals had spent so much time in this forest now, without proper fodder and only little to no water, that it was hard to say how good these horses really might have been once or could become again should they be taken care of well enough. Maybe it wasn't the breeding, but the last, hard months that had been the problem for the animals. Either way, they finally had horses again to ride through the Kingswood. So their days of walking on foot through the deep mud were finally over.

"Who do you think they are?"

Daeron didn't specify who he was talking about, but everyone knew who he meant. For a time, they had tried to ignore the obvious thread to have an unknown number of pursuers with unknown intentions on their heels because there seemed less and little they could do about it anyway, but after some days on horseback in heavy rain, Daeron finally brought it up again.

"Must be the men of the Smiling Knight," Aegon said. "Who else should it be?"

"No, that doesn't make sense."

"Prince Daeron is right. It really doesn't make much sense," said Ser Barristan.

"And why?"

"If the Smiling Knight knew where we are, why should he only be pursuing us? Why hasn't he overwhelmed us with a superior number of his men by now? If this was the Smiling Knight, we would all be lying beneath the ground or more likely be rotting in some thicket on the side of the Kingsroad by now," said Daeron.

Aegon said nothing, only nodded in silence. Daeron was right. If it was the Smiling Knight, he wouldn't need to hide, he could have slit their throats long ago. He felt stupid not to have thought of it himself.

"We stumbled into the two bandit camps more or less by accident. The men were just as unprepared for us as we were for them. Otherwise it would have been more men and their attacks better planned. It seems quite clear that the Smiling Knight has no idea where we are. Maybe not even that we are after him at all," Ser Barristan added.

"But then who is it?" Oberyn asked. "Who could have an interest in following us through the Kingswood while we search for the Smiling Knight and hiding from us at the same time?"

"Perhaps His Grace has sent a host after us to protect the princes after all," said Ser Raymun.

"A real host we would have noticed. At least if it was big enough to make a difference in our upcoming fight," Oberyn returned.

"Then perhaps a smaller one?"

"And what good would that do us then? And why would the King's men hide from us?"

"They are not my father's men," Aegon finally said. Ser Raymun didn't seem too convinced but Aegon spared an explanation. His confidence in his King still seemed strong and there was no point in trying to convince the man of his father's numerous flaws here and now. His father would not send them any men. Not even a squire. That much was clear. As much as he had rejected his father from an early age, he would never have thought it possible, as a child and even as a young boy, that his father would accept his or Daeron's death just to enforce one of his confused ideas. By now, however, he was sure that – lost in his belief in prophecies and predictions and with the Red Witch's whispers in his ears – he would not even piss on him to quench the flames, would lie before him burning in bright flames.

"So who do you think it is, my prince?"

"I have no idea." And this was the most frightening thing about it.

They continued their way through the Kingswood for two more days without finding anything or encountering anyone. The clouds had thinned out a bit, so it wasn't so dark during the day, but it was still raining all through the days and nights. Although it was only light rain, none of them had worn dry clothes since their departure from the sept where he and his brother had been knighted. It still felt weird to think about it. Good, but… weird, nonetheless. They were knights now, true knights, anointed with the seven holy oils in the face of gods and men, knighted by two of the greatest and most legendary knights of their time. He could not wait to tell Sansa, Rhaenys and grandmother all about it. Hopefully even his mother, should he be able to visit her soon.

The fact that the very dark clouds had apparently moved on to the northeast towards King's Landing relieved them a little. Ser Raymun was sure that it would take a few more days, maybe a week until the clouds, once they had reached the capital, would be able to spend large amounts of water again, but not being baked all day by the burning sun alone had to be an enormous relief for the capital and its people.

He thought of Sansa, how she was doing and how she would like to dress in the heat and in the coming refreshment. He had recently fallen asleep more often with the memory of the evening of the great feast when she had wrapped this dream of a dress around her truly heavenly body. His thoughts had then moved more than once into regions that were more than inappropriate for a young knight – especially when thinking of his beloved – and he had had to tear himself away from it. Even if only reluctantly.

He longed for her. He longed for her enchanting smile and for the sound of her laughs, as clear as the ringing of the most beautiful bell, for the way the wind played with her beautiful hair and the sunlight made it shine like flames, for her soft voice and for her sweet smell of fresh blossoms and vernal honey and most of all for the taste of her blooming lips.

"So what do you think?" Daeron's voice tore him from his thoughts of Sansa. It was already after noon and only now did he begin to realize that he must have missed almost half the day spent in daydreams about his lady. He looked up and noticed that they were all looking at him and obviously expecting an answer or some kind of decision. "Right or left?" Daeron continued, apparently realizing that Aegon had no idea what was expected of him. He looked ahead and saw that they were at a parting of the road.

He looked at the roads for a while and then said "Right. There are tracks. They're old, but you can still see them."

"And you think these tracks are from Smiling Knight?" Oberyn asked in disbelief.

"I don't know, but there's not that many people traveling around the Kingswood these days. So it's better than nothing."

Oberyn only shrugged at that and rode on. The rest followed without a word.

They followed the road to their right for another day. It led them back north and east again after they had almost left the Kingswood at its southern end. They set up camp under a small ledge, which was quite well hidden and to their great delight even kept them dry during the night. So they allowed themselves to light a fire to get a little warm and maybe dry their clothes overnight. Aegon and Ser Bonifer took the first watch.

The two of them walked through the undergrowth, climbed over fallen trees and fought their way through thorny bushes along an old, beaten path that seemed to begin nowhere and led exactly there again. Their camp could indeed not be seen from any direction if you walked only a dozen steps away. Alone from a certain spot next to a small hill, which was so swampy that no one could hide there for more than a few heartbeats without being swallowed up to the waist by the muddy ground, the shine of the fire reflecting on the rocky ledge could be seen.

They also found some good vantage points from which to keep a good view of the nearby road without being seen themselves, and sought out specific landmarks nearby – a mossy tree stump with an old bird's nest in it, an ash tree split by lightning, and a rock that looked like Lord Connington's nose – which they could use to explain these vantage points to the next guard. That way, Ser Barristan and Ser Raymun would not have to discover them again for themselves. Aegon sat on Connington's nose and looked down on the road for a while, but there was no one to be seen for as far as he could look. There were no tracks on the muddy road except their own. Not of wagons, not of horses or oxen, not of men. But he knew that the rain, even if it was now weaker than the days before, washed away every trace in the shortest time anyway. So that did not have to mean much.

He looked around and the frightening feeling of being watched swept through him again. He could not say from where, but he was sure that strangers' eyes were on him and on every of his steps. He literally felt them following him out of the approaching darkness. He looked around trying to discover someone, but just as since the beginning of their journey, he discovered no one and nothing. The only eyes he found were those of an owl on a tree branch nearby. An almost nightmarish sight, but nothing compared to the creeping feeling inside. Ser Bonifer stood at the foot of Connington's nose, searching the surroundings in the opposite direction.

Someone's out there, Aegon thought. I know you're there. I can feel your eyes on me. Come forward. But nothing happened and no one came forward on his thought command. Of course not. But I fear the moment you will actually show yourself and we find out about who you really are.

They circled the camp in silence for about two more hours until Ser Bonifer started talking about how he would be happy to pray together with Aegon. So far the Seven had stood by them, he said, and the closer they came to the Smiling Knight, the more important their divine protection would be.

Aegon was not so sure if they were really getting closer, but assuming that there was a smaller and smaller part of the Godswood left to search, it was a reasonable assumption. He had never been a true believer. Ser Bonifer on the other hand was so strong in his faith that Aegon sometimes wondered why he had not become septon. He was a good man with a good heart though, brave and loyal and Aegon decided to grant him this delight. He was not convinced that a prayer to the Seven would give them any special advantage in the near future. However, arguing about this with Ser Bonifer would not do him any good either and might even hurt the old man. So instead he agreed and followed Ser Bonifer to a small clearing near their camp, from where they could still keep a good view of the surroundings. After all, it was their watch.

They knelt down in front of a small tree, which actually looked a bit like someone had once tried to carve a dead but still in the ground tree into an icon of one of the Seven at least a decade ago. He wasn't sure whether it should have become the Warrior or the Stranger, but the divine help of both of them would be fine for him. They prayed in silence, and Aegon sent short prayers to the Warrior to grant them strength should they indeed soon encounter the Smiling Knight, and to the Stranger with the plea that they all may not cross his path too soon. It took less than half an hour for Ser Bonifer to rise again. Aegon did the same. The old man smiled as happily and sincerely as he had never seen him before.

"I thank you, my prince," he said with a bow.

"I thank you, Ser Bonifer. For everything," Aegon said sincerely.

They continued their watch for another hour without speaking a word, but Aegon could see, even in the darkness of the night, the wide and satisfied smile on the old man's face. Ser Barristan and Ser Raymun took over their watch and Aegon feel asleep the moment his head touched the ground on his bedside, holding Sansa in his arms again in his dreams.

Daeron's hand on his shoulder woke him from his dreams with a rough jolt. He wanted to ask what this was all about, as he could see that the sun had not yet risen completely over the horizon and so his brother should have let him sleep for almost an hour longer. Aegon wanted to ask what this was about but his brother told him with a quick gesture to be quiet before the first word had even left his mouth. He stood up and looked around. Except for Oberyn, who had also just been woken up by Ser Barristan, all the others were already awake, crouched in a circle and looking at each other with serious faces.

"We spotted men on the street nearby," Ser Raymun whispered so gently that Aegon could hardly hear him even at that close distance. "Armed but without banners. Bandits. At least six of them."

"Smiling Knight?" Oberyn asked.

"At least they look relatively well-fed," said Ser Barristan. "But of course we don't know for certain."

"We should follow them. Perhaps they will lead us to their camp, to the Smiling Knight," Daeron suggested.

"That was our idea, too," said Barristan. Again the whole group looked at Aegon, waiting for a decision from their crown prince. This time he reacted quickly.

"Good idea. That's what we'll do. What do we do with our belongings?"

"We should leave them here, including the horses. They are well hidden. And the men are on foot. It's unlikely that they will march very far. And if they do, one of us can still go back and fetch the horses and the supplies."

Everyone nodded in agreement, grabbed their sword belts and crept through the bushes towards the road. Ser Barristan had already mapped out a path that would bring them close enough to the road to keep an eye on the strangers, but in such a way that they would not reveal themselves by breaking off twigs or branches in the deep undergrowth.

There were indeed six men walking along the road in a loose formation. They all wore sword belts on their hips, but they looked cheap and worn, the handles of their weapons brown from dirt and years old sweat. One carried a bow and some arrows on his back, another a crossbow for which Aegon could spot no bolts and which had already been patched in several places. They were all wrapped in grey and brown cloth and simple leather, but with no real armor except for some loose pieces of studded leather and a few unfitting, battered pauldrons here and there. One had a helmet dangling from his hips on a thin string.

The men walked along the road for almost an hour, talking mostly about the physical qualities of a woman called Lyla who had been working in a tavern south of Feldwood until a few weeks ago. Now she was big with child, apparently without knowing who the father was. The men, however, hoped that she would soon be able to work again, as serving food and drink was not her only business in this tavern. Being the daughter of the innkeeper, she was apparently also responsible for a completely different kind of physical wellbeing of his guests, apart from food and drink.

"I'd fuck her no matter what. With those teats, I wouldn't care. One teat for the brat, one for me while I'm between her legs," the guy with the bull's neck blurted out. The others agreed unanimously. After that the skinny guy with the crooked nose and the crossbow on his back bragged about how some of them had once, for a few halfpennies more, mounted Lyla with several men at the same time like a bitch in heat, but couldn't for the life of him figure out why that shouldn't be possible anymore, just because she was now carrying a big belly in front of her. She had obviously not enjoyed it very much, but her father had gladly accepted the extra pennies.

They left the road and turned into the bushes at a seemingly random spot. Aegon and the others sneaked closer, crossed the road and only when they were almost in front of it did they realize that between two currant bushes there was a narrow path that could almost only be seen from the road if you already knew it to be there. Carefully they pushed the bushes to the sides so as not to make any noise and sneaked on. In the distance they could still hear the voices of the men they were secretly following.

In the last moment, Daeron spotted a guard in a nearby tree and gave everyone a sign before they themselves were discovered. They pushed into the undergrowth on both sides of the path and now crawled closer on all fours, protected by thick shrubs and more berry bushes. He would not have noticed, had Aegon not caught Daeron's admiring look, but a quick glance over his shoulder showed him that after passing the guard unseen, Ser Barristan had apparently somehow managed to pull the guard down from his tree and to open his throat without the slightest noise.

No doubt one of the best, perhaps the best of all, Aegon thought.

They reached the edge of a camp, tents made of coarse and dirty cloth and a smoking campfire of wet wood in the middle, where the six were welcomed by about a dozen other men. All of them wore dirty, ragged clothes of simple cloth and leather, and similarly used and cheap weapons lying beside them or hanging from their hips, old swords with somewhat rusty blades, crooked clubs of splintered wood, and seemingly selfmade spears with plain tips of hewn iron. Aegon could only see Daeron on his right and Oberyn on his left in the undergrowth, but he knew that the others were near and probably just as anxious as he was. He looked at Daeron for a while as they watched the bandits' camp in suspense and again sent a prayer to the Seven – or whoever might listen – that they would make it out of this alive.

Aegon then turned his head to his uncle. It was only when Oberyn's eyes opened wide in surprise and he nodded to him and the man on his own left – Aegon assumed it was either Lewyn or Ser Barristan – to signal to look in the same direction as he did, that he turned his gaze back to bandits and their camp.

For a moment, Aegon gasped as he saw a particular man coming out of one of the makeshift tents and his blood almost seemed to freeze. The man might have been forty name days old, maybe a little more, with short brown and grey hair and a long and furry moustache of the same color, and an aquiline nose in a face so sharp and edged that it looked like it had been carved out of a piece of wood. He was the only one wearing an almost complete suit of armor, though obviously composed of various different armors. Probably from the men he has killed. No two pieces of his armor seemed to belong together and so he was dressed so brightly in all the colors of the rainbow from head to toe that one could have taken him for a court jester or a mummer, had he not carried a helmet under his arm, darkly lacquered in almost black, on the front of which a crooked, horrible grin was painted in white and red.

The Smiling Knight.

Aegon was just about to give the signal to Daeron and Oberyn to retreat in order to make a proper plan of attack when he heard screams and the crash of steel on steel from his left. They must have been detected. So now there was no more time to retreat, to plan or to even hesitate. Now was the time to act, bravely and courageously as was expected of a knight. He immediately jumped up and stormed forward, stabbing his sword through the neck of the first man in front of him, unprepared for a fight. He fell to the ground dead immediately. Aegon tore his sword from the body of the dead man and ran on towards the next man, but this man already had his sword in his hand ready for battle. He struck, swinging his sword down from above in a wide arc. His opponent fended off the blow and stepped towards Aegon. He backed away and wiped with his blade quickly in front of him to prevent the enemy from advancing. A quick glance to his right showed him that Daeron had already taken down one opponent as well and was about to bring down his second. The bandit had no chance against his brother's excellent technique and so Daeron would defeat him quickly.

He spun around and swung to the side as his opponent came towards him again, his sword raised high. He let his opponent's blade slide along his, pressed himself forward and kicked him as hard as he could against the unprotected knee. The joint gave way and broke with a cracking sound, the man screamed and lost his balance. Immediately Aegon stepped closer and drove his blade deep into his unprotected chest.

He looked around, saw all of his companions engaged in wild fights. Daeron had taken out his second opponent already, slitting his throat so deep that he had almost beheaded him, killed a man in passing who had frantically tried to get a crossbow loaded and was now busy taking out another bandit with a round wooden shield and big club in his left hand. Lewyn was facing a man with a spear and managed to fend him off but was already heavily bleeding from his left thigh. Ser Raymun tried to get closer to him, but was himself engaged in a wild dance with two men, one swinging a morningstar that looked way too large for his small body and one swinging two swords at the same time. Oberyn, Ser Bonifer and Ser Barristan had managed to elegantly encircle a group of five bandits and were now taking them out one by one. Aegon looked ahead and saw the Smiling Knight, his helmet on his head, reaching for his sword. But instead of attacking, he just looked around for a moment, then turned and ran away towards the bushes around the camp.

I must not let him get away!

Aegon rushed off, stabbed his blade into the neck of a man on his left who was about to attack Oberyn from behind with a jagged sword, and jumped into the bushes behind the fleeing Smiling Knight. He saw the shadowy form of the Smiling Knight rushing through the undergrowth before him. Aegon ran after him as fast as he could, sword in hand. They ran on and on and with every step, Aegon came closer and closer. For a brief moment, the Smiling Knight was out of sight. No, he must not get away! Aegon ran further and further, but through the visor of his helmet he could see very little and hear practically nothing but his own heavy breathing.

For a brief moment he thought he saw the shape of the Smiling Knight before him once more, slamming a branch to the side with his blade and rushing out into a clearing through a thick rowan bush. Aegon followed him and stopped abruptly when he saw the man standing before him only little more than a dozen paces away, unmoving like a statue, sword in hand and the terrible grin glowing towards him. He breathed heavily and looked at the man in silence. Carefully his gaze wandered to both sides to make sure no other armed men would jump on him and slaughter him the next moment. He saw no one though, so he briefly relaxed the fingers of his sword hand to make himself ready, then grabbed his weapon firmly again and took a few steps towards the Smiling Knight.

"I didn't think the Smiling Knight would abandon his men just like that."

"They are not my men. Or were, it would seem. We were more like a free brotherhood with… similar interests. I, for one, never thought the King would actually risk his first-born to capture an insignificant little rascal like me."

He circled his sword around his body a few times and then took an offensive stance. This man has learned how to swordfight, Aegon realized. He would not be as easy to defeat as most of the poor fools in the camp behind him. His sword was blank and sharp, glistening in the faint sunlight from the fine raindrops that fell on it. Good steel, forged in a castle. Aegon wondered what poor soul he might have taken this weapon from.

"Me neither. But here we are. Tell me, are you a knight?"

"A knight? Well, years ago, I was anointed, an old man put a sword on my shoulder, and I swore an oath. But if you ask me if I am still a knight, I suppose I must deny it.  A true knight would not do what I have done. On the other hand, where do you still find a true knight these days except in songs and stories?"

"What is your name, Ser?"

"You've never heard my name, you can be sure of that. Nor the name of the man who knighted me. You probably never even heard the name of my old liege lord. What does the dragon care what games the sheep play?"

"I want to know him, Ser."

"Then you'd better learn to live with disappointments. He would tell you nothing, so why waste time? But enough talk, my prince," he said, spitting out Aegon's title as if it was an insult. "You certainly didn't come to me for a nice little chat."

Without waiting for an answer, the Smiling Knight advanced. Aegon took a step forward as well to bring himself in a more defensive stance. The Smiling Knight was quick, struck from left and right so fast and hard, that Aegon could barely hold him off in the first few moments. He quickly adjusted to his rhythm though. At the last moment he managed to parry a hard blow from the left, which would undoubtedly have cut his arm clean off, and then deflected a strike against his right knee, which would have done the same to his lower leg. It was only after half a dozen blows from the Smiling Knight that Aegon managed to bring on his own attack.

He took a small step back, faked a gap in the defense and then quickly swerved to the side to break through the Smiling Knight's defense with a quick thrust. Somehow, his opponent managed to twist his upper body just far enough for the blade to just scrape along his breastplate instead of going through his lungs. His fist hammered down on Aegon's sword arm. He almost lost his grip on his weapon but managed to pull it back at the last moment. A clumsy but strong kick in the direction of his opponent, hitting him somewhere on the hip, brought enough distance between them so that he couldn't directly counterattack.

His hand hurt horribly but at least he still held his sword in his hand. They kept circling each other, dealing hard blows and fending them off. Aegon felt himself getting tired and running out of air. Again he sent a quick prayer to the Seven that his opponent might feel the same.

The man is twice my age, at least. How can he hold out that long?

"Not bad, but not good enough. Does our prince think he's a hero from the stories? Rest assured, there are enough self-appointed heroes buried among the trees of this forest who didn't know who they were messing with," he heard the Smiling Knight bragging through the horrible grin on his helmet.

Again he circled around his enemy, hitting the Smiling Knight hard with a blow from his right. Using the techniques that Oberyn and his teachers from Essos had taught him, he gradually gained the upper hand. The Smiling Knight's movements became slower now, his parries less precise and his blows weaker. Aegon felt that the end of the fight was near.

Then it happened. He delivered a blow with his sword. The blade struck the Smiling Knight's upper arm. It didn't cut through his armor, but the force of the blow made him stumble to the side. The Smiling Knight couldn't keep himself on his feet and fell to the ground, quickly rolling off away from Aegon. He grabbed something on the ground, though Aegon couldn't see what it was. Aegon pursued, sword raised to attack. Just as he was about to strike and end his enemy's life, the Smiling Knight came up again, parrying Aegon's hard blow. He fought himself to his feet again and with the strength of desperation he counterattacked. Aegon parried his blows, struck back and tried to concentrate on the side of his injured arm.

For a tiny moment he discovered a gap in the Smiling Knight's defense. He leapt forward, swinging his blade in a wide arc over his left shoulder. His opponent reacted faster than Aegon had thought possible. A trap! Smiling Knight's sword smashed against Aegon's blade, pushing it aside. He now leapt forward himself and smashed shoulder first into Aegon's upper body with full force. All air was pressed out of his lungs and his sword fell out of his hand. Unable to protect himself, he saw the other hand of the Smiling Knight racing towards his head.

A rock. He's holding a rock in his hand, Aegon thought as it hit his helmet with full force. He felt the force of the blow distort his helmet, taking away most of his sight and hitting his head so hard he went to the ground immediately. Aegon looked up, still with no air in his lungs, no weapon in his hand and half his sight taken away by the twisted visor. His head was pounding, everything was spinning around him and he tasted blood in his mouth. The Smiling Knight towered above him now, looking down at him with his ugly grin. His sword was raised, ready to deliver the fatal blow.

"It seems the King had better send someone else, doesn't it?"

Aegon saw the blade coming down, thought he could already feel it cutting his flesh when he heard the loud crash of steel upon steel again, right in front of him. Another sword had appeared out of nowhere and blocked the Smiling Knight's blow at the last moment. A knight in a battered, deep blue armor attacked the Smiling Knight, pushing him back away from the still dazed Aegon. He saw only vaguely as the blue knight served the Smiling Knight blow for blow, pushing him backwards away from him. His technique was undeveloped, but wild and strong and seemingly through sheer willpower the blue knight apparently gained the upper hand.

Aegon tried to concentrate, get his gaze clear, but still could not see much. Then suddenly the shield of the blue knight caught his eye. He had seen this shield before, a green shooting star above an elm tree on sunset. The blue knight was the Mystery Knight from his tourney!

The Smiling Knight tried to strike back, but each attack was met by a furious thunderstorm of faster, more and more powerful blows. The Smiling Knight jumped to the side, let his blade describe a wide arc and aimed at the head of the blue knight. The blue knight jumped forward, grabbed the Smiling Knight's sword hand with his left and hammered his helmet powerfully against his head. The Smiling Knight staggered back. The blue knight struck, knocking the sword out of his hand. Unprotected, the Smiling Knight stood there now, still staggering. The blue knight spun around, swung out and struck with such force that the Smiling Knight's head was separated from his shoulders with a smooth cut, flying to the side like a child's toy. The body of his enemy collapsed, blood pouring from the stump of his neck.

The blue knight turned, came back to Aegon. Just when Aegon, not yet master of his thoughts again, thought he was about to receive the mortal blow, the knight knelt before him. Aegon fought himself on his knees and pulled the damaged helmet from his head. Still everything was spinning around him, blood was running from his mouth and nose over his chin and his vision was still slightly blurred.

He wanted to say something, wanted to thank the knight, but before he could say the first word, he heard the voices of Daeron, Ser Barristan and Oberyn behind him. Only a moment later they pushed through the bushes behind him, the swords still drawn, surrounding the blue knight.

"Stop!" Aegon said before any of them could do or say anything. "This knight has saved my life."

The others sheathed their swords and Daeron helped him back on his feet. The blue knight climbed unsteady to his feet.

"Approach," Aegon said.

At close hand, the blue armor looked even more worn out than Aegon had first thought. Everywhere it showed scars, the dents of mace and warhammer, the long gouges left by swords, chips in the enameled breastplate and helm. His cloak hung in rags. The blue knight stepped closer, only to kneel again before Aegon in the next moment, presenting his sword to Aegon hilt first, a gesture reserved for a knight towards his king.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice muffled by his dented great helm.

"Please, take off your helmet and let me look into the face of my savior."

For a moment, nothing happened. Reluctantly, the knight finally did as he was bid, grabbed his helmet and pulled it from his head. Aegon's eyes widened in surprise when he realized he was looking into the face of a woman. The hair under the helmet was a squirrel's nest of dirty straw. The woman's eyes were large and of a beautiful clear blue. Almost like Sansa's eyes, he thought. But the rest of her face… her features were broad and coarse, her teeth prominent and crooked, her mouth too wide, her lips so plump they seemed swollen. A thousand freckles speckled her cheeks and brow, and her nose had been broken more than once.

"Brienne of Tarth," Ser Barristan said surprised. "Daughter to Lord Selwyn the Evenstar."

Aegon decided to ask Ser Barristan where he knew her from later. But now was neither the time nor the place to do so.

"You may rise, my lady. Woman or no, you fought as bravely and as boldly as only a few men could have done in your place. I owe you my life. This is a debt I shall not forget. As my savior, you may ask of me any boon that you desire. If it lies in my power, it is yours."

"Your Grace," Brienne answered, "I ask the honor to pledge my life to yours, to go where you go, ride at your side, and keep you safe from all hurt and harm."

Aegon thought about it for a moment. Could he make a woman his sworn sword? There had never been anything like it. At least not outside of Dorne. But why not? After all, he was half Dornish. And besides, as far as he could say, the Lady Brienne fought as well and as bravely as any man he knew. It must have been she who had pursued them, guarding and protecting him without permission, against the King's explicit order. Had she been caught, she could have been hanged for that. But she had done so nevertheless. She was brave and good with the sword and it only took a quick glance into her eyes to tell Aegon that she was true and loyal to death.

"Done," he said with a serious voice but a warm and honest smile on his face. Brienne rose and the most wide and wonderful smile adorned her face. At least the most wonderful smile she was capable of.

"My life is yours, Your Grace. From this day until my last, I am your shield and sword, I swear it by the old gods and the new."

He ignored the somewhat uncertain looks of Ser Barristan and Oberyn. Only Daeron seemed to share his thoughts and nodded in agreement. They went back to the bandits' camp together, after Daeron had picked up the Smiling Knight's helmet, leaving his head behind.

Arriving there he looked around. Their enemies were all dead, his companions seemed to be well. Only one man was missing. Lewyn. He looked at Oberyn questioningly, but he only shook his head. Lewyn was dead. He could hardly believe it and had to pull himself together not to sink to the ground. His great uncle was dead.

"How?"

"As he had sworn to do," Daeron said. "He protected my life."

Aegon could only nod. Then he saw the knight's body lying beside one of the dirty tents. A sword stuck in his side and all his pants and boots were red from the blood on his thigh wound. He must have fought until the last moment, Aegon thought. Should he ever die fighting, he prayed that he would have the strength to do so as well. To die the death of a true knight. They would take his body with them to give him a burial worthy for a man like him.

"One survived," he heard Ser Bonifer say. He turned to him and saw that there was indeed a survivor leaning against the tree next to Ser Bonifer, even though the wound on his belly did not look like he had much time left. Aegon went over to the man and squatted on the ground next to him. The others followed and lined up behind him.

"Tell me where the supplies are," Aegon said.

"Take me to a maester and I'll tell you everything you want to know. Quick," moaned the man whom Aegon quickly recognized as the bull-neck from the road.

"Your life is over. All we can offer you is a quick death," said Ser Bonifer. Aegon saw out of the corner of his eye how Oberyn looked at him crooked. Probably his uncle would have preferred to negotiate with him to get information before cutting his throat. But Ser Bonifer did not lie. Not ever.

"Then you will get nothing from me."

"Very well, we'll leave you here then. You can't walk with that wound, but you'll be in agony for a few more hours. Until the wolves smell your blood and come to you, that is," Aegon said.

The man distorted his face into a grimace, like a final rebellion against the inevitable fate of his approaching death. He saw tears standing in his eyes. Whether in pain or fear, Aegon could not tell. He waited until the dying man had put his thoughts in order. There was no escape for him. Ser Bonifer was right. His life was over, even if his body still refused to accept it. And as much as he might cling to his life, the last hours he could hope for would be nothing but pain and suffering, until he would die a slow and cruel death, alone in the woods and the darkness. Finally the man seemed to come to the same insight.

"All right. All right," he pressed out between his teeth.

"So where are the supplies from Highgarden?"

"We used them up or sold them… months ago. It wasn't that much anyway."

"It should have been enough to supply all of King's Landing. So where's the food?"

"We didn't steal that much. There were five wagonloads, then another eight. That was all, and that was almost three months ago."

Aegon was confused. He looked around, looked in the faces of his companions, who also didn't seem to know what the man was saying or how to react.

"No," Aegon finally said. "Highgarden sent food to King's Landing over and over again and they were intercepted by your gang time and time again."

"I know nothing of this. We raided two transports. We've… heard the stories about our gang as well. Helped us take out… the smallfolk. Didn't have to… pay for the women and beer in ta-… taverns. But that's all it was. Stories. That's all it was. Please, it's the truth."

"That's impossible," said Ser Raymun.

"No, it isn't," the man pressed out again. "We have heard… other things. Stories that Highgarden wanted his daughter in the bed of the Crown Prince."

"Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond knows this," Oberyn said.

"Yes, but the Fat Lord wanted to... wanted to put himself in a good position to do so. We heard in taverns from men from the Reach that the Fat Lord wanted to pressure the King… somehow."

"Pressure him?" Aegon asked more of himself than the others. A brief moment they were all quiet, trying to make sense of what the dying man was claiming to know.

"It makes sense," Daeron finally said. "Unfortunately, that is. King's Landing cannot provide for itself. It depends on food from outside, especially from the Reach. What if Lord Tyrell wanted to scarce food in the capital to put pressure on father and then, when the pressure was at its greatest, to suddenly show up with enough food to feed the whole city fat? He would gain much support. So much support even, from the smallfolk and the lords and ladies of the city, in all the Crown Lands basically, that our father would have had little choice but to give you Margaery to marry. All he needed was an excuse. A reason why the deliveries didn't arrive. This little bunch of bandits probably came in just in time."

"So… he never sent out supplies. Instead, he always just claimed to have sent them and that they were stolen, only to appear at the city gates with an army and hundreds of wagons of food at the crucial moment and act as a savior," Aegon said. "By the Seven, you are right. But unfortunately, the drought got in his way. The staged famine quickly turned into a real one and before Lord Tyrell knew it, he himself didn't have enough food left to feed the capital."

"But Lord Tyrell would only make up for the damage he himself has done. If he were responsible for the food shortages," said Ser Barristan, "it would have been hard to appear as the savior afterwards."

"Not necessarily," Oberyn said. "When people starve, they cheer for anyone who feeds them, a king, a lord or the neighbor's pig. Nobody would ever have asked how it had come to this in the first place when they could just keep their mouths shut and survive."

"Still, not a very smart plan for a lord."

"Mace Tyrell is a very smart lord," Daeron returned.

"If that's true, then it's treason," Brienne said. "We must hurry back to the capital and inform the king about this."

"I doubt if my father will listen to me," Aegon said. "But still, it's true that we must hurry back. Whatever exactly Lord Tyrell's original plan was, he's gone so far with it that there's no going back for him now. No doubt he'll try something else."

"And what?" Daeron asked.

"I don't know, but it can't be good. We must go back and stop whatever is going to happen."

He quickly pulled a dagger from his belt and slit the dying man's throat without another word. They quickly got back to their horses and made their way on the Kingsroad towards King's Landing. The way back would take them several days, half a week, but if they had to, they'd just have to ride the horses to ruin to get there faster. There was no time to lose.

They made good progress when they reached a fork in the road after just under half a day.

"I'm going to Dorne," Oberyn proclaimed, who had been leading the horse behind him since their departure, on which Lewyn's dead body lay, wrapped in his white cloak and dirty cloth from the bandits' tents. They had taken the cleanest cloth they could find, but it was still covered in dirt. Absolutely unworthy of such a man, but that was the best they had to offer to this great knight. "He shall be buried in home soil." Everyone nodded their approval. There was no doubt that none of them wanted to miss Oberyn for whatever would await them in the capital, but if one of them had any objections, he had not dared to voice them. Oberyn rode closer to Aegon before he spoke further. "I will be there for you, nephew. I promise you that. The days ahead are dangerous. I can smell a war coming. If you need me, I'll be there for you. I'll be waiting for you at Vulture's Roost."

Aegon nodded, briefly hugged his uncle as best he could on horseback. Then they parted and continued on their ways. They kept silent most of the time while they rode. Aegon knew they were going too fast. The horses couldn't take it for long. So he reluctantly agreed to take regular breaks. Being suddenly with no or too few horses so far away from King's Landing, should one or even more the horses perish due to the strain, could make all the difference, as Ser Bonifer pointed out several times. The difference between what, Aegon did not want to imagine. Of course the old man was right, but Aegon still didn't like to rest, to sit around and do nothing. His family could be in danger. Sansa could be in danger. He had to get to them, fast.

On the evening of the first day of their journey back, they had already made a good part of their way. Aegon and Daeron were sitting next to each other at a small bonfire, roasting some of the turnips they had bought together with the horses. Ser Raymun and Brienne kept watch while Ser Bonifer and Ser Barristan talked a little further away about what Lord Tyrell might do next. However, they did not come to any good conclusions as far as Aegon could understand them, as they both agreed relatively quickly that it would be better for Lord Tyrell to keep his feet still, wait for the end of the drought, and pray that no word of his betrayal would ever reach the king's ears.

"I wish we could have taken him with us?" Daeron said out of nowhere.

"Who then? Uncle Lewyn? Oberyn was right. He needs to be buried in home soil."

"No, the bandit. I wish we could have taken the bandit with us to present him to father. As proof of Lord Tyrell's treason."

"Hmm," was all Aegon could answer.

"Don't you think so?"

Aegon did not speak for a while, only looking in the dark sky, trying to spot even a single star through the thick and nightly black clouds.

"I fear," he finally began, "father won't take kindly to whatever we present to him, proof or no proof. I'm afraid father never intended us to succeed."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am certain that father expected us to fail. Either return as a failure because we could not kill the Smiling Knight or die in the attempt."

"You can't be serious! Father may have become a little… odd, but he would never seriously risk harming either of us. He is our father."

Aegon looked into the flames for a while before continuing. He thought about their father, what he had done and said to him in private, how his behavior had gotten worse, his demands and orders and wishes more and more absurd. The fire was low, the wood wasn't completely dry and so the smoke burned in his eyes.

"Do you remember what father said in the Throne Room before we left, about how during the tourney he offered me an opportunity to prove myself, which I so foolishly refused?"

"Um, yes. What of it?"

Aegon looked his brother in the eye. His little brother has grown into a man. A good man, brave and strong. He was proud of his brother, proud of the man he has become. He did not know what the next days or weeks or months would hold for them, but he knew that, should anything happen to him, Daeron would be there to take his place. And that realization made him incredibly happy. Smiling sincerely and full of pride, he tapped his brother on the shoulder, who seemed a little confused by the gesture. He then pulled his hand back and his gaze became serious again.

"About that opportunity… There's something I need to explain to you, little brother."

Notes:

So, that was it. As alwys, please let me know what you think in the comments. I love to read/hear your thoughts about this chapter or this fic in general.

See you next time. :-)

Chapter 23: Rhaenys 3

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. We are back at King's Landing. Rhaenys will finally discover what her father and Viserys are up to and ... well, she is not happy about it.

Hope you guys have fun reading.

Walking through one of the many small courtyards of Maegor's Holdfast, she looked up in the sky. The skies were shaded in all shades of grey as far as she could see. But the rain was still to come. She thanked the Seven that the worst heat now at least lay behind them. But still no rain. She climbed up a small staircase and stepped out onto one of the wide galleries around the defensive towers of Maegor's Holdfast. The wind was pleasant, fresh and almost chilly. But still there was no rain.

She looked down at the Red Keep, for the first time seeing the damage that the riots had caused a few days earlier. The main gate had been in flames at times and was more black than brown. She also thought she could see that it was no longer hanging straight up on its hinges, which may have been due to her poor visibility though. Apart from a few cheap swords and crooked lances, the rioters had possessed no real weapons, no armor and of course no siege equipment, but the rage and desperation that had driven them had made them fight so fiercely that at times it had almost seemed as if they could actually get through the main gate. Making matters worse, a number of Gold Cloaks had defected in the middle of the riots, so there had been fights even within the Red Keep. The council chamber had been damaged and was unusable now and the Grand Hall was completely burned down. They had plundered the kitchens, or at least tried to, because apart from some old bread and dry fruit there was nothing left to plunder. It had taken half the night for loyal Gold Cloaks, Flameguard and the rest of the Kingsguard to win the fights.

"We held the castle today, but no one knows what tomorrow will bring," Commander Manly Stokeworth had told her when he let her out of her chambers the next morning. He was a man like a bear with a dark beard and dark eyes under dark, furry brows that made him look like a bandit from the deepest forest. But he was as kind as a lapdog and one of the few men that Rhaella and she still trusted. When an experienced man like Stokeworth talked like that, it had weight.

The stench of smoke and fire and death still hung over the whole city. Half of Flea Bottom had been lost in the flames, along with a large part of the Valyrian Quarter. Some rioters had even tried to set fire to the Dragon Pit. As if there had been much left to burn in those old ruins. Cobbler's Square no longer existed, and in Fishmonger's Square the fighting had continued for almost another day before it was finally pacified and most of the rioters had either been driven back to their homes or hung. They had lost nearly two hundred Gold Cloaks that night as she had learned from Commander Stokeworth, and even more had deserted during or after the fighting. Nobody knew how many peasants had been killed and nobody bothered to count them.

She had spent the night locked in her chambers together with Sansa and Lady Jeyne. There had been three good and trustworthy men outside the door the whole night – the very same men that were now following her on her way through the Red Keep – but she would have preferred Ser Jaime to be there to protect them during the night and now her during the day. Her father still had not allowed her to visit Ser Jaime in the dungeons. At least that's what Lord Connington had told her. She was glad that at least he wasn't rotting away in the Black Cells like poor Lord Eddard. At least, that's what Lord Connington had told her. She trusted the man only as far as she could spit, which was not very far, as she had found out when she was a child playing with Aegon and Daeron. But in this case, she didn't believe he was lying to her. Lord Connington had been odd lately. Not that he wasn't always a bit odd in her eyes. But lately it was different. He floated through the Red Keep with a strange aura of grandeur as if he expected to be proclaimed the new High Septon soon.

Ser Arthur, on the other hand, seemed to be downhearted, as if he had received the worst possible news, and Ser Gerold, already no friend of hearty laughter for years, seemed even more grim and spoke even less than before. She didn't know what her father and uncle were up to, but she suspected nothing good. She decided to go back to Sansa and Rhaella who were waiting for her in Rhaella's garden. Lady Jeyne had not joined them even though she and Sansa had tried to convince her that it was not a good idea to walk around the Red Keep alone. Those were dangerous times. But she had not been swayed and even if Sansa, the innocent doe, had imagined that Jeyne might be somewhere praying to the old or the new gods or doing needlework, Rhaenys knew very well that she would meet her Dornish knight in some dark chamber of the Red Keep and would undoubtedly let him between her legs. She was happy for her.

On her way to her grandmother's garden, she passed Gold Cloaks, who had just returned from the city, covered in dirt from top to bottom. She wondered why her father was still so keen to bury the dead outside the gates of the city. Sure, it was right to get the dead out of the city. Otherwise plagues and more dead would come. But this? The dead were lying for some time near the Guildhall of the Alchemists and then buried north and south of the city. But not even in big pits for hundreds of dead, but each in his own grave, at least one or two steps away from each other. It almost seemed as if her father wanted to cover as much space as possible, which Rhaenys thought was silly.

If he thinks he's going to win back the love of the people of the city by building a big cemetery, he is deeply mistaken.

Rhaenys did not understand this nonsense. They had few enough Gold Cloaks left, even fewer that they could actually trust not to stab them in the back at the next opportunity, and yet almost half of the men were busy almost all day burying dead men wrapped in sheets outside the gates of the city. It would have been better to use them for the repair at the Red Keep and to keep peace and order in the city, but her father had apparently decided otherwise. She knew that in some parts of the city new fights were breaking out time and time again, fires were breaking out and houses and taverns and stables and brothels were going up in flames.

She decided to take the longer way along the top of the river wall, passing the Red Keep's Godswood on one of the smaller, inner walls and then go through the outer courtyard. She wanted to take a closer look at the damage to the main gate, hoping to find out that it wasn't as bad as expected after all. She entered the interior of the small wall through a tiny watchtower, followed a narrow corridor and stepped out through a low door into the Red Keep's main courtyard.

She was just about to turn left, go through the gate and over the small drawbridge into the outer courtyard when stopped as if rooted to the ground. Rhaenys was struck at the sight of what was going on in front of her. Previously hidden by the towers and walls of the Red Keep, the Valyrian obelisk had somehow been brought over from the outer courtyard into the main courtyard and erected almost directly in the middle of it. She saw large wooden statues being carried out of a wide door next to the kitchens of the Little Gallery, leading downwards into a pitch black darkness. Four of them were already standing in a half-circle around the Valyrian obelisk, three more were about to come. It only took a quick glance to recognize that these were the wooden images of the Seven from the sept at Dragonstone. As a child she had kneeled and prayed to these images often enough. She recognized the dark wood at once, the hard and unpolished shapes of the faces of the Seven, carved from the wood of the first ships that had brought their ancestors from Valyria to Dragonstone, centuries before Aegon's Conquest. Given that no ships had been able to sail from or to Dragonstone in weeks, Rhaenys pondered how long her father and Viserys might have been planning and preparing this already.

In front of every image, small wooden altars had been placed and stacks of firewood had been piled around the feet of the Seven.

He wants to burn them, Rhaenys realized. This must be what made Lord Connington behave so strangely and what depressed the Sers Arthur and Gerold so much. Especially for Ser Gerold, after all a man of House Hightower, long connected and closely tied to the Faith, the idea that his sworn king publicly handed over these ancient images of the Seven to the flames in a heathen ceremony must surely cause sickness. If not more.

But why these images? Does the Red Witch think Valyrian wood burns better than Westerosi? Her father and Viserys constantly claimed that they wanted to return to their Valyrian heritage, but they obviously did not realize how much they were cutting the last ties to their family's past really. It was a pity, Rhaenys thought. A pity that she could not change unfortunately.

Or could she? She was already about to turn away and make her way to her grandmother's garden when she saw a short flash of silver-white hair behind the image of the Smith. At first, she thought of Viserys, but the hair was too short for him, the man's shoulders to broad. She also saw Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur standing next to the man. She looked again and actually recognized her father standing there. That was her chance.

If the door of his study is not between us, he cannot refuse me. He must listen to me!

Immediately she rushed towards him, past guards and hard working men, soaked with sweat and covered in dust and dirt. She was surprised to see how many lords and knights were still running around everywhere so long after the end of the tourney, giving her father the most submissive looks and greetings whenever he happened to look in her direction. There were far more men of ambition at court than she had feared. Her father obviously saw her coming and she could see in his eyes that he was considering having a few soldiers block her path. But he said nothing and the men let her pass. Still his look told her enough. "What are you going to annoy me with this time?" his eyes seemed to ask.

"Father, I must speak with you."

"And what about?" he asked, in as bored a tone as he seemed to be able to. Should she have addressed him as Your Grace? Aegon always did so because he knew how much their father loved to be flattered by this. But what good had it done him lately? Only now did she see that the Red Witch was also nearby. Rhaenys' stomach twisted at the sight of that woman.

"Ser Jaime. You must set him free."

"Must I? He attacked a member of the royal family. This is treason, my dear daughter. You should know that."

"He was only trying to protect me!"

"From what threat? Another slap in the face from Viserys? I do not condone my brother's behavior, but it does not change Ser Jaime's either."

"Treason? Father, he hit Viserys in the face, yes, but he still-"

"I won't listen to any more of this. Ser Jaime has acted wrongly and will receive whatever punishment his king sees fit." For a moment, Rhaenys was irritated as she'd never heard her father speak of himself in the third person before. He went on talking before she had a chance to think about it, however. "I know these times are confusing for you, child. But soon you will understand everything. I promise you that."

"Will I? Including what you plan to do with the images of the Seven? You want to burn them, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. But it will be the right thing to do. I'm not only your father, I'm also your King. You have to trust me on this, Rhaenys."

You can command obedience, she thought, but not trust, father. A king should know the difference.

He gave one of his men a sign and immediately a soldier stepped forward, holding a wooden box with bronze fittings in his hands. Her father reached for the handle of the box and pulled the lid up. Rhaenys looked inside and could not believe what she saw. Refused to believe it. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment.

"Dragon eggs," she breathed. They were beautiful, in pure white and shining green and jet black, and more valuable than anything else within the walls of the Red Keep, probably in all of Westeros. But they were also something else. They were dead. Dead, cold stone through and through. Certainly a wonderful ornament for the throne room, but nothing more.

"I obtained them years ago already for a truly royal price in Essos. They come directly from Asshai."

"They are beautiful, father. But... they are dead. And burning a few wooden statues will not change that."

"It grieves me how little faith you have in me, daughter."

"The dragons are dead, father, and they're not coming back. No matter how many statues you burn, or how many red priests from who knows where tell you otherwise."

"Azor Ahai will raise dragons from stone, Princess. So it is foretold and so it shall be," she heard the Red Witch say. Looking at the eggs, she had almost forgotten that she was standing right next to her. Thunder rumbled in the distance as if to strengthen her words. Thunder, but no rain. Still no rain. "The ritual that is being prepared here, this holy mass in honor of the one true God, the Lord of Light, will bring about just that. Azor Ahai will be reborn. He will claim his holy sword Lightbringer and the dragons will return at his command, tied to his will."

Rhaenys looked back and forth uncertainly between the witch and her father. She only knew about dragons what she knew from books of course, but that was apparently already much more than the Red Witch had to offer. Dragons had been ferocious beasts, dangerous and never truly tamed. They only bound themselves to humans voluntarily but could never really be subdued. The idea that dragons would emerge from these eggs, magically subjected to the will of a single man, was as absurd as the whole attempt itself. If this whole ritual hadn't been so ridiculous and hopeless as it was, Rhaenys would have loved to lecture the witch about it.

"Father, you can't possibly want to do that. Times are hard. People are starving and rebelling, and right now you want to turn your back on the Seven? This will only lead to more unrest. And you should know better than anyone what it leads to when trying to force the dragons back into this world. It's madness. Father, Summerhall was-"

Before she could say another word, her father had already given her a slap in the face. Not hard, but painful enough. She stood there, eyes wide open in shock and surprise. He had never hit her before, no matter what she had done or said.

"You probably wish Ser Jaime was here now so he could strike me down, too," her father spat at her. "I had hoped for more sense from you, daughter, if my sons are already disappointing me so much. But if you refuse to see the divine truth of the Lord of Light, you leave me no choice."

Again he gave his soldiers a sign and faster than she could react, she was seized by them, her arms turned to her back. Again thunder rumbled in the distance. But still no rain. The soldiers who had come with her were to intervene, but a glance from her father and the superior numbers of those on his side stopped them.

"Confine her to her chambers until I have further use for her."

The soldiers dragged her away, roughly and painfully in her shoulders.  She tried to tell them that she was going with them willingly, but the men either couldn't or wouldn't hear her. They pushed her through the door into her chambers and locked the door behind her without a word.

"My Princess," she heard a deep voice from the other side of the door after the better part of an hour of absolute silence, "we are Stokeworth's men. We're not allowed to speak to you, but I want you to know you're safe."

She thanked the men at the door, then the Seven for this little bit of fortune. Shortly afterwards the door opened again and Sansa and Lady Jeyne were pushed in roughly. For a moment they were chattering excitedly, shouting after the soldiers what that was supposed to mean. But just as Rhaenys herself, they received no answer. After they had calmed down a little and all three of them had had a cup of spiced wine, Rhaenys reported about her encounter with her father.

"So we are locked up again?" Sansa asked, sounding almost amused.

"It looks like it. Please forgive me, this is my fault."

"There's nothing to apologize for. You stood up for Ser Jaime. That was the right thing to do," Sansa said in a firm voice. Rhaenys wasn't sure if Lady Jenye felt the same way about this, but at least she didn't object. She was pretty sure, though, that it wasn't so much her speaking up for Ser Jaime as her rejection of this stupid ritual for that stupid red god that had led to their confinement. However, she refrained from going into the matter further. It would have been of little use to them anyway.

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you, Sansa. Or rather, both of you," Rhaenys finally said after the second cup of wine. "Your brother has called the banners."

Sansa's eyes grew large, even larger than they already were. "Robb has called the banners?"

"Yes, he has. I heard it from Ser Jonothor this very morning. He doesn't come out of White Sword Tower much anymore, but when he does, he hears plenty. Your brother no doubt received the raven from father to come to King's Landing to bend the knee. But I suppose he didn't take too kindly to the tiny detail of his father being arrested for treason."

They were silent for a while. Apparently, they both needed some time to think about what they had just learned. Rhaenys couldn't blame them. When Ser Jonothor had told her this morning, she had been speechless as well. Not only the Stormlands and the Vale of Arryn were in rebellion, now it looked as if the North, and with it no doubt a large part of the Riverlands, would turn against her family as well. If the Crownlands called the banners, they had only few armies to raise. They had no help to expect from the Reach, after the way her father had brusquely refused Margaery's hand in marriage for Aegon, to put it mildly. Whatever record of bad behavior her grandfather may have set in treating Tywin Lannister, her father seemed to have made every effort to keep up. The old Lion had holed himself up in Caterly Rock, just like during the last rebellion, and would certainly not rush to their aid. Dorne would stand at their side, if only for her and Aegon's sake, but Dorne alone could not hope to win a war against almost the entire rest of the realm.

"Now he is marching south with ten thousand men. He should be arriving at the walls of Dragon Shield any day now."

"The Strangler," Sansa whispered.

"Is that what they call the castle in the North? How appropriate."

"Father says the Strangler… Dragon Shield," Sansa corrected herself, "is strongly built, well located in the midst of a deep swamp and almost impassable unless you sacrifice half the armies in the North to get past it."

"I don't think so," Lady Jeyne now interjected. "Robb is strong and brave. He'll find a way."

Rhaenys doubted that strength and even the greatest bravery alone would be enough to defeat Dragon Shield under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances.

"I don't think Dragon Shield will be a great obstacle either," Rhaenys finally said. "Normally almost impassable, yes. But the castle is not held by five thousand men, but only five hundred. And should Howland Reed somehow have made it out of King's Landing and back to his fortress... What was it called?"

"Greywater Watch," Sansa said.

"Yes, Greywater Watch. Then he could attack with a small host from the south while your brother attacks with full force from the north. It's just a matter of proper planning. A few ravens should do the trick. Five hundred men could hold the castle for a few days maybe. But no more than that."

"You see? He's coming to rescue us. Us and your father. I told you so," Lady Jeyne said excitedly.

Rhaenys was less optimistic. Should Robb Stark really attack and overcome Dragon Shield and then march further south, it might all the more be seen an admission of guilt in the King's eyes. Lord Eddard's and Sansa's and even Jeyne's lives could be forfeited before Robb Stark could even set a foot in the Crownlands. She and her friend reveled in the idea that her brother would march to King's Landing, heroically defeat the evil king and his no less evil brother, free her father from the dungeon and rescue them from their imprisonment.

Just like in the stories, Rhaenys thought. Deep inside, Sansa is sometimes still a girl who loves stories after all. She couldn't blame her. Rhaenys decided to keep them in that belief for the time being. Sansa was smart. She would realize soon enough that this was one of the most unlikely of all outcomes. But at the moment these thoughts offered her comfort and hope, and these were the most important things to uphold now.

Additionally, as she had also learned from Ser Jonothor, Viserys was actually convinced – at least for the moment – that Robb Stark was heading south with an army to bend the knee and then support him and the King in the fight against the Lords Baratheon and Arryn. How her uncle could possibly be so blinded to believe that the young wolf would come to the aid to the men who had imprisoned his father in the Black Cells for treason under flimsy pretexts, Rhaenys could not even imagine. But that was a good thing, she guessed. The longer Viserys thought so, the longer he and the King, whom he and probably the Red Witch had apparently actually convinced of this idiocy, would do nothing against the young wolf. Perhaps they'd even given Dragon Shield the order to let the Starks' armies pass.

On the morning of the third day of their confinement, Rhaenys again looked down into one of the smaller courtyards of Maegor's Holdfast that she could see from one of her windows, bored. It was getting colder by the day, the clouds darker and darker, but still there was no rain. Only thunder in the distance, but no rain. They had not been allowed to leave her chambers. They had not been allowed a visit from her grandmother, nor were they allowed books or some games to pass the time with. But this morning there was finally something interesting to see. She had just followed a little songbird with her gaze, which must have nested somewhere under one of the lower roofs all around, when she saw her father, followed by the Red Witch, two soldiers of Viserys' Flameguard and the Sers Arthur and Gerold walking through this very courtyard. They were followed by the High Septon, as fast as his feet could carry him.

The crystal crown wobbled back and forth on his round head as the downright absurdly fat man tried to keep up with the king. How a man could seriously stay so incredibly fat in such a long famine was beyond Rhaenys' understanding. And how this almost incomprehensibly fat man had managed to gather starving people around him who seemed to blame him for nothing but directed their anger and rage solely on the king, was even more incomprehensible to her. But somehow the fat one had managed exactly that. Now he hurried after the king, breathing heavily and hardly able to put his plump feet fast enough in front of each other.

Rhaenys couldn't understand what he was saying, but the sight alone made her smirk. It was surprising enough that the High Septon was allowed to enter the Red Keep at all, let alone talk to her father. No doubt Ser Gerold had put in a very, very good word for him. The Hightowers had always been closely bonded to the Faith. Otherwise the fat one could have knocked his hands bloody at the charred main gate before he would ever have been allowed in.

She heard the High Septon yell something at the King and faster than she would have expected, the King turned around and yelled something in return. She still could not understand even a single word, unfortunately, as the voices were so far away and all the noise of the castle around them swallowed them up almost completely. The yelling went on for a while, back and forth and back again. Suddenly, one of the soldiers of the Flameguard stepped forward, drew his sword and slammed its hilt into the enormous belly of the High Septon. The fat one collapsed immediately, howling like a beaten dog. Immediately the blade of the sword went to the fat one's neck and she saw her father leaning down, saying something to him. Then he turned around and stomped away. Ser Gerold stayed behind for a moment and helped the fat one back on his feet, who immediately set off with angry steps towards in the opposite direction.

It took less than two hours before Rhaenys, Sansa and Jeyne heard the sounds of fighting again and smelled the smoke coming up from the city. King's Landing was on fire again. Halfway through the night they heard loud calls and barked orders, cries of the wounded and dying, and all the time it stank of smoke and burnt flesh. Only now and then, these dreadful noises were interrupted by loud thunder. But still there was no rain.

The next morning they were woken from their sleep by a loud banging on their door. Immediately Rhaenys sat upright in her bed, Sansa and Jeyne beside her, also frightened and wide awake. The door flew open with a crash and several soldiers entered.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Rhaenys, but received no answer. One of the soldiers grabbed her and pulled her out of the bed. She wanted to protest, but all that went on in her head was the thought how glad she was that it was not so hot anymore and that she had not slept naked. "What is the meaning of this?" she finally asked again, but again received no answer. They dragged her out of the chamber and down the corridor. She tried to look around to see if Sansa and Jeyne were all right but could not see anything. All she could hear was one of the soldiers shouting at them to get dressed for the ceremony. If they refused, he and his men would have the king's permission to convince them any way they saw fit.

Rhaenys tried to defend himself, tried to get free from the iron grip of the soldiers, but did not succeed. At some point one of the men lost his patience, stopped and hammered his gauntlet against her temple. Immediately she collapsed like a wet sack of grain. Her head was ringing, her ears were booming and her vision was blurred. The soldiers grabbed her again and literally dragged her behind them. She could hear her nightdress tearing from the heavy tugging and pulling. They dragged her along several corridors, down several staircases and around several corners. Gold Cloaks and knights were running around everywhere, but no one seemed willing to help her.

She tasted blood in her mouth and still her head was ringing and aching. She looked at Gold Cloaks standing around, men she knew and begged them with her eyes to help her. But no one came to her. She saw a young soldier standing guard next to the wide doors of the master's library, who had once picked flowers for her and put them in her room, probably in the silly romantic hope of accomplishing something with her. She saw a veteran guard, whom she had known since childhood, sitting on a small chair and polishing his sword. She saw the two brothers with the red hair and the ugly beards right next to a gate that led into one of the larger courtyards, who had tried to court her bastard cousins from Dorne some time ago. With her blurry vision, she saw a tall, elderly guard with a grim face, dark beard and steel blue eyes opening the heavy oak door to the dungeons. They all looked at her, but no one came to help her.

She was taken to a small room with a small window on one of the lower floors of Maegor's Holdfast and was placed roughly on a simple chair. Still everything was spinning around her and she had a hard time controlling herself not to fall off the chair again right away. A red priest stood in the corner, waiting for the soldiers to leave. He came closer to her, looked at the slightly bleeding wound at her head.

"The pain will fade, my dear princess," he said in a whispering voice.

"What do you know of my pain?" He smiled at her. The same strange smile that the Red Witch always wore on her face. Rhaenys felt like she was going to throw up. "Will you tell me what the hell is going on now?"

"Here, please put this on," he said and placed a bundle of red cloth next to her on the table. "You are expected to be dressed appropriately for the holy mass in honor of the Lord of Light. Oh, I envy you, Princess."

She ran her hand over the fabric. It was rough and firm, unlike any fabric she was used to. It was the same cloth that the robes of the red priests were made of, she noted.

"If you want me to take part in this nonsense, there would have been other ways than tearing me out of my bed and knocking me down. Asking, for example."

"It was His Grace's decision. He did not wish to hear of any possible objections from your side. Please, put on this robe now."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will be forced to call the soldiers back in and ask them... for help in the matter."

Rhaenys looked at him coldly. Is this supposed to be a humiliation? Probably. But she wouldn't let herself be humiliated. She was the Blood of the Dragon. So she stood up and let the torn remains of her nightgown slide off her shoulders. Naked as the day she was born, she now stood before the surprisingly small man, who was still smiling at her as if his face was frozen. She took the bundle and unfolded it. It was indeed a robe like the ones the red priests wore.

Am I to be inducted into their church now?

She put the robe on, ignoring the little man's looks. He said nothing, did not move, but she was sure that there was a lot going on in his little, almost hairless head that probably would not have pleased his God. She knew how beautiful she was. And naked as she was standing in front of him right now, there was no man in the world where there would not something be moving between his legs at the sight of her nakedness.

Let him see what he will never have...

When she was done dressing, the little man turned around, slightly opened the door and said something to someone outside the room. Immediately the door was opened wider and three other red priests entered the room. Together, they began walking around her in circles, constantly mumbling something in a strange tongue she did not understand. Was this the language spoken in Asshai, she wondered? They reached into the deep pockets on their wide robes and pulled out small clay pots, decorated with letters unknown to her.

"What is this? What are you doing with that?"

No one answered her. Only the obscure muttering went on and on. They opened the small pots and the pungent smell of exotic oils immediately rose to her nose. They still went around her in a circle. Suddenly, as if at an inaudible signal, they turned around and went around her in the opposite direction. They dipped small feather brushes, which they had gotten from who knows where, into the pots and started to sprinkle the oils on Rhaenys from top to bottom.

Maybe it is a kind of consecration, she thought.

Again and again the priests changed direction, sometimes going in this direction, sometimes the in other direction around her. All the time they muttered to themselves, sprinkling and spilling oils on her robe and in her hair. The whole procedure lasted almost half an hour, until the red priests finally stopped speaking and left the room one after the other, again as if at a signal that only they could hear or see. The door was slammed shut and Rhaenys stayed there alone with her thoughts for a while.

The door was opened again and four soldiers of the Flameguard entered the small room, surrounding Rhaenys. They grabbed her by the arms and walked her out of the room, then out of Maegor's Holdfast and down the serpentines. To her shock, Rhaenys heard screaming and shouting and the clanging of steel on steel nearby.

They must be attacking the main gate again, it shot through her head.

They entered the Red Keep's main courtyard and passed the royal sept, the windows of which had been smashed in, as Rhaenys noted. The soldiers dragged her along and when she saw the scene in front of her, her heart stopped for a moment.

"No. No, no, no," was all she could say at first.

The remaining images of the Seven had been placed in a circle around the Valyrian obelisk, large piles of firewood around them. But what frightened her were not the wooden images, but what was in front of them.

They are no altars in front of the images, they are platforms!

Jaime had been placed in front of the statue of the Warrior, gagged and tied to the figure with thick ropes. In front of the Mother stood her grandmother, also gagged and tied up, though with much less rope. Lord Eddard Stark was tied to the Smith and to the statue of the Stranger they had tied the bones of her grandfather Aerys, only recognizable by the crown they had placed on his bare white skull. Ser Jaime, Lord Eddard and her grandmother wore the same robes as she did. Panic gripped her.

No, he cannot be serious. This is not right.

"No! No!" she screamed as loud as she could. Again she tried to free herself from the iron grip of the soldiers. Again in vain. "No! Let go of me!" Where she would have run to, she didn't know, but she had to get away. Away from this madness. The soldiers dragged her further mercilessly, as effortless as an angry father would drag his little child behind him. She was lifted onto the platform in front of the Maiden and immediately she felt strong ropes twisting around her body and being tightened until she could no longer move. She cried, screamed and cried even more. A soldier came to her and pressed a gag into her mouth. She tried to look into her grandmother's face but could not turn her head far enough.

In panic, she looked around. Her father stood nearby and watched the cruel spectacle with an unmoved expression. Beside him stood Viserys, the Red Witch and Jon Connington. Only now did she notice that her father and Lord Connington were wearing the same robes as she was, obviously smeared from top to bottom with oil like herself.

They are going to sacrifice themselves.

Only Viserys wore normal robes in black and red, a smug grin on his face. Behind him stood the two women with Valyrian white hair, whom he had apparently chosen as wives. Again she looked around in panic and there she discovered Sansa among the crowd of people who would all attend her execution. She was in tears and seemed unable to stand upright. Oh, that poor girl. She will now be all alone in King's Landing. Soldiers stood around her, holding her up whenever she threatened to collapse. Next to her she discovered Lady Jeyne, also in tears but pressed firmly to the chest of her Dornish knight.

At least they have not been hurt, Rhaenys thought. Not yet.

About a hundred people had to be gathered here to witness this perversion. Old and young lords and knights, apparently hoping to win the King's favor by smiling and clapping to this madness as if it were nothing more than a feast or a dance.

How can you possibly allow this? How can you let this happen? You're knights! By the Seven, this is not right!

She wanted to scream again, but the gag in her mouth stifled every word and call. The positions of honor beside the King and Viserys and in a wide circle around the statues of the Seven were held by soldiers of the Flameguard. Knights of the Kingsguard she could not see anywhere. Soldiers of the Flameguard escorted Jon Connington to his platform, in front of the statue of the Crone. How very fitting, she thought spitefully. She could see out of the corner of her eye how they helped him up. He was not tied up or gagged. Her father now stepped onto a small podium at the side and raised his hands as if to open a sermon. Immediately everything went silent and her father began to speak. Only the shouts and screams and the clanging of weapons from beyond the main gate could still be heard.

"Lords and ladies, today is a historic day, a day to be celebrated. With this sacred ceremony, I pledge my unwavering faith in R'hllor, the Lord of Light. I have finally come to see the truth that the Lord of Light is the one true God and that I must welcome His infinite grace with an open heart. Let us kneel before the glory of R'hllor."

Immediately the King, Viserys, the Red Witch, the soldiers of the Flameguard, all the Gold Cloaks and the lords and ladies and knights around fell to their knees. Sansa seemed to want to stand still, but one of the soldiers at her side pressed her down rudely. Her father rose again after a moment, the people followed his example.

"The Seven have always been nothing but lies, spun and spread by the Great Other to lead the people away from the redeeming light of R'hllor. Thankfully, those days are over now. At last this great kingdom will find its way into the warming embrace of the one true God. But this also means that the abominable ceremonies and rituals of the Seven were nothing but lies and deceit, just as they themselves, untrue and meaningless. For this reason, I hereby declare my two marriages with Princess Elia Martell and Lady Lyanna Stark to be null and void. From this day forward, my sons are nothing more than bastards with no claim whatsoever to a royal title, the crown or the throne. I therefore proudly declare my beloved brother, Prince Viserys, to be my sole heir. Hereby I solemnly lay down my crown and hand it over to my brother, crowning him king. All hail King Viserys, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign!"

"Long may he reign," the crowd replied.

"This ritual will seal the eternal and henceforth inseparable bond between R'hllor, the one true God and Lord of Light, and his most submissive servants, the members of House Targaryen, once and for all," her father continued. "To prove my devotion, I am willing to make the greatest sacrifice a man is ever capable of. Not only my own life shall be sacrificed to the one true God, but also the lives of my family, my strong right hand and two traitors, who will not be given the honor of being welcomed at R'hllor's side in the next life. I do all this for the good of the House Targaryen, for the good of the realm, but above all else for the good of all mankind in the coming war against the Great Other, the enemy of all life."

Her father stepped down from the podium and walked towards the statue of the Father. Rhaenys could not see him anymore, but she was sure that he was not bound and gagged either. She was still crying, tears running down her cheeks like raging rivers.

Oh please, Seven. If you are there, do not allow this to happen. Please, I don't want to die like this. Please help us, please, she pleaded to the heavens in silence, her body trembling from her sobs, as much as the ropes allowed. Let my tears be enough quench the flames of this terrible God.

The Red Witch now stepped forward, placed herself on the podium where her father had just been standing, Viserys at her side, with a golden crown in the shape of lambent flames on his head.

"The Lord of Light will accept this sacrifice and grant his chosen warrior, King Viserys Targaryen, Azor Ahai Reborn, the strength to be victorious in the battle against the Great Other. The flames will bless his sword and the sacred blood of House Targaryen will bring dragons back to this world when Azor Ahai pierces their burning hearts with Lightbringer."

Rhaenys looked down and could see one of the dragon eggs being placed between her immobile feet. It was the green one, she realized. She had liked the green one the most. Viserys now picked up a sword, handed to him by a soldier of the Flameguard. The steel of the blade had been dyed in a deep red color somehow and the handle was apparently made entirely of solid gold in the forms of flames and dragons.

No doubt he came up with this ugly thing himself, Rhaenys thought bitterly.

The Red Witch now began to walk around the statues of the Seven in a large circle, mumbling the same chant the other red priests had mumbled when they had sprinkled her with the stinking oils. After four rounds, she stopped in front of Rhaenys and looked into her eyes.

"You have nothing to fear, Princess. You're very lucky indeed. The death by fire is the purest death in R'hllor's eyes. Open your heart to his glory and he will welcome you into his flaming halls in the next life. Your father had hoped to cast more figures of the false Seven with members of your family to strengthen the ritual. But since your brothers seemingly failed and died, their blood was probably not strong enough to make a difference anyway. But your blood is strong, Princess. I have always known that. Once it spills from your burning heart onto the dragon egg at your feet, those highest and holiest messengers of R'hllor's glory will be reborn into this world. Isn't that great?"

Rhaenys averted her gaze. She no longer wanted to look into those horrible, red eyes. She saw soldiers coming from the direction of the gate that led into the outer courtyard, running towards Viserys.

"Your Grace, the rioters are breaking through the main gate," she heard one of them say. "We cannot hold the outer courtyard any longer. And even more are coming up from the city, led by the High Septon himself. Please, Your Grace, you must retreat to Maegor's Holdfast."

"No way," he hissed at the soldier. "This is too important to be ruined by some stinking gutter rats. Fight them off at all costs. You hear me? At all costs."

Rhaenys heard a violent crash, cries of pain and battle roar, steel on steel. The main gate had fallen. She looked over at Sansa who was still in tears but at least still standing upright. Lady Jeyne lay on the ground, crying and sobbing with her knight beside her.

Once again thunder echoed through the courtyard. Rhaenys looked up into the grey sky. She saw the bright flash of a lightning bolt twitch through the clouds. But still there was no rain. When she looked down before her again, she saw with horror that the Red Witch now held a burning torch in her hands. Again she prayed in her foreign language and slowly approached her. Rhaenys wanted to scream as loud as she could, scream for help or for freedom or at least a quick death, but the gag did not allow any of it. She cried and sobbed into the tight ropes as the Red Witch lowered the burning torch into the dry wood at her feet.

Immediately the flames leapt over to the wood and the witch went over to her grandmother to light her pyre as well. Viserys stood there and watched the spectacle, his ugly sword in his hand and the widest grin on his face. He looked like he could hardly wait to finally drive his sword through her heart. Rhaenys felt the heat at the soles of her bare feet, felt it getting stronger and stronger as the flames spread quickly across the wood.

She was just about to send a prayer to the Seven in her thoughts, when her sight was blinded by a bright flash of light and her ears were stunned by a mighty thunder. A lightning had struck the royal sept and immediately the wood in the walls of the small building began to burn like tinder.

Then it happened. She felt a light tap against her forehead. She looked up, and a thick raindrop hit her right on the nose. Then another one on her forehead and another one and another one. It took only a few heartbeats before a torrential rain began pouring down on her. She looked down at her feet, which were already standing in a small puddle after only an instant and saw how the sudden masses of water extinguished the flames. She began to laugh as loud as her gag would allow. The Seven had heard her.

I thank you, I thank you, I thank you, I thank you, she called to them in her thoughts, this time crying and sobbing in relief.

"What is this? Does R'hllor not wish to accept our sacrifice?" she heard Viserys scream.

"This is only the last, desperate attempt of the Great Other, to prevent the rebirth of the dragons and the rise of Azor Ahai Reborn, my King" the Red Witch yelled back through the heavy pounding of the rain.

Viserys turned to some of his soldiers.

"Untie them," he shouted. "Bring them into Maegor's Holdfast, to the Queen's Ballroom. And as much dry firewood as you can find. And don't forget the dragon eggs. No rain will put out the flames in there. Then it will just have to work without the statues of the Seven."

Three men of the Flameguard came to her, cutting her ropes. She wanted to resist, but the blade of a knife from one of the soldiers at her neck made her stand still. In front of the gate between the outer and the main courtyard, more and more fighting noises could be heard. Angry voices shouting "Heretics" and "Kill the traitors" so loud and fervently that they even overshadowed the heavy rain. She was torn around, her hands tied behind her back, then around again to be led to Maegor's Holdfast.

Still smoke and small flames rose from the royal sept. The water, however violently it was splashing down, did not seem to reach the source of the flames inside the sept and so the fire spread further and further inside the small building.

A small flash of green caught her eye, flicking through between the shingles of the sept like the tongue of a tiny snake. An instant later, Rhaenys heard some soldiers' desperate cries of "Wildfire!". She heard a short and sharp woof, as if someone had blown in her ear. Half a heartbeat later, there was the roar. As if punched by a giant, invisible fist, she was thrown backwards, lost the ground under her feet and crashed to the ground several steps away. Where once the royal sept had been, a fifty feet high, swirling demon of green flame was now dancing in the middle of the Red Keep, setting aflame everything it touched.

Her body ached, her vision was blurred, and her ears were ringing, yet she could hear it clearly. The next woof.

 

 

Notes:

That was it, chapter 23. How did you like it? As always, please feel free to let me know in the comments what you think. I love to read your thoughts on this. :-)

See you next time.

Chapter 24: Eddard 6

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is already here. Yay! It is a very short one and there is not too much happening, but I wanted to include it. We will basically see how Ned had spent his "free time" since his arrival in the Black Cells, he will have a visitor at some point and then the chapter will where the previous chapter ended. :-)

Hope you still like it.

He had no idea how much time had passed. The room had no window, no chair or table, let alone a bed, not even a bucket to relieve oneself in. Only a grey door, four inches thick of oak wood, fitted with heavy iron bands. The darkness all around him was absolute, after the door had been shut behind him. Whether he opened or closed his eyes, it made no difference. There were no sounds but his heavy breathing and his own harsh voice when he talked to himself. At first the room had smelled of rotten straw, old sweat and even older urine, but after a while the smell had seemingly disappeared.

He remembered the red walls around him when they had dragged him down here. They had pushed him through the door into the blackness of his cell and since then there was nothing around him but silence and darkness. There were no more colors, no more smells and no more noises. He did not know how long he was here already, how long he had not drunk or eaten anything. It might have been a day or a week. It made no difference. He was deep underneath the Red Keep, inside the hard rock of Aegon's High Hill, in the dungeons that Maegor the Cruel had let carved into the rock. So deep, he didn't dare even imagine how deep it really was.

I am already buried, then I might as well be dead, he thought bitterly.

In thought he damned them all: King Rhaegar and Prince Viserys, the Red Lady and Lord Connington, the Gold Cloaks and the Kingsguard, Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon. But most of all, he damned himself for his stupidity.

"Fool," he cried into the darkness, as loud as his voice allowed. "Thrice-damned blind fool!"

He saw the face of Lord Connington before him, his disgusted look as he had him put in chains. "You have betrayed your king for the last time," he had said. He had betrayed no one though. Or had he? He had known about Lord Stannis' and Jon's plans. He had decided not to side with them, his old foster-father and the brother of his most beloved friend, but he had not sided with the King either. Instead he chose to go away, turn his back on King's Landing. Was that treason already? Perhaps. In the eyes of Lord Connington and the King it was, surely. He had hoped not to have to choose, which in the end was only a different kind of choice. And for that choice, the decision to behave like a fool instead of a grown man, his men had paid the price with their blood and their lives.

He thought about his daughters, wanted to cry at the thought of how they might be doing, what they might endure now because of his failure. But he couldn't. The tears did not come, however much he longed for them. He was a Stark of Winterfell after all and his grief and despair froze to ice inside him, hard as stone.

Once he had made the mistake of wanting to get up to bang on the door, to call someone, to ask for a word about his daughters, for water and bread. But the biting pain in his leg had quickly made him change his mind, had harshly thrown him back to the ground before he had really been able to rise to his feet in the first place. When he had been arrested, he had been stupid enough to fight back, and one of the men had hit his leg so hard with a wooden club that he had felt how his bone had broken. Now he was sitting in the darkness leaning against the bare stone wall, trying his best not to move. If he did not move, the pain was lessened. He had groped for his leg a few times, had found a bulge that should not be there and the skin had felt hot and wet.

So he tried to lie still. For how long, he couldn't say. He slept and woke and slept again. That was all he could do. But he did not know what was worse, to be awake or to sleep. When he slept, he had nightmares, dark dreams of blood and death and betrayal. When he was awake, there was only darkness around him and his thoughts wandered to the most sinister places. His thoughts were even worse than his nightmares. He thought of Cat and that was as painful as a bed of nettles. He wondered where she was, what she was doing, how she was doing. He wondered whether he would ever see her again. The chances weren't good, as he had to admit to himself.

After a time, he began to talk aloud every waking moment, just to hear a voice and not stare in the silent dark. He made plans to keep himself sane, built castles of hope in the dark. Stannis and Jon Arryn were out in the world, had raised an army to overthrow the King. They would return to King's Landing soon, he hoped. But why had they not done so yet? Catelyn and Robb would raise the North when the word of his imprisonment reached them, and the lords of river and mountain would join them surely. Most of them at least.

Ned was half asleep when he heard footsteps coming towards his cell. At first he thought he was imagining them. For so long he had heard no sound other than his own croaky voice. Ned was feverish by then, his leg a dull agony, his lips parched and cracked. The door was pushed open and the sudden light of the torch blinded him for a moment, burning in his eyes like the flame itself.

A gaoler pressed a jug into his hand. It was cold and heavy. Ned held it to his mouth and drank so greedily that he almost threw up. Water ran down his face and through his beard. He drank until his stomach hurt.

"How long...?" he asked weakly as he squeezed down the last swig of water.

The gaoler was a scarecrow of a man with the face of a weasel, small and narrow eyes and a stubbly beard of red and brown. He was clad in a mail shirt and brown leather with an iron half helmet on his head. "No talking," he said as he wrenched the jug from Ned's hands.

"Please," Ned said, "my daughters..."

The door slammed shut and he heard the latch click into place.

He blinked as the darkness enveloped him again, as if he could keep the light in his eyes a little longer with it. But immediately everything was silent again. Silent and black. He lay down to the side on the old straw, trying to bring his leg into a position that would allow him to sleep a little. He wasn't sure how long it took him to fall asleep, but eventually sleep came to him.

He dreamed of his youth. He was back in Harrenhal with his best friend Robert by his side, back at the tourney that had changed everything. Robert, a giant of a man, strong and handsome, looking like a god from one of the old stories with his long horned helmet on his head and his warhammer in his hand. Robert's laughter roared through his head as if he were sitting next to him. He thought of the tourney, of how Robert had tried to persuade him to take part in the melee. But he had rather watched from the stands as Robert had knocked down opponent after opponent, like a scythe cutting too high grass. Then the jousting had begun and from that moment on, it had been Prince Rhaegar's tourney. He had shone in his magnificent armor, all black steel with the three-headed dragon of his House on the chest, made from ruby splinters. It was the same armor he had worn when he had slain Robert on the Trident only a few months later.

"You have bent your knee to the dragon spawn," he heard Robert's voice in his head. "Traitor."

"You were already dead, Robert," Ned replied, whether in his dream or not, he couldn't say.

"Traitor," he heard again.

He shot up from his dream and the pain in his leg reminded him that he was truly awake now.

"May the gods help me," he wept. "I am going mad."

But the gods did not deign to answer.

The gaoler now came more often, brought him water and Ned told himself that another day must have passed. He was almost certain the times were irregular, probably to confuse him. But he didn't know for certain. How could he possibly have known? At first, he begged him for a word about his daughters every time the door was opened. Were they alive and well? But he received no answer, except grunts and kicks. Later, when the cramps in his stomach began, he only begged for bread. But he did not receive this either.

He heard the rattling of chains before the door was opened the next time. When he heard the creaking of the door, Ned protected his eyes from the brightness with his hand. Only slowly did he dare to look in the direction of the torchlight.

"Bread," he croaked.

"I have no bread," he heard the man's voice. It was not the usual gaoler. He needed a moment before he could open his eyes completely and look at him. Then finally he recognized the voice of the man who was now standing next to him, looking down at him grimly.

"Lord Stannis?" asked Ned in disbelief. "Am I dreaming this?"

"If you're dreaming about me, you're worse off than I feared." Lord Stannis stood beside him, towering over him like a tree in a flat meadow and looking around his cell.

"What are you doing here?"

"I am here to bring you your freedom if you are willing to take it. Lord Arryn wanted to come himself, but the old man can barely stand on his feet, let alone enter a dungeon. But he insisted that one of us come to you in person. He felt a man like you deserved it."

"What are you doing here?" was once again all he could ask.

"I offer you to come with me. To escape from the dungeon."

"So that I may bend the knee to you."

"Yes," was his short answer. It took a moment before he spoke again. "Hopefully your time in the Black Cells has made you realize by now that Rhaegar is just as mad as his father was. His brother is no better and only the gods know what surprises await the realm with his children. I'm certainly not willing to wait and find out. So, do you accept the freedom I'm offering you or not? I see that your leg is injured, so I'll forego the kneeling. For the moment."

"My daughters..."

"The younger one got away. No one knows where she is. The pretty one is still here though, in the hands of the King. The princess and queen mother seemed to have protected her as best they could, but from the looks of it, they won't be able to do so anymore now."

"We must take her with us. We must-"

"That' s not possible. As I said, nobody knows where the younger one is, and the older one is so closely guarded that we can't get to her unseen."

"You can't seriously think I'd leave my girls here?"

"Of course I do. If you're out there, at least you can do something. Of what use are you for your daughters in here? If you stay here, you're a dead man, Stark. You realize that, I hope."

"Please, free my daughters," Ned said.

"I cannot do that," Lord Stannis said, looking so unmoved, as if he were talking about a pet and not Ned's flesh and blood. Ned didn't answer him, just looked straight ahead into the darkness again. To flee would be an admission of his guilt, an admission of treason that he had not – not quite – committed. His daughters' lives would be forfeited the moment he set foot out of this damned cell. As long as he was in here, he was at least keeping them alive. Or so he hoped. That was what he could do for them and that was what he would do for them. Lord Stannis seemed to realize his decision had been made. He looked down at him a while longer and Ned could imagine the look in his eyes. Robert had had those same eyes, but where Stannis' eyes were cold and unloving, Robert's had been full of joy and cheerfulness. Whatever happened or had to happen to Rhaegar, he would not sacrifice the lives of his daughters to put this man on the Iron Throne.

"I'll be back in two days, with ten thousand men and end the Targaryen madness once and for all. You better not expect any mercy from me then, Stark." Lord Stannis grunted one last time, then turned and closed the door behind him.

The darkness was back, embracing him like an old friend. His head was buzzing, but he didn't know if it was from the fever or from what had just happened. Should he have gone with him? He would finally have come out of that nightmare. But at what cost? The life of at least one of his daughters. No matter how he fared here, that price was too high. Or could he have done something? Maybe Lord Stannis had been right. Call the banners and free them by force? No, Rhaegar would not let her live that long. His thoughts grew darker and more terrible with every moment.

He was short before falling asleep from the exhausting terribleness of his thoughts, when the door was opened again. He expected Lord Stannis to be back, but the moment he looked towards the light shining through the open door, wanting to tell him that his decision was final, he saw a soldier standing there, clad in red steel from head to toe with a golden flame on top of his helmet. The man entered his cell, two others followed.

They grabbed him and dragged him abruptly to his feet. His leg burned like fire and the pain took his senses for a moment. He almost fell to the ground again had the men not kept him upright. Before he could even say a word, they pulled him out of the cell and along the corridors of the dungeon.

"Where are you taking me?" he croaked. But the men did not answer. He asked again, but the men remained silent. The fever clouded his senses and he was feeling dizzy. His leg hurt so much that he would have loved to cut it off had he had a sword at hand. They dragged up sheer endless flights of stairs into the lower parts of Maegor's Holdfast.

At least the walls are red again, he though.

He was put into a small room with a tiny bed and a small chest at the foot of the bed, but no window. A servant's chamber, he thought. Two red priests came in, cut his dirty clothes off his body while the guards still held him upright. He was already naked when two maids followed, each with a bowl of water and a rag in their hands. They washed him from head to toe, then carefully cut his beard with a knife. He thought for a moment whether he should try to take the knife off one of them, but his thoughts and movements were so slow that they had already disappeared from the room again when he had finally decided to act. The red priests put a robe over his head that reached all the way down to his knees. It was thick and scratchy on his skin. They gave him something to drink. It tasted bitter and salty and almost made him throw up, but the priests insisted that he drink it.

He was seated on a small chair then. The soldiers left the room and the priests began to pray, walking around him and covering him with oils. At first he thought that the oils were against his smell, because that little amount of water had certainly not been able to remove his stench completely, but the oils stank worse than he himself.

"What does all this mean? What is happening here?" he finally asked. His senses began to return, the pain in his leg eased a bit and the dizziness lessened. Had they given him medicine? The priests did not answer but kept on praying in their foreign language, walking and praying, walking and praying. "What is happening here?" he asked again.

At some point the priests seemed to be done with praying, apparently thinking him oily enough and left the room. Immediately the red soldiers approached him again, grabbed him by the arms and pulled him out of the small chamber with them. They walked along several corridors, upstairs again and out of Maegor's Holdfast. He enjoyed the cool air on his skin and the light of day on his face. The sun was nowhere to be seen, yet the brightness still burned in his eyes. The sky was as cloudy and grey as it often was over Winterfell before the summer snow came and the cold winds began to blow.

The old gods send their regards, he thought and laughed to himself.

They led him down the serpentine steps into the main courtyard of the Red Keep. He was terrified when he saw what was waiting for him there. They had pyres set up around a stone obelisk. Was he really going to die like his father before him? Panic took hold of him. He tried to defend himself, but the grip of the soldiers was too strong and he too weak. They stopped in front of one of the pyres. Ned looked around the courtyard and saw faces of lords and ladies and knights, most unknown but some slightly familiar.

"Help me!" he shouted to them. "You can't let this happen. Help me."

One of the soldiers came closer, grabbing him by the throat.

"Shut the fuck up," he barked at him.

"I am not going up on that thing. My honor is worth too much to just let myself be slaughtered like cattle without a fight."

"And your daughter, how much is she worth to you?"

He nodded towards the spectators near the entrance to the Tower of the Hand. Ned followed the nod with his gaze and to his horror, he spotted Sansa among the spectators, dissolved in tears with soldiers at her side, one of them placing his hand on her shoulder, the other hand on the hilt of his sword. They wanted Sansa to watch him die in the flames, screaming.

"Sansa...," he breathed. "No, gods have mercy, not my daughter. Do with me as you like but leave her out of this. She's innocent. Please."

"You better not resist then. If you make a fuss here, your daughter will be given a place in our barracks and there she might have some… pretty wild nights with the men. Won't be so innocent after that, for sure. So keep still and be quiet."

He did not fight back when they put him on the stake, tied him firmly to the wooden statue of one of the Seven, as he now realized, and stuffed a gag deep into his mouth. At least Sansa won't hear me scream, he thought. Tears ran down his cheeks. So there they were at last, his tears. One of the red soldiers came to him again, climbed on the platform, fumbled with his gag and pulled it out of his mouth. The visor of his helmet was up. He recognized the man. He was a Northerner who had come with him to King's Landing, he realized. He held a small vial to his lips and Ned drank.

"Against the pain, my lord. This is all I can do," he said, stuffing the gag back into his mouth without waiting for an answer and stepping down from the pyre again.

He's a Northerner, Ned thought. He was one of my men and now he is one of theirs.

Whatever he had just drunk, it seemed to work fast. Immediately his senses were numbed, his gaze became hazy and it was difficult for him to keep his eyes open. He heard the sounds and voices around him so muffled as if his head was under water. He did not even feel the pain in his leg anymore, did not feel much in his whole body anymore. He noticed more people being put on the other pyres, but he could not see who it was because of his blurred vision.

He thought he recognized Rhaella's voice. "Madness," he heard her cry. He was sure she was sobbing. He saw a man struggling violently as he was dragged to his pyre, with dirty golden hair. But a heavy blow to the head with the pommel of a sword finally silenced him. He heard the heartbreaking cry of a young woman who kept shouting "No!" before she finally fell silent. He heard the voice of Rhaegar from afar who seemed to be announcing something, but Ned could not understand what it was. The words did reach his ear but he couldn't grasp their meaning somehow. He heard the people around him say someone should reign. Long. But it made no sense to him. Nothing happened for a long time after that. Or at least it seemed that way.

Am I already burning? Am I dead yet?

He thought of Cat, one last time of his Cat. He would never see her again, never hold her or kiss her again. Then he suddenly felt a cold, first on his head, then all over his body. He felt like he was getting wet. But this could not be. I'm going crazy with pain. That must be it, he thought. In the next moment he felt how his ties were loosened and his feet touched the stony ground of the courtyard again. The gods are calling me to them. Please, old gods, protect my family for me. This shall be my last wish when-

A blinding green light, followed by a tremendous blow in the back interrupted his last prayer. He felt the ground slipping from under his feet. One heartbeat later, he was on the ground again, shoulder and head first. Then everything went black.

Notes:

So, that was it. As said, this was a very short one but I still wanted to include it. The next chapter will be from Sansa's perspective and we will finally see how things will be going further from here.

Hope to see you next time.

P.S.: As always, feel free to leave comments, about this chapter in particular or this fic in general. Love to hear/read your thoughts.

Chapter 25: Sansa 4

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. So we are now seeing what happens after the initial explosion from Sansa's perspective. Of course, the group is trying to get away, out of the Red Keep and out of the city. Let's see how well that works out so far. ;-)

Hope you have fun reading it.

Sansa felt the hard ground hit her back. Her ears were numb, she only heard a soft, shrill whistling, everything was spinning in her head and she needed a short moment to see clearly again. She lay flat on the hard floor, fighting her way back into a sitting position, leaning on her elbows, and looking in the direction from which she had just been thrown to the ground. A fountain of burning jade rose from a whole in the ground where mere moments ago the royal sept had stood. The flames were burning so bright that she had to shield her eyes. Plumes of fire, thirty and forty feet high, danced in the courtyard, crackling and hissing. For a few moments they washed out the screams.

She saw soldiers running around, completely wrapped from head to toe in bright green flames, screaming and shrieking, before they faded one by one and fell to the ground. Men and women stumbled through the courtyard, some away from the enormous flames, others towards them like in a fever, only to be consumed in the next moment by their unnatural heat. Arms and legs had been torn off, half faces were missing, parts of clothes were on fire and the skin of many people around them was burnt and as red as overripe cherries. She heard cries and shouts, smelled smoke and burned flesh. A screaming woman run past her, all her hair on fire like a candle.

She looked to her left and found Jeyne lying on the ground only a few feet away. Ser Koryn had already managed to get on his feet again, crouching next to Jeyne and trying to wake her up. She slowly regained consciousness. He helped her get up. Sansa had also risen in the meantime and looked around in panic. The ground was shaken and from somewhere the roar of a second explosion could be heard. But this time there were no flames to be seen.

"Quick, let's get away from here," Ser Koryn yelled, pointing a finger at the gate that separated the outer from the main courtyard. A fragment of the royal sept had been hurled against the gate, severely damaging it, and Sansa saw people with crooked swords, even more crooked spears and bloodstained clubs streaming through the gap in the gate like ants. The Gold Cloaks and the Flameguard soldiers in the courtyard tried to beat the intruders back, but it was clear that this was an impossible task.

Ser Koryn grabbed one of the swords of the soldiers lying on the ground near them. They had hit the ground with their helmets first, apparently breaking their necks. People fled away from the almost completely overrun gate in the direction of Maegor's Holdfast.

"We have to get my father," Sansa cried.

"No, we must go. The courtyard is about to become a massacre. The soldiers will take your father to Maegor's Holdfast. See?"

Indeed, Gold Cloaks had cut off her father, Rhaenys, Rhaella and Ser Jaime and taken them from the pyres. They wanted to take them away but had to stop again after a few steps. That was as far as they got, as the huge dancing flame in the middle of the courtyard now spread to all sides. Bright green arms reached around like tentacles, setting the Maidenvault on the one side and the kennels on the other side of the courtyard ablaze.

"We must get them," she said again.

Ser Koryn looked as if he was just about to refuse her again when another roar went through the ground and the fortress was shaken as if it had been hit by the fist of a giant. The ground in the center of the court gave way and Sansa saw how the massive obelisk began to sway. It swayed back and forth a few times like a drunkard, from right to left and back again. Then it toppled over like a felled tree and struck the ground with a mighty thunder. She saw several soldiers in red armor buried by the monstrosity. Without waiting for Ser Koryn, she rushed forward. She heard Jeyne and Ser Koryn shouting after her, but neither did she wait nor did she turn around.

She ran towards her father, past dead or dying soldiers. She threw herself against him and embraced him as tight as she could. Then she looked to the side and pulled Rhaenys with her into the embrace. Jeyne and Ser Koryn came up behind her and cut the last ties. Ser Koryn handed Ser Jaime and her father each a sword from one of the soldiers lying on the ground.

"We have to get out of here," Ser Jaime shouted over the loud confusion. "Follow me."

They ran past the Tower of the Hand, which had now also caught fire, and through a narrow door into the kitchens of the Little Gallery, ran through a corridor, around several corners, up two flights of stairs and out through a slightly wider door that led them out into the lower courtyard. Her father was slow, dragging one leg and limping more than actually running. Sansa could see that every step was painful for him, but he kept running as fast as he could. They ran through the still open gate inside Maegor's Holdfast and ended up in one of the smaller halls near the entrance. A mass of screaming and crying people surrounded them. Lords and ladies, knights and servants, some wounded, some just frightened. Sansa looked around, looked in the faces of the men and women, who were now standing here completely dissolved in tears and cries and begging for help from the soldiers, the king or the Seven, who just a few moments ago wanted to watch an execution where in the name of a foreign god innocents were supposed to be burned alive. Sansa loathed them.

"We cannot stay here," her lord father now said, his first clear words.

Sansa looked in the same direction as her father and saw some soldiers searching through the crowd. "Must find the sacrifices," she heard one of them say. "Or we will burn ourselves," said the other. "The king insists…" and "…still burn today…". The rest was lost in the confusion of voices and screams.

Ser Jaime gave them a sign and quickly they left the room, running as fast as they could down another corridor. They were about to turn around a corner when they heard voices behind them. "Stop!" and "Freeze!" They kept running, around a corner and up a staircase, through a door and across a small courtyard. Ser Jaime, holding Rhaenys by the hand, quickly changed direction, pulling her through a door when he heard the hammering of heavy boots coming at them from the front.

The next moment, faster than Sansa could comprehend what had happened, Ser Jaime had already pierced a red soldier's chest with his sword who had jumped out from behind a corner. He fought a fierce battle with another one as Ser Koryn and her Lord Father took on opponents of their own. It was only a few moments before Ser Koryn's and Ser Jaime's opponents lay dead on the ground. Ser Koryn pierced the neck of her father's opponent from the side and immediately the man dropped dead to the ground.

"That was too loud," Ser Koryn said. "They'll be here soon."

They already heard the hammering of boots again, coming at them from front and back.

"Sansa, hide somewhere. Quickly," her father said.

"And where shall she hide?" Ser Jaime asked. "There's nothing here. It's an empty hallway. We must fight, Stark."

Their steps grew louder and louder and it seemed as if they had already almost reached them when Sansa heard a soft hiss behind her. She turned, searched the wall and looked into the shadow in a small niche behind a statue that depicted Aemon the Dragonknight.

"Arya!" she said aloud. At once all eyes turned to her, then to the small niche. Arya stepped forward, even dirtier than the last time she had seen her. Sansa fell to her knees and hugged her sister. Her father came to them, fell to his good knee, grabbed them both and pressed them so tightly to himself that Sansa thought he wanted to crush them.

"Arya, by the gods. You're all right," said her father who seemed to come to his senses again more and more.

"Follow me. Quickly. I know a way out."

"A way out? What kind of way? And where to?" her father asked.

"We don't have time for this now. If she knows a way out, let's go. Otherwise we'll be dead soon," said Ser Jaime.

Without saying another word, Arya retreated into the shadows again. Sansa and the others followed her. Ser Koryn was the last one to come through, shielding the back of Rhaella. In the shadow was a narrow passage leading into a flat, unlit room. In the ceiling was a small opening through which a little daylight fell into the room, making the outlines of a small table and three narrow shelves just visible. Arya took a torch from the wall and quickly lit it with a flint and some tinder that just seemed to be waiting in one of the shelves. Then she pulled at the next shelf which could be pushed aside easily and silently. Behind it was a sloping corridor, pitch-black and as dark as the soul of a demon.

"This is it," Arya said. "I know ways out of the castle. Most of the rioters are here in the Red Keep right now. So it should be safer in the city. Besides, there's no King down there who wants to burn you all alive."

"The old tunnels beneath the Red Keep," Rhaella said in surprise, smiling wide. "You found them! Oh, what a fine girl you have there, Ned."

"This tunnel only leads to the other side of the fortress," Arya said. "From there we have to run through the castle for a bit to the entrance to another tunnel. That will then lead us down into the city."

Arya didn't wait for someone to say anything else but went into the dark tunnel with the torch in her hand. Her father looked as if he could hardly believe what had just happened but followed without a word of protest. The tunnel led steeply downwards and from all sides through the walls they seemed to hear the screaming of people, the barking orders and the roaring of the fortress itself, standing in bright flames and partly destroyed. At some point the tunnel ran flat. They passed crossroads and Arya took specific paths that all looked the same to Sansa. It took the better part of an hour before they came out on the other side after a steep climb through a narrow door that was well hidden behind a shelf again. They were in a small chamber without windows again. Inside were two narrow, dirty beds and a washbowl next to the door. Arya opened the door a crack and peeked out.

"Are you ready? We need to move quickly now."

"Wait… I can't...," Rhaella breathed. The way through the tunnels, through the old and dusty air and always running steeply up or down, had obviously hit her hard. "I need a moment."

"We may not have a moment."

"Arya," her father said in a warning tone.

"Forgive me, I'm an old woman."

"You are not old," her father said to Rhaella.

"Of course I am. But thank you for the lie. I'm afraid I'm not going to make it. You must leave me here. Get you and your daughters to safety, Ned. I only ask you to take my granddaughter with you."

"Grandmother, no," Rhaenys protested and Sansa saw tears rise to her eyes. "We will not leave you behind!"

"Rhaenys is right, we won't leave you here, Rhaella," Sansa now said, seeing the astonished look on her father's face that she was addressing the Princess and the Queen Mother by their first names.

"I will carry you, Your Grace," Ser Jaime said.

"Oh, you might like that," said Rhaella."But no, you won't, Ser Jaime. You'll need your sword hand free to protect my Rhaenys and Sansa und Lady Jeyne."

"We won't leave you behind," her father now said in such a determined tone that even Rhaella didn't seem to object anymore. She seemed to think about it for one more moment.

"Very well, if you want to risk your life for an old hag like me. I just need a moment to breathe. Then we'll move on."

After a short moment Rhaella, supported by Rhaenys and Sansa, fought her way back to her feet. Ser Jaime wanted to help, but Rhaella told him to focus on his sword and their protection. They gave Arya a sign and she peered through the door again. She nodded at them briefly and ran, everyone else following in line. Her father was getting a little slower, his leg seemed to hurt more, but he held on well. Ser Koryn made the end and protected their backs. Arya led them crisscross through the fortress, along corridors, around corners, up and down stairs. More than once she changed direction when she heard the voices of people or the beating of soldiers' boots from the front or one of the sides.

It was not long before she heard again running steps behind her. "There they are!" cried someone behind them. They rushed along the corridors as fast as they could, changing direction and floor. They walked through a small courtyard and immediately Sansa recognized the fountain with dragons and basilisks in its center. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she looked around briefly and discovered the colonnade only a few steps above her where she had been beaten by Ser Boros at the command of Prince Viserys.

He is King Viserys now, she thought as they walked through the door on the other side. Behind her she just heard the soldiers coming into the courtyard as well, when Ser Koryn closed and locked the door behind them. No, he's not a king. Not my king.

"That won't stop them for long," Ser Koryn said then. "The door is old. They'll break it down quickly. So where to go now?"

"It's not far anymore," Arya said, opened the next door and ran down the corridor. Rhaella was breathing heavily and could hardly move, even supported by Rhaenys and Sansa. They pulled her with them, almost carrying her now. It seemed the soldiers needed a few moments to break down the door after all, as they seemed to have at least a small distance to their pursuers now.

"There it is," she heard Arya calling. They ran after her and stepped out into the pale sunlight. Smoke and the stench of burnt flesh struck them. They stood at the edge of a small bridge that spanned a trench filled with iron spikes and led to a squat, half-round tower on the other side. "Over the bridge and then the first door on the left."

"That's the Traitor's Walk," Ser Jaime said. "It's the way into the dungeons but not out of the city."

"There's a way," Arya insisted. "In the first room, there is an entrance to a tunnel that will take us down to the city."

They were just about to cross the bridge when they heard another growl. The growling turned into a roar, a green flash shot up behind the Tower of the Hand which Sansa could see from the corner of her eye, enveloping it like a glowing cape, and the next moment the ground was shaken again. They lost their footing and fell to the ground. Just as they were about to get up and cross the small bridge again, a thundering sounded from up ahead. Rocks and broken shingles crashed onto the small bridge, breaking off parts and falling into the depths below them. Quickly they crawled back into the interior of the fortress, pulling the panting Rhaella along with them, when in the next moment the sky turned black as the tower in front of them collapsed with a loud roar. The small bridge was swept away, dust and dirt and stone splinters flew around blocking their view.

"Shit," Sansa heard Arya say as the roaring of the falling stones had stopped. Nothing was left of the tower except a mountain of debris, which slowly but surely sank further and further, as if it were drowning in a swamp.

"So what now?" Ser Jaime asked.

"There is another way," Arya said, turned around and ran. Rhaenys and Sansa pulled Rhaella back on her feet, Ser Koryn helped her father up and they ran after Arya. They ran through another courtyard, along a corridor, up a flight of stairs, around several corners and into a small chamber.

"Quick, I found them," they heard a soldier shouting as they just closed the door behind them. Immediately they heard the hammering of more boots, which approached them quickly. Sansa looked around the small room but found no other exit.

"There is no way out," Ser Koryn now said in shock, who apparently had noticed the same thing. "You have led us directly into a trap!"

Arya didn't react to the accusation but instead leaned against the side of a cabinet that was standing in one of the back corners of the room. Slowly and reluctantly the cabinet moved to the side as if it was on rusty wheels. Ser Jaime walked up to Arya and helped her pushing the cabinet to one side. In the bare wall, Arya quickly found a small opening, just big enough for a single finger, and puled it. A door swung open, that had been completely invisible mere moments ago. Behind the door was a tunnel, just as black and dark as the last one.

Arya stood in front of the black opening for a moment, the still burning torch in her hand before she entered. The group followed quickly. They walked further and further into the darkness, steeply downhill until they arrived in round room with four more tunnels leading away in all directions. Arya took the first tunnel to their left and walked on, closely followed by the group.

"How do you know so much about this place?" her father now asked and although Sansa heard the worry in his voice, he could not hide his admiration.

"I hid down here when they arrested you. I had plenty of time."

They went on and on, around corners and along different tunnels, which again all looked the same to Sansa. It took the better part of an hour before they suddenly heard voices far behind them.

"The entrance to the tunnel, who closed it when we went down here?" Arya asked and turned to the group. No one answered. "Did you leave the entrance open?"

"It seems that way," said Ser Jaime.

"Great. So now they're following us through the tunnels as well," Arya said, turning around again and marching on. More than once her lord father tried to talk to Arya, asked her how she was, if she was healthy and all right, but each time Arya refused to answer. "There is no time for this now, father. We must be quick and quiet. Down here we can't hide anywhere from the red soldiers. If they get too close, we won't be able to escape."

So they walked on in silence. They now had a walking pace in which they made good progress without Rhaella being too out of breath and that even their father, with his injured leg, seemed to be able to hold on.

"Arya, do you really know-" her father eventually tried again.

"Father, not now," she interrupted him. "Half the Red Keep is on fire or collapsed. I need to concentrate to find the right way or I might open the wrong door and we end up in the middle of a pool of burning wildfire."

"I know, but-"

"Over there, I hear voices," they heard from a side tunnel they had just passed by. Sansa recognized the voice immediately. Boros Blunt.

"Great," Arya grumbled and quickened her steps. "Now they know where we are."

They reached a large round room where half a dozen tunnels intersected. On the floor was a scuffed mosaic of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen and on one wall an ornate iron brazier fashioned in the shape of a dragon's head stood guard. Sansa had no idea where they might be, but Arya seemed to know exactly. She took one of the tunnels and they continued walking through the darkness, only the faint light of the torch in Arya's hand in front of them. They ran around some corners, into empty rooms and each time left them on the other side again.

"Arya," Sansa now whispered to her, "are you sure you know where we're going?"

"If you don't trust me, you're welcome to turn around and ask the fellows behind us which way to go" she hissed back. Sansa did not dare to ask again. Arya opened a door and just wanted to enter but stopped abruptly as if rooted to the spot. The room behind the door was no longer there. Only a dark abyss was left, filled with red rubble and burnt wood, dimly lit by green flames that flickered between the stones. Sansa looked briefly through the door but averted her eyes when she saw the crushed remains of people between the rubble, hands and feet, arms and legs, bodies and heads. Immediately Arya turned around and walked a few feet back. She opened a door on the other side of the tunnel and stepped into the room behind, just as Sansa saw the glow of torches coming down the tunnel in the distance.

The room became a wide tunnel that gradually tapered as they entered it. At first it led them only slightly downhill, then more and more with every step. Again Arya took a branch-off into another tunnel, then another one in the opposite direction. The stones around them grew darker, rougher and were less precisely hewn. The ground under their feet no longer consisted of tiles, but of bare stone, uneven and coarsely hewn as well. The tunnel led them deeper and deeper down, getting narrower and the ceiling getting lower. Eventually it was so low that Ser Jaime could no longer stand upright. Again they heard the voices behind them, again they were speeding up their steps.

They came to a small room where three tunnels met. Arya took the left tunnel without wasting even a glance to the other tunnel.

"Where are you taking us?" Ser Jaime asked now.

She looked over her shoulder briefly, searching for their pursuers.

"To a horse stable near River Row. There was another exit in a brothel further north, but the fighting was worse there. The brothel burned down three nights ago. It was always pretty quiet at River Row. Few fights only. Maybe we'll get lucky and it'll still be that way."

The banging of boots and the barked orders behind them now became louder. Their pursuers were getting closer.

"That voice," said Rhaenys, now breathing as heavily as Rhaella and Sansa. "I know that voice. That's Boros Blount. So Viserys sent his dog after us."

"Please let me kill him, my princess" Ser Jaime said, but Rhaenys denied.

"No, you could kill him, but you couldn't kill all the other men as well. That would be suicide. But I need you by my side, Ser Jaime, as my sword and shield."

"Always, my princess."

"How much further is it?" Ser Koryn asked.

"We're almost there," Arya said.

Only a few moments later, Arya pushed open a small door of old, grey wood. They ran up some steep steps and through another, smaller door. Suddenly, there was fresh air again and Sansa saw the grey evening sky above their heads and felt the easing rain on her skin. They had made it out of the tunnels! Sansa was so relieved she almost couldn't believe it. She looked around, saw the burning Red Keep glowing green and red in the distance against the dark sky. Large parts were indeed destroyed or in flames, the river wall had collapsed and now lay in ruins at the foot of Aegon's High Hill. The Tower of the Hand was completely gone and the White Sword Tower was all covered in bright green flames, seemingly also on the verge of collapse. She could see that at least three of the seven mighty round towers were also up in flames and there were wide cracks in the outer walls. What the interior of the fortress might look like now, she could not even imagine.

Her father came up to her again, grabbed Arya and Sansa and pressed them against his chest again.

"By the old gods, my girls. You're safe and well," he said and she heard him suppress his tears of joy, his cries. Her father never cried.

"That is really cute, Stark, but there's no time for that now," Ser Jaime said then. "Boros and his red idiots will be here soon. We have to leave. If we can make it to Fishmonger's Square, we can get out of the city."

"Why not through the King's Gate? That is much closer," Ser Koryn asked.

"Too heavily guarded. Next to it is one of the last full barracks of the Gold Cloaks."

Just as he had finished speaking, they heard the banging of the door in the small stable. Ser Boros and the red soldiers were here. They ran around a corner and into a small alley. Indeed, there seemed to have been hardly any fighting here. The streets were deserted, but otherwise looked untouched. They ran on, around a corner again, and behind a small sept they turned right into another side street, which should bring them a bit to the south and east.

They were just about to turn into the street that connected the King's Gate and Fishmonger's Square when the red soldiers appeared in front of them, apparently having found a way to cut them off. Panic gripped Sansa when she saw the soldiers blocking the road before them, their swords drawn and iron shackles on their belts waiting for their wrists. Her father, Ser Jaime and Ser Koryn were armed, but six red soldiers were facing them and behind them she heard more coming. Her father's standing was unsteady and he would hardly last long in a fight. He had become thin in captivity.

"Here they are at last," she heard the voice of Ser Boros behind her. She turned around and saw him standing there, in the middle of the small crossroad they had just passed. He opened his mouth to say something, but at that very moment she heard shouting and screaming nearby. Before Sansa really knew what was happening, people streamed towards them out of the smaller streets on all sides, clubs and spears, pitchforks and flails, swords and knifes, hammers and axes in their hands.

Fights broke out, red soldiers against the rioters, Ser Jaime and Ser Koryn against red soldiers, her father against a rioter with a club. She heard insults and orders, steel on steel, the cries of dying or wounded men and women. Panicked, she looked around, saw Rhaenys trying to hide Rhaella behind an overturned cart and Jeyne behind Ser Koryn in the narrow corner between a small house and a tiny bell tower. Arya had snatched a knife from somewhere and drove it into a red soldier's knee from behind who was impaled by a giant man with a pitchfork the very next moment. The men were involved in wild fights, everyone against everyone. She saw her father trying to get to her, but the duel between a man with a woodcutter's axe and a Gold Cloak, who must have come from somewhere, got in the way. She dodged a dying man with a shriek, jumped to the side as a woman with a blood covered face and a butcher's knife in her hand tried to grab her, half-starved and wrapped in dirty rags. The next moment the woman was pierced in the back by a large sword in the hands of a Gold Cloak. Sansa turned around, ran off to the side in sheer panic, looking for her father or Ser Jaime or Ser Koryn or anyone. But all she saw was blood and cut off body parts, fighting or dying people with or without armor. To her right, a small house that looked like a tavern went up in flames after someone had thrown torches through the windows, but as soon as the roof of straw began to dissolve in red and white and yellow flames, the heavy rain began to quench the fire the very next moment already.

A Gold Cloak came up to her and tried to grab her, but she turned and ran away as fast as she could. The man slipped on the wet street and was buried the next moment by a mass of raging people, treating him with fists and knives and clubs. She ran and ran, turned into a side street, then another. She came to a small well, ran past it and between two flat houses. She slipped as well but hurried to get back on her feet when she heard the beating of boots on the stone floor of the narrow streets and small squares behind her. She lost her shoes and ran on barefoot. She came to a wide street and recognized it as the one they had intended to take to reach Fishmonger's Square. She looked around, searching for the others or for help or anything really, when to her horror she saw Ser Boros and three red soldiers of the Flameguard stepping out on the street from between the houses behind her. They spotted her immediately and she ran.

"Stop running, you little bitch," Ser Boros shouted after her.

She ran on though, turning left into another narrow street, hoping to find a hiding place. Her heart was beating like mad and her mind was racing. She knew that she was not fast enough to escape the men, but maybe she could hide. She ran down the street until she suddenly stood in front of a blank wall, higher than a man. A dead end!

"No, no, no. Please, gods, please, this cannot be," she begged, dissolved in tears and trembling all over his body. The gods did not answer. The next moment she heard the voice of Ser Boros behind her.

"Look who we have here," he said, breathing heavily. "Don't worry, my pretty. I'm here to save you."

She turned around, saw Ser Boros standing in the narrow street only a few steps away, his disgusting grin on his face, the three red soldiers right behind him. Their visors were down, but she could hear them chuckling.

"No, go away. Leave me alone," she pressed out between her sobs, barely able to keep herself upright, leaning against the wall.

His face twisted into a grimace even uglier than his terrifying grin. He came up to her, grabbed her and pulled her close. His meaty hand found one of her breasts, kneading it savagely. He grabbed her by her cleavage then and tore the silk of her dress, exposing her breast.

"Yes, I've really missed that sight. Listen, I'm a knight and all, my pretty. So I'm going to give you a choice. How do you want it first? From the front or from behind?"

"Get your hands off me, you foul swine," she shouted at him, tears streaming down her cheeks like torrents. She wriggled and fought back as best she could, trying to hit him and kick him, but could not escape his iron grip.

"So this is the way you like it. All right," he said and pushed her away from him, her back slamming against the stone wall. She looked at him, saw the bulge between his legs as he began to undo to laces of his pants. "You talk like a bitch, so you'll get it like a bitch. Turn around and bend over!"

Notes:

So, that was it. Please let me know what you think in the comments. :-)

Hope to see you next time.

Chapter 26: Aegon 5

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is already here. It was a quick write because I knew exactly what I wanted to show you and also because I did not have to worry about the timeline of my fic on a grander scale here. For the next chapters, I will have to do some planning first, to see what I can tell from which persepective and of course to get the timeline right. So don't expect all future updates to come so quickly, please ;-)

I also did some corrections to all the previous chapters because I only now realized that I have misspelled the name of a certain white knight the ENTIRE time ... it's Jaime, not Jamie. Shame on me.

So, now we see our group coming from the Kingswood back to King's Landing and being slightly surprised by how much it has changed during their absence, to put it lightly. ;-) Hope you have fun.

Finally the city came into sight. They had left the Kingswood this very morning, crossing the gentle hills that separated the Kingswood from the capital by noon and could now see the city in the distance with the Red Keep towering over it on Aegon's High Hill like a guardian watching over his wards. The sky was all grey, draped in clouds as far as the eye could see, but at least the last two days it had not rained anymore, so they had finally managed to get their clothes dry over the fires they had lid every evening. Looking up into the masses of light and dark grey, of white and black, it looked as if it would not take very long for the next rain to come, though. They could already see the Blackwater in the distance and although it was still shallow, with this weather it would not be long before the ships could leave the harbor again and new ones would be able to enter.

Aegon looked to the side, examined his brother's face. Daeron had always had the tendency to be a bit brooding from time to time. He could be boisterous and fun most of the time but every now and then he could be the exact opposite, dark and brooding and oblivious to the world. The blood of House Stark was strong in him after all. Telling Daeron that their father had wanted him dead for no other reason than to prove Aegon's own worthiness in the eyes of their father had not done him any good, it seemed.

I had to tell him, Aegon told himself again but the sight of his brother, who had talked so little these last few days that he might as well have been a mute, did not really convince him that his choice had been the right one. Still, I had to tell him the truth. Whatever may lie ahead of us, I need my brother by my side and for that he must know who and what we are up against.

He considered whether he should try again to start a conversation with him, but that had not really worked in the last days since his revelation and he did not see that anything had changed now. No matter what he had tried to talk to him about, he had only received a "Yes", a "No" or a grunt in response. Aegon could not blame him. Daeron had always been a good boy and had now become a good man, a very good man. He valued things like honesty, honor and trust, as befitting a prince of the realm, but learning that the last bit of trust he still had had in their father had been so badly abused and shattered by the very man, had obviously hurt him more than a blade could ever have done.

Aegon remembered that feeling to lose even the last bit of trust and hope in their father well enough, although it might have been easier for him than for Daeron. Aegon's trust in their father had not been shattered all at once like a carafe falling to the ground but had gradually perished like a flower in the desert. In this respect Aegon had been able to slowly get used to expect nothing more from their father but disappointments and pain. Daeron, although fully aware of their father's worsening state of mind, had been forced to swallow the ugly truth in one fell swoop, hard and painful like a punch in the guts.

Maybe it's for the best. Now at least he is perfectly aware what we will have to deal with the next time we face father.

The city was still a good hour away on horseback. The horses had not looked like it at first but had held out surprisingly well on their ride. Aegon had expected to lose at least one or two of the animals, to have to leave men behind on foot to get ahead faster. But the horses, as weak as they had looked at first, had surprised them all. Ser Barristan came riding beside him, but instead of looking at him, he fixed the city with his gaze.

"Do you see this, my prince?"

Aegon didn't know what he meant at first, but when he looked closer, he saw it too.

"Smoke. There's smoke hanging over the city."

He had smelled the smoke before but had thought it had been their clothes that smelled of the evening fires.

"Has the city been attacked?" Brienne asked from the background.

"Looks like it," said Ser Bonifer.

"No, no attack. There are no signs of a siege or a hostile army," said Daeron and Aegon was glad to hear his brother speak in full sentences for the first time in days again.

"Prince Daeron is right," said Ser Barristan. "This was not an attack from outside. It looks more like there may have been fights inside the city. A riot, maybe."

"But why would the people of the capital rise up against their King? King's Landing loves his King," said Ser Bonifer.

"The people of the capital love their King as long as they are healthy and their bellies full, as all peasants do," said Ser Barristan. "Sometimes all that lies between a loyal subject and an insurgent is a missing meal, and lately there have quite a number of meals been missed at King's Landing."

"At least our banner still flies over the Red Keep," Aegon said. But the sight of it didn't really calm him down when he saw how many plumes of smoke were rising all over the city. He thought he saw burnt out buildings spread over the entire city from east to west and north to south, as good as he could see it from where they were riding right now, and parts of the Valyrian Quarter, with its monumental and foreign architecture that could usually be seen from far away already, seemed to have mostly disappeared again. Some of these buildings had apparently fallen victim to either the flames or an angry mob. Or both.

"We should hurry," said Daeron and they all agreed. They had nearly an hour on horseback to go before they would arrive at the harbor on the wrong side of the river, and then nearly another half hour to make their way up to the Red Keep through the hustle and bustle of the streets. And who could say what they would find there and whether the way through the city was safe for them. Aegon wanted to be back at the castle as quickly as possible.

So they spurred their horses and speeded up the ride a little. Not too much to not overstrain their mounts on the last few miles of their journey, but still enough to save a little time. The horses had just turned into a comfortable trot when Aegon felt the familiar knocking of raindrops on his head. At first only slightly, then quickly getting stronger and stronger until the rain came down on them again as if it wanted to drown them. Aegon had hoped to arrive home dry, but that hope had just died away.

"Oh wonderful, it's raining again," he said aloud to the group. "We should make sure that we-"

His sentence was cut off when he was blinded for a short moment by a bright green flash. He blinked a few times, looked over to the Red Keep. A gigantic fountain of green fire rose up in the middle of the keep. Smoke and dust and broken pieces of white and red stone big as oxen were thrown into the air like the fire from the maw of a dragon, roaring its otherworldly might into the skies. Then came the thunder, deafening Aegon's ears for a brief, terrible moment. The horses shied and stopped, snorting and Aegon heard one of his companions fall from his horse behind him. But his eyes were fixed on the nightmarish spectacle in front of him.

The green beast now loomed over the Red Keep like a demon from the deepest of the seven hells, lashing out with green arms of pure fury. It was only a moment before he heard another thunder and on the river side of the fortress, parts of the outer wall were flung away like toys by more green flames. Aegon still looked spellbound at the fortress, capable of nothing but feeling pure horror. It was Daeron's words that drew him back to reality.

"We must get there. Now!"

They spurred their horses and thundered towards the capital as fast as they could. They raced along the Kingsroad, through a thick curtain of rain. Again and again Aegon looked up at the Red Keep, which was getting closer and closer now. More thunder could be heard, more fires seemed to break out. It took them nearly half an hour to finally reach the shore of Blackwater Rush. The Tower of the Hand was on fire by now and the White Sword Tower had already collapsed completely. Further parts of the river wall had burst and tumbled down the steep slope into the river mouth and it was, by the look of it, only a matter of time until the rest of the wall, which had always looked absolutely impregnable to Aegon, would give way as well.

They jumped off the backs of their horses and ran along the bank. Only a few days ago, the Blackwater had undoubtedly been so flat that one could have simply walked through it, but the rain that had been eagerly awaited had deepened it again. Not yet deep enough for the big trading ships, but already too deep to cross it without a boat. There were plenty of boats, but most of them lay aground, half-sunk in mud or so far from the water that it would have taken them half a day and ten more men to reach the other side of the Blackwater. At last they found a shallow riverboat lying abandoned on the shore, wide enough to take the horses with them and rocking gently in the water. Ser Barristan, Ser Bonifer and Ser Raymun led the exhausted horses onto the flat boat, while Aegon, Daeron, and Brienne cut the ropes securing the boat to the narrow jetty and began to pole through the water with long stakes.

As shallow as the river was, the current of the Blackwater was strong. They drifted down the river quite a bit as they crossed it. When they finally arrived, Aegon's arms ached from the unusual effort and judging by the faces of Daeron and Brienne, they felt no different. They led the horses off the boat and tied it makeshiftly to the jetty. Then they saddled up and rode through the open River Gate into the city.

They rode into Fishmonger's Square and Aegon could not believe his eyes. It was gone. The buildings around them, warehouses and shops, homes and taverns, even the small sept on the western edge of the square, were all burned to the ground. Overturned wagons and the remains of improvised barricades stood around, spread all over the square like children's toys, and between the signs of heavy fighting he could see the twisted, charred bodies of dead people. Some wore remnants of armor – Gold Cloaks obviously – but most did not.

"What on earth happened here?" he muttered.

"There, look!" shouted Ser Raymun and pointed to the main gate of the Red Keep, which was now clearly visible. It had been completely destroyed and masses of people could be seen pushing through it. On the walls and on the massive round towers left and right of the gate, which were now also partly on fire, soldiers could be seen shooting at the people with bows and crossbows, trying to keep them out of the royal fortress. The portcullis could be seen hanging halfway up the wide gate, crooked and wedged.

"We need to get up there and fast! Quick, to the Hook," said Aegon, but Daeron shook his head.

"We can't. If we ride up the Hook, we'll be right in the middle of this carnage. We might as well throw ourselves on our own swords."

"We can't do nothing!"

"That's not what I was saying," Daeron said calmly. "But we must take another way."

"There is no other way into the Red Keep, my prince," said Ser Barristan.

"Yes, there is," Daeron said, looking at Aegon.

"The tunnels," he said. "You're a genius, brother! Which one?"

"North," Daeron said. "It's closer and from there the way through the tunnels is easier to find. The last thing we need is to get lost underground."

"Tunnels? What tunnels?" Ser Barristan and Ser Raymun asked as if coming from the same mouth.

"The old tunnels under the Red Keep. The ones Maegor had built. They reach all the way down into the city. If you know where the accesses are, they will take you right into the Red Keep, even into Maegor's Holdfast," Daeron said.

"My dear brother and I discovered these tunnels as children and explored them. Did you never wonder how we kept sneaking out of the Red Keep without the Gold Cloaks seeing us?"

"So where must we go?" Ser Bonifer asked. Aegon knew he would not like the answer.

"Do you know the Red Silk Pillow?"

"No."

"It's a brothel," he said and went on as quickly as he could before Ser Bonifer fell off his horse in shock. "The entrance is in the small yard behind it, hidden under the cover of an old well shaft. And no, we've never called upon the… services of this house, good Ser. Only used the tunnel."

"I would never have thought you capable of that, my prince," the old man said, smiling more conciliatory again now.

They gave their horses the spurs again and rode through the city, which seemed almost ghostly deserted. Behind windows and quickly closing doors he could actually make out some people, women and children mostly, but it was no comparison to the otherwise exuberant hustle and bustle in King's Landing. They rode along the Muddy Way, crossed the wide Street of the Seven and, after a small detour through an alley and across a small square, where also numerous signs of fighting could be seen, turned north into the road that was to become Rosby Road behind Iron Gate.

They passed the remains of the Valyrian Quarter and Aegon saw that many of the magnificent buildings had indeed been looted or burned down. In a city where people were starving, there was apparently no room for such pompous monuments. The remains of Flea Bottom rose to their left, with only a few exceptions also burnt to the ground. In these ruins too he saw here and there the remains of burnt people and the thought of their last moments made his stomach twist and turn. He hoped that their deaths had come graciously enough and perhaps surprised them in their sleep. Aegon wondered if this might have been the doing of their father. He certainly trusted him to be capable of something like this, even if he couldn't imagine a reason why he should do such a thing. But then again, he could no longer understand his father's thinking for a long time already.

Aegon had lost all orientation in the monotonous confusion of burnt ruins and destroyed roads but thankfully Daeron seemed to know exactly where they were. They turned into a little street to their left, rode around a corner and past a small sept, which had miraculously survived the fire that must have raged here almost unharmed.

"No, no, no," Aegon heard him say as Daeron came to a halt before a large pile of wet ashes and charred wooden beams.

"Damn!" Aegon yelled. "That pile of rubble was the Red Silk Pillow. The entrance to the tunnels is buried somewhere under the masses of debris and ashes."

"What do we do now?" asked Lady Brienne. "We can still try to fight our way through the main gate."

"That would be suicide," said Ser Barristan. "But if my prince commands it, we will try."

"No, we're not helping anyone if we just get ourselves killed," Aegon said. "We have to go back."

"Go back where?" Ser Raymun asked.

"To the other side of the city. In the southwest there's another entrance to the tunnels, near a stable where the Gold Cloaks of the southern barracks keep their horses."

"That's far off," said Ser Raymun. "But as empty as the city is, we should be able to reach it quickly. There's no time to lose. We should-"

"Hey, you there!" he was interrupted by the shouts of a man nearby. Aegon looked around, saw nothing at first. Then a man stepped out from behind of one of the burned down houses, clad in bright red armor with a gold spike on his helmet. More men followed him. Five, then six, then seven, all in red from head to toe.

"Who are those guys?" asked Daeron.

"I don't know, but they don't look friendly," Ser Raymun said at the exact moment the men drew their swords.

"No, not at all."

They all put on their helmets now and drew their swords, too. Only now did Aegon realize that he had left his helmet behind because it had been so badly damaged in the fight with the Smiling Knight that he could no longer use it. Daeron noticed it too, reached behind him and quickly tossed the Smiling Knight's helmet to Aegon. He put it on and drew his sword. The helmet stank of old blood and a stranger's sweat. Ser Barristan rode forward a bit and positioned himself, dressed in shining white from head to toe, in front of the group.

"These here are the Princes Aegon and Daeron Targaryen. Anyone who threatens them will feel my blade. Identify yourself or I will put an end to your lives," Aegon heard him say aloud. The thick raindrops hammered on his helmet, plunging the world around him into an almost inscrutable rush.

"We are the Flameguard, the king's men, and you better watch your tongue, or we'll put an end to you, old man," one of them shouted back.

"Flameguard? What the hell is that supposed to be?" Aegon asked but received only shrugs and shaken heads in response.

"Can't we just go around them? We don't have time for that," Ser Bonifer said.

"Surrender the boys to us and we might let you live," the guy in red called over now. He and his companions came towards them now, swords in hand.

"No one threatens the princes and gets away with it," said Ser Barristan directed to their group again. "Whoever they are, this is treason."

"Eight against six. Could be worse. Half of them have drooping shoulders like peasants and all but one look as if they've never held a sword in their lives," Aegon said. "Let's get this over with quickly."

They all nodded, took a loose formation, then gave their horses the spurs and thundered at their enemies. Surprised by the sudden attack, two of the men dropped their swords immediately and ran off into a small alley. The remaining six quickly took up their positions, close together and their swords pointed forward like a spiked wall of steel. For a tiny moment Aegon thought about simply riding them down, but the horses could be wounded too badly by this. On foot they would then have needed far too long to reach the other entrance to the tunnels. The others seemed to have had the same thought as they split up in two smaller groups and rode past the red soldiers left and right, swords slamming down on them. The two outer men were dead before Aegon got even past them, a third one lost his left arm by a hard blow from Brienne and went down screaming and bleeding. They tore their horses around and rode towards them again. Their small formation had now completely dissolved, but the formation of their opponents as well thankfully. Ser Bonifer and Ser Raymun took out one of the last three, who quickly fell victim to their well-aimed attacks, Aegon and Daeron took out another, and Ser Barristan gave the one-armed man a final stab through the heart to end his suffering while Lady Brienne rode after the last fleeing man, stabbing him in the back with her sword as she rode past him.

Without wasting a word about what had just happened here, they brought their horses back into a loose formation and rode through the city again. In the distance Aegon could hear the sounds of fighting, the screams of the dying and wounded and the barking of orders, the clash of steel on steel. Aegon looked up at the Red Keep as they crossed the Street of the Seven again and saw that even more parts of the fortress seemed to be on fire now. He heard a rushing and rumbling but could not see where exactly it came from. Further parts of the castle must have collapsed. Passing a small alley, he saw more soldiers clad in red running through the streets. This time though, they did not seem to notice their group.

The Flameguard... ridiculous, he thought. What were those cowards even doing down here in the city while the Red Keep was being overrun? Probably looting or raping. Or both.

He decided that he would take care of these self-proclaimed king's men once this madness was all over. There'd be a lot of gallows to build. They took the wider road past the Guildhall of the Alchemists and then a side road that would take them around Bealor's Sept, from where voices and shouts could be heard as if someone was preaching there. Whoever that was and to whomever he spoke, they decided that it would probably be better not to run directly into his and his followers' arms. They had crossed the crest of Visenya's Hill and almost reached the Street of Steel without encountering further resistance when they heard fighting noises again from somewhat further ahead.

Daeron rode a little way ahead and stopped at the edge of a small mound to look down between two buildings at what was happening in front of them. Aegon joined in, the others followed. They saw a small crossing where a fierce battle was taking place between soldiers of this silly Flameguard, some Gold Cloaks and a vast crowd of rioters. It was a hopeless mess of weapons and armors and bodies, many men and women already dead or badly injured lying on the ground in puddles of blood. A small house was just about to go up in flames at the edge of the crossing when Ser Barristan pointed into the crowd with his hand outstretched.

"There!" he shouted aloud. "Those two men in the red robes. They are Ser Jaime and Lord Eddard."

Aegon tried to follow Ser Barristan's finger and did indeed spot two men in the confusion who looked like Ser Jaime and Lord Stark, though Aegon barely recognized them in those wide red robes. Then he saw the others. He saw his grandmother and Rhaenys cowering behind a horse cart, saw Lady Jenye defended by her Dornish knight and... then he saw her. He saw her wonderful red hair, wet from the heavy rain and yet unmistakably shining towards him.

"Sansa," he said. Without giving an order, he gave his horse the spurs and thundered down the small trail in front of them down from Visenya's Hill. The others followed him at once, swords drawn. Only moments later, they clashed right into the fighting, rode over some rioters as well as red soldiers, hacked and slashed to both sides. Ser Barristan and Ser Bonifer quickly advanced towards his grandmother and Rhaenys, shielding them from anyone who still dared to come close. Aegon, Daeron, Ser Raymun and Lady Brienne fought their way through the middle of the confusing battle, trying to drive the rioters away and at the same time get rid of the red soldiers and the Gold Cloaks attacking them.

Aegon plunged his sword through the chest of a red soldier who immediately went down. He looked around, looking for Sansa. Where was she? He had seen her. She had been here. She had to be here! He looked around further, fending off the blow from a rioter with a flail, which was then immediately beaten almost in two by Lady Brienne. He looked over at Rhaenys and grandmother. Perhaps Sansa was hiding there. But she was not there. He looked at Rhaenys who seemed to be shouting something to him. Through the chaos of voices and screams, the clash of weapons and the pounding of the heavy rain, he couldn't understand it but he immediately recognized the name that her lips were forming.

"Sansa," she shouted to him, "Sansa, Sansa," and pointed in panic into one of the side streets leading away from the fighting. Immediately, Aegon tore his horse around, quickly struck his sword in the neck of a Gold Cloak that was pressing Daeron next to him and rode off. He raced through the crowd, riding over at least two of the rioters and into the street. He followed the street without a sign of Sansa. Arriving at a large square, he stopped and looked around. There was a burned down horse cart next to the remains of the slaughtered horse and in the middle of the square he saw an old tree standing, on which three Gold Cloaks had been hanged. But there was no Sansa. There just had to be some clue as to where Sansa was. But he saw nothing. On the cobble stone of the street and the square there were no footprints of course and in the smaller side street, no more than trampled mud and dirt, the rain had washed away anything that could possibly have resembled a trace in a heartbeat.

He looked around further, unsure of where to go. Desperation gripped him. He could not, would not leave her alone. He had to choose a direction to go. But what if he rode in the wrong direction? His heart was racing in his chest and he could barely breathe.

"Sansa!" he shouted as loud as he could. "Sansa!"

Then suddenly, he saw a movement a little distance away between a small house and a plundered leather shop. At first he was unsure whether his mind had not just played a trick on him, but then he saw it again. Men in red armor scurrying between the houses. They were not looking for him, otherwise they could have found him easily.

They are looking for Sansa, it shot through his head.

Immediately, he spurred his horse again and thundered off. He rode along a muddy trail, around a small tree and further along narrow, beaten paths and small streets between the low houses. Again and again he saw the red armor shining in the rain in front of him, saw it flashing like little beacons to guide him along the next street and around the next corner. Again and again he had to stop to look for the next flash of red. But eventually he came closer and closer until he could already hear parts of what the men were calling to each other.

"...must be here somewhere...," shouted one of them. "...Boros wants… but alive," answered the other. He was close now. Very close. He raced around the corner of a house, sword in hand and ready to strike… but then there was no one there. He saw a small well, surrounded by flat houses that might have been forges and steel shops, doors all closed and barred. Again he looked around searching, but there was nothing and nobody. But they had been here. He dismounted, tried to find the remains of footprints on the ground before the rain would wash them away completely, but there still was nothing.

Then, in the bright flash of a lightning, he saw something shining in front of him. He went there quickly, crouched down beside it and found a pair of shoes. Small shoes of good blue cloth. Shoes a noble lady would wear. Sansa's shoes! He looked up and found a passage leading through between two of the houses, too narrow for his horse. He jumped up and ran, ran out on the next street. Before even could even look around for a sign or a clue, he already heard a voice – Sansa's voice – from a street to his left and ran into it. He ran further and further, the sword in hand.

The little street ended in a dead end and there he finally found them. Three soldiers in red and a fat man in white, who could only be Ser Boros Blount, were surrounding his Sansa. She leant against a wall, all dissolved in tears and sobs, with her dress ripped apart, trying to cover her bare chest. Rage took hold of him, unbridled rage, filling his veins with fire. Aegon ran towards them. The first red soldier seemed to hear him coming from behind, but the moment he turned around, Aegon's sword already described a wide arc, swung with all his strength and rage, and separated his head smoothly from his shoulders.

The second man saw him as well now, wanted to draw his sword, but Aegon ran on towards the man as fast as he could, paying no attention to the headless dead man next to him. He reached him in half a heartbeat, kicked as hard as he could against the hand that was just about to draw his sword and then stabbed him in the chest, giving an angry scream like a wild beast. His sword went smoothly through the man's armor and body, piercing into his chest up to the parry bar. He was not dead at once, but collapsed and fell to the ground, losing all his strength. Aegon reached for the sword of the red soldier, leaving his own one in the body of the dying man. The third one had drawn his sword, ran towards him roaring like an angry giant from the stories, and tried to hit him from above as if he was swinging a club or an axe. Aegon parried the heavy blow, then repelled a second one to the side. He jumped forward then, hammering with his shoulder against the man's upper body. His opponent lost his balance, tried to catch himself but slipped on the wet ground. Aegon immediately struck again, neatly separating sword hand and arm. He swung out again and stabbed his blade directly into the gap between the helmet and the chest plate before the man could even begin to scream.

He looked around, searching for Boros Blount to finish him off as well, but the craven was nowhere to be seen. He looked at Sansa then, still cowering on the ground, crying and weeping and trembling from the sobs, wet from head to toe. She was beautiful. He dropped his sword to the ground, came slowly towards her and took the helmet off his head. Now she recognized him, her eyes grew big, then even bigger.

"Aegon!" she cried, jumped up and ran towards him, not caring about her tattered dress and her exposed breast. She jumped into his arms, clutching at his neck. He grabbed her, pressed her against his chest and together they sank to the ground, kissing her hair and forehead a thousand times.

"Aegon, you have come back to me. Oh, Aegon, Aegon, Aegon," he heard her crying into his shoulder. Again and again he kissed her hair, holding her so tightly as if he feared she might vanish into thin air at any moment. All the while he heard her say his name over and over again, only interrupted by weeping and sobbing. He wanted to ask her if she was hurt, if she was all right, but he couldn't get a word out. All he could do was sit there with her, pressing her against his chest and kissing her hair until she calmed down little by little.

He didn't know how long they had been crouching there before Sansa separated from him only slightly, looking him in the eye. She was still in tears, her eyes red as fire and yet it was the most beautiful sight Aegon could ever imagine. Sansa was alive. Sansa was unhurt. Sansa, his Sansa, was with him again. He took her face into his hands, gently following her cheekbones with his thumbs.

"You have come back to me," she whispered as if she still could not believe it.

"Always."

He felt her hand move behind his head, drawing him closer. He bowed his head down towards her and their lips met in a deep, longing kiss. They kissed on and on and Aegon felt as if he could have spent the whole night here, with his beloved in his arms and her soft, sweet lips on his. But they could not stay, he knew. The city was dangerous and the Red Keep even more so.

Eventually, their kiss ended and their lips parted. Sansa closed her eyes and leaned against his chest again, tired and exhausted. He reached under her, lifted her up and carried her away, back along the street and to his still waiting horse. He placed her in the saddle, fetched a blanket from the saddlebags and handed it to her to cover herself and keep her warm. She was trembling all over, whether from the cold or the anxiety he could not tell. He saddled up as well then, sitting behind her and immediately she clung to him again, wordlessly and firmly.

They rode back to the others who were still waiting at the crossing where the fight had taken place. He saw red soldiers, gold cloaks and rioters lying on the ground, but his companions were all well. He saw grandmother Rhaella, closely guarded by Ser Bonifer, Rhaenys, closely guarded by Ser Jaime, and Lady Jeyne, closely guarded by her Dornish knight standing at the side. He would have to remember the young man's name, he decided. Sansa's sister Arya was apparently there too, although he almost didn't recognize her in her dirty clothes and with the bloody knife in her hand. The only one missing seemed to be Lord Eddard.

When he came closer and the others noticed him, Ser Barristan and Lady Brienne came up to him.

"My Prince, are you all right?" Brienne asked.

"Yes, I am. We both are."

His grandmother, Rhaenys, Arya and Lady Jeyne came up to them, looking after Sansa. She just nodded, squeezed the hands offered to her, muttered "I'm fine" a few times and then closed her eyes again, her head leaning against Aegon's chest. Once more he kissed her hair and smelled her wonderful, sweet scent, for which he only earned a sigh and rolled eyes from Arya.

"We need to get out of the city and fast," said Ser Barristan.

"No, we must find father," Arya protested.

"Is he not here?" Sansa now asked, waking up suddenly.

"No, he's not here," said Ser Raymun. "We must have been separated during the fighting. He's not dead or else he would be lying here, but we can't find him either. We've already searched the surrounding area."

"Then we must keep searching," Arya said decidedly, "until we find him."

"There's no time for that," Ser Raymun said. "We need to get you and the royal family out of the city. It turned out well this time, but if we stay here much longer and run into the next group of rioters or those red scumbags, we might not make it out alive. We would not be helping your father with this, my lady. He's a good fighter, a smart and experienced man, and he has a sword. He can handle himself."

"He's right," said Ser Barristan. "He's probably already looking for a way out of the city as well."

"No, he would never leave us behind."

"Perhaps he's come to the same conclusion that if he gets himself killed here, he can't help you. I'm sure he's fine. Now we have to get out of here."

Aegon wanted to say something, had to say something, had make a decision. Ser Barristan and Ser Raymun were right. They couldn't stay here looking for Lord Eddard at the risk of getting into fights again that they actually might lose. This time, they had made good use of the surprise and the overall confusion, but next time things might turn out very differently. It wouldn't do Lord Eddard any good if they stayed and got themselves killed. But he could hardly say that they should just leave their father, Sansa's father, behind. Before he could say a word though, he heard his grandmother speaking.

"We will not go and leave the man behind. I will not go. Ned did not leave me behind when I could go no further, and I'm not going to repay him his loyalty and kindness by simply leaving him behind."

"I will stay behind and look for him," Ser Raymun finally said.

"And I will aid you in your search, Ser," Ser Bonifer said, but Ser Raymun shook his head.

"No, you have to go. Protect the royal family and the ladies and get them out of the city." He turned to Arya. "If your father's still here, I will find him. You have my word on it, my lady."

Arya seemed to think about it for a moment before she finally nodded reluctantly.

"Fine, I'll go."

They just wanted to divide up on the horses, when they heard a shout "Wait!" coming from one of the smaller streets. Aegon did not believe his eyes. Ser Arthur Dayne came walking towards them, supporting the almost unconscious Lord Eddard, who seemed to have been wounded at one of his legs. Arya and Ser Raymun rushed forward, Arya clinging to her father and Ser Raymun helping Ser Arthur to keep Lord Eddard upright.

"It's good to see you, Arthur," said Ser Barristan. "Are you alone?"

"Yes, alas. It's good to see you, too. And of course you, Your Graces," he said, bowing his head first to Aegon, then to Daeron, grandmother and then Rhaenys. Aegon was certainly happy to see the man, but still he was… unsure what to feel or think. He was one of the greatest knights, probably the greatest knight of the realm, but he had always been so fiercely loyal to his father that Aegon's stomach cramped at the sight of him. It was undoubtedly beneficial to have such an outstanding fighter in their midst, yet he was not sure how much trust he could place in him. "Jonothor couldn't leave the White Sword Tower due to his health and Gerold refused to attend the ceremony and was locked up there with him."

"Ceremony? What ceremony?" Aegon asked, but before Ser Arthur could answer, Rhaenys did.

"A long story. We'll tell it better once we got out of the city."

"So they're dead," said Ser Barristan.

"Yes," said Ser Arthur. "Where's Lewyn?" Ser Barristan just shook his head. "I see."

They saddled up then, each horse now carrying two, but Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan still had to walk. At first Aegon and Daeron wanted to walk but the two white knights insisted that the royal princes had to be on horseback in case they had to flee. They rode along two narrow streets and across a small square past a burned down sept until they reached a wider street that would take them to the remnants of Fishmonger's Square.

When they had covered about half the distance to Fishmonger's Square and then to the harbor without meeting any resistance, he heard Arya protesting again.

"Where are we going? This is the wrong way. We need to go north."

"We're going south, to Dorne," Daeron told her, sitting behind her on the horse.

"What are we doing there? Robb is in the North."

"But our army's in the South."

"Robb has an army too."

"The riverlands are to the north. They'll be loyal to you, Your Graces, and with a Stark army waiting there as well, that would be a good prospect," said Ser Raymun.

"We can't know how the young Stark will react to us," said Ser Arthur.

"Robb would not wage war against us, not against Aegon or Daeron," Sansa now said. Gods, how he had missed her sweet voice.

"No," they heard Lord Eddard croak. His voice was weak and could hardly be heard. "Not north… Stannis… army."

"Stannis has an army in the North?" Rhaella asked, receiving only the faintest nod from Lord Eddard. "Then that way is blocked for us. We need to ride south as fast as we can. Ned needs to see a maester, quickly. We ride for Dorne and have Doran call the banners. Then we send a raven north to Robb Stark and command him to do the same in Aegon's name."

"Where exactly are we riding to?" Ser Barristan asked.

"Vulture's Roost," Aegon now said, feeling he had to participate at least somehow. "We'll ride back through the Kingswood, then east to the mouth of the Wendwater. There is a village I know from my childhood where we are sure to find a boat that will take us south quickly, past Storm's End and then to Dorne. To Wyl or Yronwood. From there it's not far to Vulture's Roost."

"Vulture's Roost is a ruin, my prince," Ser Arthur said. "There's nothing there for us."

"Oberyn is waiting there for us. And knowing him, he will likely not wait for us alone."

They rode on then and his mind raced faster than his horse could ever have. His grandmother wanted to call the banners in his name, meaning nothing less than that he was to usurp his father's throne. He had not yet asked what exactly had happened during their absence, why his grandmother, Rhaenys, Ser Jaime and Lord Eddard were all wearing those ridiculous robes. He would ask them all those things as soon as they were out of danger. But whatever had happened, it must have been so terrible that not even his grandmother, ever caring and forgiving Rhaella Targaryen, saw any chance that his father, her own son, could sit on the Iron Throne any longer.

The thought scared him. Not so much that he should take the throne. He was the Crown Prince and had known all his life that one day he would inherit the throne, the crown and all the duties that came with it. But possibly having to wage a war to forcibly remove his own father from the Iron Throne was an entirely different matter.

They reached the ruins of Fishmonger's Square. No one was there as far as Aegon could see. Aegon looked up at the Red Keep. The fires in some places had apparently been quenched by either the rain or the inhabitants of the keep, while the other flashy green flames were still burning brightly, illuminating the sky. The river wall had indeed collapsed and slid down into the river now. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh was in the air and the screams and the noise of the ongoing fighting could be heard, from the Red Keep as well as from the city behind them.

They rode on towards the River Gate. They had almost reached it when loud voices could be heard from the top of the city wall. Aegon looked up and saw Gold Cloaks on the wall, armed with bows and crossbows. The others saw them coming as well, gave their horses the spurs again and rode away, Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur following on foot as fast as they could. Arrows and crossbow bolts flew past them, smashing into the ground or the remains of burnt out buildings several steps away from them. The archers were poorly trained obviously, probably new to the Gold Cloaks, and their arrows and bolts missed the group by far. For the first time, Aegon was honestly grateful that their father had insisted on raising the numbers of the Gold Cloaks so quickly that their training had obviously been cut short.

They rode out into the harbor, along the city wall. They turned towards the river and rode through between two empty warehouses of which the windows were smashed and which showed signs of quenched fires here and there. Aegon looked up, saw the Gold Cloaks trying to keep up with them on the wall. They ran into one of the wall's watchtowers and shot at them further and further. But the more they shot, the less accurate they seemed. A bell sounded in the small tower. The Gold Cloaks called for reinforcements. Their boat was still lying where they had left it. Aegon thanked the gods with a quick prayer. They led the horses onto the boat and cut the ropes again. By the time they were done, Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur arrived as well, totally out of breath. This time it was Brienne, Ser Jaime, and Lady Jeyne's knight who began to poke their little boat through the water with long poles and push them away from the shore. The current again pulled them downstream into the bay, but that didn't matter now. They just had to get away from the city, to the other shore and then to Dorne as fast as possible.

They had already reached the middle of the Blackwater when the current brought them back to the height of the River Gate and Aegon saw more Gold Cloaks coming through between the warehouses and taverns. They shot crossbow bolts at them again and this time they seemed to be better trained. The bolts came closer, hit the boat and one of the horses, which immediately ran in panic and jumped into the water, almost causing the boat to tip over. The men grabbed wooden boards and lids of empty barrels, whatever was at hand, and formed a temporary shield to protect the ladies. More bolts crashed in while Ser Jaime and Brienne still tried to get them to the other shore despite the incoming bolts.

Aegon looked up behind their small barricade when he heard screams from the shore. More Gold Cloaks came running out of the city, attacking their comrades who had just been shooting at them. Apparently, not all Gold Cloaks stood on their father's side by a long shot. Whether they were killing the crossbowmen because they wanted to protect the fleeing royal family or whether they were on the side of the rioters, Aegon could not say. Either way, he was happy to see the crossbowmen being taken down one by one.

They had almost reached the other side of the river when he suddenly heard Daeron scream.

"Watch out!"

Aegon looked in his direction, followed his gaze. They had drifted close to the mountain of debris that had once been the river wall, and on some of the larger chunks sticking out of the water, almost in the middle of the river, there were more Gold Cloaks with crossbows waiting for them. Aegon had no idea how these men had so quickly managed to get there, but... there they were. At the last moment he saw the bolts coming towards them. There was nothing within his reach that he could have used as a shield. So he quickly took a step to the side, shielding Sansa with his body. He felt the hammering of two impacts and only a moment later the warmth of the blood running down under his armor.

His legs gave way and he fell to his knees. He felt Sansa's arms wrapping around his neck from behind, heard her scream his name again and again. He looked down and saw the ends of the two crossbow bolts that had pierced through his armor and were sticking in his chest. Then everything around him turned to black.

Notes:

So, that was it. Solving Sansa's cliffhanger just to end with another one... I know I can be mean. ;-) How did you like it? Please let me know in the comments. You know I always love to hear/read your thoughts.

See you next time.

Chapter 27: Viserys 2

Notes:

Hi everone,

the next chapter is already here. This was a quick write as well so that's why the update came so quickly. So this one is from Viserys' perspective again, showing the state of the city and (mainly) the Red Keep after the riots and the explosions of the wildfire.

Stannis and Jon Arryn are apporaching the city, but "thankfully" there is such a great king as Viserys in the Red Keep. ;-)

Hope you enjoy it.

The morning air was fresh, the wind was only mildly blowing but it was enough to keep the last remnants of the stench of smoke and death away from him as he stood at the edge of the eastern wall of the Red Keep and looked down on what had once been the river wall. He didn't stand too close to the edge, because he certainly didn't want to fall down to his untimely death – he wasn't crazy after all – but still close enough to have a good view over the edge and down into the harbor.

Three large, bulbous cogs from Braavos and two slender, longish galleys from Pentos lay in the harbor. They had only arrived this very morning and now his men were busy discharging the ships' cargo. They had apparently been waiting in the harbor of Dragonstone for the last week or so, and when the rains had finally begun, they had set out for King's Landing in the wise foresight of profit. Water wasn't his element of course, but Viserys still thanked R'hllor for the fact that the Blackwater Rush finally had enough water for ships with so much draft again. So far he was not particularly enthusiastic about his new god, if he was honest, but he had at least given him a crown and a throne. A little gratitude certainly couldn't hurt.

The food the ships had loaded consisted mainly of dried meat, salted fish, onions and bitter turnips, very little dried fruits and oats. Lots and lots of oats. All this was certainly nothing to prepare a meal worthy of the King of the Seven Kingdoms and the future savior of mankind, but at least for once he was able to fill his stomach with something other than old bread and cold, tasteless wheat pudding again.

There had even been so much food in the ships – mainly oats – that he had been able to supply the population of King's Landing. He would have preferred to save it for his soldiers, but the captains of the ships had assured him that in a few days more ships would arrive, which would then also have fine wine and better food on board, which would rather appeal to his most noble tongue. So he had generously distributed food to the people of the city, or rather to those who were left. Tens of thousands had fled the city when the riots had begun, to where he did neither know nor care. Thousands more had been killed by his men – before, during and of course as punishment even after the riots – and even more could possibly die as soon as the traitors Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn arrived with their armies.

Still, it was astonishing to see how weak the will of these petty humans was, how quickly they became loyal subjects again if you just waved some fodder in front of their faces. He saw over in the direction of Maegor's Holdfast, over the pile of rubble that had once been the White Sword Tower. The castle within the castle had survived the chaos of the last two days surprisingly well. It had taken his men all night and most of the following day to push the rioters back out of the Red Keep and restore some order in the city. They had not managed to break into Maegor's Holdfast, however, and apart from a few minor damages to the northwestern tower and the total loss of the dungeons, for which he had no use at the moment anyway, the castle was almost completely intact.

He climbed down from the wall using the improvised wooden stairs and walked along the south side of Maegor's Holdfast towards the Throne Room. The edge of the precipice down to the Blackwater was close – only a few steps away – but his men should gladly see how brave he was to walk so close to the abyss and admire him for it. It would inspire them to fight and die for him even more bravely in the wars to come, knowing that with a good death they could be almost as brave as their King.

He looked over to the other side of the river, to the wide and grassy field with only a few trees on gentle hills that spread on and on for miles and saw the light green shimmer here and there in the weak morning sun. The alchemists had indeed done an excellent job of preparing the thousands of corpses before they had been buried north and south of the city, but still he had not been willing to forgive them for supposedly forgetting that hundreds of barrels of Wildfire had been waiting under the Red Keep unguarded, produced on his father's command when he had been king so many years ago. Who could seriously forget something like that? So once their work had been done, he had therefore let them all hang, and rightfully so. There would be no more new wildfire in the Seven Kingdoms now. That was unfortunate, of course, because it was such a wonderful weapon. Easy to use, versatile and so perfectly suited for a king like him who had dragon fire in his veins. But once the eggs would hatch and he would have the dragons under his control, he would have no more use for it anyway.

He walked further, passing the rests of what had before been the rookery. Half a tower wall and a pile of debris, partly sunk into the river, was all that was left of it now. Grandmaester Pycelle had not been seen since the tower had collapsed along with the river wall two nights ago, and so he was probably lying somewhere under tons of stone, smashed to nothing more than a red smudge. Viserys would certainly not miss the babbling old fart.

After a short walk further, he turned right into the rests of the Red Keep's Godswood. The old oak still stood there, untouched with its branches and leaves waving in the wind, as if it wanted to defy him and his new god. But it would not succeed in this. The priestess Melisandre had already said that a symbol for such an archaic, obviously false religion must not be allowed within the Red Keep. He had been somewhat surprised by her determination in this matter, because after all – even though this garden was called a Godswood – the tree was nothing more than a regular oak, not a real weirwood tree with one of those ugly carved faces. He had given in, however. On the one hand because eradicating these false religions from his realm was the right thing to do, on the other hand because he had had no desire to listen to her boring sermon any longer. So no matter how old and strong the oak was, it would not stand against the cold kiss of an axe and the holy flames of R'hllor. Tonight, its days would be over.

He walked through the rest of the supposed Godswood, past the alders and elms, past large bushes with sour berries and wide flower beds. He found that the garden was astonishingly beautiful and tranquil. Now he at least understood why Rhaenys and the redheaded slut had always spent so much time here. He decided that once the old oak had burned down, he would have the Godswood rebuilt. Without the religious fuss, of course. In place of the old oak tree, a statue of himself would do very well, perhaps with Lightbringer victoriously raised up to the sky. That would undoubtedly look great and would give every visitor a good impression of who and what he was. Valyrian steel would be a fine material for his statue, even if a bit expensive. Maybe gold would to too. He would decide that later, however, as there were more important things that had to be repaired and rebuilt first.

The Red Keep had been largely destroyed. At least on the inside. The council chamber, the Grand Hall, the kennels, the Small Hall, the Tower of the Hand, the White Sword Tower, the royal sept of course and the Maidenvault were all either completely gone or so heavily damaged, that they had to be built completely anew. The Throne Room was surprisingly still intact, although only a few steps behind the massive building the western part of the river wall had broken off and torn large parts of the castle's defenses down with it into the river. The main gate and its portcullis had been damaged as well – thankfully not severely though – and his men would be done with the repairs by the end of the day already. Or so they had assured him at least. If not, he would just have to erect some more gallows next to the ones for the alchemists that now stood in the ruins of the outer courtyard. The rest of the outer walls and five of the seven round towers were, however, largely intact and undamaged.

He looked down to the river again and saw his men climbing up and down across the steep slope leading up to Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep, building temporary wooden defenses just in case the traitors' men actually did make it across the river. That was unlikely but it was always better to be prepared. But the best defense was already waiting. He might not have dragons – at least not yet – but fire was still the weapon of his House. He could hardly wait until the traitors finally appeared at the gates of his city.

He turned around and looked the other way, inside the Red Keep. There was a hustle and bustle everywhere. Gold Cloaks, knights of the Flameguard and a large number of commoners from the city, whom he paid with food and the promise to be allowed to keep their little lives despite of their treason, were busy removing the filth and the blood and the corpses from the courtyards and repairing the minor damages to the Red Keep.

Actually, the damages didn't bother him much, if he was honest. He had never been particularly fond of the Red Keep anyway. It had always been far too... ordinary for his taste. One stronghold among many in a kingdom built and populated by uncivilized savages. It was nothing compared to the glory and magnificence of old Valyria, and that of course was to be his benchmark. Once this pesky war was over and he was the undisputed King of the Seven Kingdoms, he would declare Dragonstone his seat, a proud fortress of Valyrian origin and certainly the only one in Westeros worthy of him and his royal court. Perhaps he would also have a completely new castle built in a completely new capital, one that would not look and smell so… vulgar. He still had to think about that, though. Such a decision could of course not be taken lightly.

He walked around the large building that held the Throne Room and entered it. The herald was still there thankfully, loudly announcing his presence.

"All hail King Viserys, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," he declared with his booming voice.

Perhaps something like Savior of Mankind and Awakener of Dragons should be added, Viserys thought. Even if this was still to come. He was a king for the history books, a king and a hero in the making that the whole world would owe once his deeds were done. Being merely the king of Westeros, ruler of some savages – and then even only the third of his name – was simply not good enough for him.

He saw Lord Boggs standing at the side of the hall, talking to Ser Bennard Brune of Brownhollow and his distant cousin Ser Lothor Brune, all of whom were greeting their King with a faint smile and a deep bow. Ser Robin Ryger from the Riverlands was there, courting some stupid servant girl, and from the Stormlands there were Lord Cafferen, old Lord Mooton and Lord Grandison the Greybeard to pay their respects. Old Lord Mooton had not coped well with the death of Ser Myles when he learned of it yesterday after his arrival, but the whole court had been shocked with him by the cruelty of the rioters against this good man, after all a good friend and close confidant of his dear brother. A lot of minor knights, landed and not, were running around in the Throne Room and the entire castle as well, but Viserys didn't bother to learn these men's names.

What he should think of some of the people present, Viserys did not know yet. Of course, it was wonderful to see that with the Lords Cafferen, Mooton and Grandison some great Houses of the Stormlands were present, thereby showing the entire realm that the alliance around the traitors Baratheon and Arryn was not as strong as it probably wanted to appear. But Lord Mooton was so old that he was little more than a walking corpse who just refused to be put under the earth and House Grandison could loudly proclaim their loyalty to House Targaryen under the noble King Viserys here and now all they wanted, but they had already done so at the beginning of the last rebellion, only to turn cloaks and side with the traitorous Baratheons after all. What help those men really could be, he was not sure.

And then of course there were also many men present, all of whom were named Walder of House Frey, who bowed devoutly to him and swore their loyalty to him at every opportunity, probably in the hope of being able to usurp their father or grandfather or great-grandfather – if he had understood the situation in their weird family correctly – once this war was over. He didn't care whose ugly ass held the Twins for him as long as he had their armies at his disposal. Of these armies however, no less than one thousand knights and three thousand foot, he did not see anything far and wide yet.

The priestess Melisandre was there as well, although he would have preferred that she was not. After the failures of the last few days since the escape of his mother and niece and nephews, he could hardly bear her presence. Unfortunately, she seemed necessary to finally get him dragons, otherwise he would not have tolerated her here anymore, not in his castle, not in his city and not in his Seven Kingdoms. On the other hand, she had contributed significantly to him finally obtaining his rightful throne and crown.

Perhaps, he thought, I should at least try to be a bit more patient with her. Mother always said that patience is a king's greatest virtue after all. But then again, what does she know?

Since she selfishly left him in what should have been his greatest moment of glory, and thus ultimately betrayed him, he should probably no longer listen to her words. In the end, he could not really blame her. She was just a woman after all, weak and without reason. Otherwise she would have been lucky to be allowed to participate in the sacred ceremony that would have brought dragons back into the world, had his family not abandoned him. Maybe he had even named one of his dragons after her. The smallest one of course, but still an unrivalled honor. But now his mother was gone and he had to deal with the red priestess.

She would no doubt continue to try to wake dragons. And should the red priestess continue to fail, he could still have her hanged. Or take her to his bed for a night or two and have her hanged then. He could see – and smell – that she had tried to perform the ritual again but as he could also see, since there were no living dragons around, had failed again. Not even the voluntary death of Lord Connington seemed to have been a great enough sacrifice for the Lord of Light. That the man's death had achieved nothing did not really surprise him, though. Connington, however loyal he may have been, had been nothing more than an ordinary human, not a Valyrian, and certainly not the Blood of the Dragon. His brother had mourned the death of the man, the death of one of his oldest friends and most loyal confidants, but obviously it had been of no use. His tears had been shed in vain. He had wanted to comfort him, but had better let him cry alone in his chambers. As long as he had no son of his own, Rhaegar was his heir, the old and new Prince of Dragonstone, and the thought of his heir squatting on the ground in tears at the death of an ordinary human like Jon Connington was too much for Viserys' otherwise very indulgent nature.

Of course, it had still been worth a try, though. Viserys would have liked to have been there to personally stab Lightbringer in the man's heart, but his inspection of the Red Keep and provisional defenses had been more important this morning than seeing just another man die screaming for nothing. Who would have thought that it would really take his entire family, his brother and his mother, his niece and his damned nephews, to be able to perform this ritual and finally gain the divine favor of R'hllor? This of course complicated things.

Because as he had learned from Ser Boros two nights ago, his mother, Rhaenys, Aegon and Daeron had fled the city like cowards. Ser Boros had chased them through the city and had nearly gotten hold of them, but a superior force of traitors – Gold Cloaks and rioting peasants – had gotten in his way and so his dog had rather retreated to report to him than to be pointlessly slaughtered. He had a clever dog indeed.

So not surprisingly the ritual, no matter how often and with whom they had tried it, had been an absolute failure. Apparently, it really did take Targaryen blood to wake dragons from stone. In a desperate attempt to finally satisfy R'hllor, the red priestess had proposed that regular Valyrian blood might be working as well, because after all, all Valyrians had a little dragon blood in them and many of their ancestors had been dragon riders themselves. But this had obviously not been true as well, because now he not only had no dragons, but also no more wives. No, apparently it had to be the blood of his family, his entire family.

"Your Grace," the red priestess greeted him and bowed deeply as he stepped closer, so that he gained a good insight into her physical qualities.

Yes, he would bring his family to her and then she would be allowed to make one last attempt to give him dragons. Should she then fail as well, he would certainly find another use for her. One where she would have no more need of that alluring red dress of hers.

"Priestess Melisandre, I see there are still no dragons flying around in my throne room."

"Unfortunately not, Your Grace. Lord Connington was brave, no doubt, but he was not a member of your most noble family."

Viserys looked over to the last pyre that stood at the side of the throne room. It still burned and smoked slightly here and there, and the distorted shape of Lord Connington's charred corpse could very clearly be seen. It stank terribly. A knight of the Flameguard was busy fishing the unopened dragon eggs out of the still hot remains of the pyre. Scorched, black blood and white ashes stuck to them.

"Clean them and then bring them back to me immediately," Viserys commanded.

"At once, Your Grace," the soldier said and hurried out.

Ser Boros, who had obviously overslept, now stepped out of one of the small side doors and positioned himself beside him. He would have to chastise him for that later. He stank of his own sweat and cheap wine and for a heartbeat Viserys pondered where he had gotten the wine from in the first place, as the ships with the good food would arrive in two days at the earliest. Immediately he saw how, after a short bow, Boros' eyes wandered over to priestess Melisandre, moving up and down her curvaceous body. Apparently his dog thought the same as he did when he looked at the woman. He considered whether he should hand her over to him for some time, should she fail again. Only after he had had his fun with her himself, of course. Boros would certainly love to make use of her as well. But his dog had to first earn this privilege and at the moment he was far from being rewarded for anything.

"But I think I now know what the problem is, Your Grace," the red priestess now said, turning his attention back to her.

"Is that so?" he said somewhat disbelievingly.

"Yes, indeed. I have consulted with the other priests and priestesses of the Red Temple whom your royal brother so generously had invited to King's Landing and we have come to a conclusion. Of course, we need the blood of your most noble family for our holy mass, but there are also still the Seven."

"The Seven? Did you not say the Seven were nothing more than lies and stories spread by the Great Other to keep people away from the warming fires of R'hllor? I am welcoming those fires but R'hllor still does not give me dragons."

"Indeed, Your Grace. So it is. But even though you have so bravely turned to the one true God and accepted his infinite grace and greatness in your heart, many of your subjects still have not. Moreover, there are still monuments in your city that praise these false gods as if they were true and that insult the Lord of Light with their mere existence. You cannot force the hearts of men away from these false gods, but you can take these disgusting temples of wickedness from them. No doubt the Lord of Light will not be willing to give you his divine blessing as long as you tolerate the existence of these temples of deceit and malice in your capital."

"So the Great Sept of Baelor is the problem?"

"Yes, this one and all the little septs all over the city. The belief in these false gods is a sickness, Your Grace. It is like weeds that must be torn out with stumps and steals so that they may never again defile the beautiful garden of R'hllor, that is the hearts of the people of your great realm."

Viserys thought about it for a moment, about having to burn down the Great Sept of Baelor, which had been built by Baelor the Blessed, certainly his most confused and weakest ancestor. He would have preferred to consecrate it to R'hllor, but that would probably not have been enough anyway. He had thought about getting rid of the Faith of the Seven and all its buildings and monuments before of course. Viserys had not expected to be able to allow them to exist alongside his God once he had secured his rightful throne and crown. He was not an idiot after all. But his plan had always been to get dragons first and then he would have gladly burned down the Great Sept and all other septs in the city to ashes. But apparently, things had to be done the other way around. That would not be an easy thing to do, however.

Having given food to the people and through the mass executions on every larger square in the city, King's Landing had regained something that resembled a shaky peace for the time being. But many people had been incited by the Faith of the Seven, by High Septon himself even, to rise up against him, their rightful King. And should he now try to destroy their most sacred building, the center of their false religion, new uprisings would no doubt break out within the time of a heartbeat.

Luckily, the High Septon himself would certainly not stand in their way again. The fat one had paid for the treacherous attack on the Red Keep with his own worthless life. It wasn't known for certain whether he was really dead or not, but Viserys was reasonably sure of it, since one of his arms had been found in the outer courtyard after the riots ended, with bite marks on the stump. So at last he had actually been useful for something, even if only to fill the bellies of a few rioters. Viserys had to chuckle at the thought. It was therefore rather unlikely that the fat one would get in their way ever again. But even without the fat fuck stirring up the people, it could and would come to new revolts and new fights, should he try to burn down the sept right now. That was something he could not risk at the moment. Not while Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn were still alive, marching towards the city with an army.

The scouts that Lord Connington had sent out last night as his last official act as Hand of the King had confirmed that the traitors' army was not far away anymore. Ten thousand men, perhaps a little more, would arrive at the gates of King's Landing within the day. It would take them a while to prepare, but Viserys did not doubt that Baratheon and Arryn planned to attack the city and the Red Keep this very day, at sunset or shortly thereafter, in order to avoid the danger of troops loyal to their rightful King possibly falling into their backs should their siege take too long. And since Viserys could not risk fighting enemies inside and outside the city at the same time – at least not until he had dragons – R'hllor would have to wait until he had dealt with the traitors.

"The destruction of the Great Sept can only happen after I have killed the traitors marching towards my city," he finally said.

"Of course, Your Grace. I know times are hard for you. But R'hllor will grant you a rich reward if you remain true and strong in your faith. If I or my fellow brothers and sisters in faith can do anything to help you in these difficult times, just let me know. We are at your service," she purred.

How about you give me my dragons at last, he thought. Otherwise take off your dress and go to my chambers. That would help me already.

"Yes, there is indeed something," he finally said. "As soon as I am done with the traitors, the Great Sept will burn. Afterwards, all the others in the city will too."

"That is a wise decision, Your Grace."

"I know," he said, a little annoyed at being interrupted. "But still, there will be resistance."

"No doubt, Your Grace."

"So I want you and your fellow brothers and sisters in faith to go down to the city and preach and do missionary work. Get as many people as you can on my side, away from the Seven and towards R'hllor. The more people will cheer the burning of the sept, the fewer will be left to rise up in revolt again."

"Another wise decision from Your Grace."

"If it helps, you may hand out more food or silver from the Royal Treasury. As long as you get the people behind me."

The priestess then disappeared with a deep bow. Behind the pillars of the Throne Room, other red priests came out like insects and joined her on her way out. Viserys followed her for a while with his eyes, looking at her swinging backside. Perhaps it didn't matter whether she would succeed or not. Such a body should never be wasted on foolish celibacy.

For a while he talked to some of the lords and knights in the Throne Room. Everyone thought they had to give him courage or good advice for the upcoming battle. As if he and his brother hadn't worked out a plan for a long time already. The obviously lacking confidence in his person and his abilities as a leader angered him. But they would soon witness what a leader, what a king he was once Baratheon and Arryn appeared at his gates. The entire thing would be short and decisive and once everything was over, no one would dare to bother him with stupid advice anymore.

When Rhaegar had told him about the army of traitors hiding north of King's Landing, Viserys had thought about whether or not he should ride out on horseback personally with a small force and crush them in the field. Viserys was well aware of his skills with the sword and he was certain that the sight of him alone, high on horseback with Lightbringer in his hand, would undoubtedly make many of his enemies' soldiers fall to their knees in awe. But Rhaegar had convinced him that a king – and especially the future savior of mankind – was way too important to fight on the front lines himself and possibly get wounded or even killed. No matter how good someone was with a blade, a stray arrow for example could always come out of nowhere.

For a while longer he listened to the chatter of the old men and the flattery of the young men before he decided to have something to eat. Some of the men did not tire of telling him about their supposedly comely maiden daughters, granddaughters, sisters, cousins or nieces, but Viserys could not think of such things at the moment. Later, after the destruction of the traitors and the awakening of his dragons, he would begin to choose new wives. It would surely not be any of the wenches that were now being offered to him like sour beer, though, because after all none of them had even the slightest bit of Valyrian blood in their veins. As royal mistresses some of them might suffice, however.

He had instructed the cook, the one who was still alive, to make a proper meal for him from the newly arrived ingredients, especially the fish and fruit, which did not offend his taste as openly as the wheat pudding of the last days and weeks had done. The cook had indeed made every effort and done a very good job given the limited possibilities, as he had to admit when he walked through the courtyard with his bowl of fish stew. The cook had talent. He would keep him as his personal cook and have him assigned quarters in one of the lower floors of Maegor's Holdfast. He stopped just before the remains of the overturned obelisk and looked at the broken pieces. It was a shame that it had been destroyed, but unfortunately it could not be changed. Had he not already hanged them for their failure, he would have loved to execute the alchemists again for this. Without the unguarded and supposedly forgotten wildfire beneath the Red Keep, the ceremony would not have gone so terribly wrong, his family would not have fled, and he would now have living, fire breathing dragons at his disposal.

It was unfortunate that the dungeons under Maegor's Holdfast were largely destroyed and the rest were inaccessible. Otherwise, he could have kept the alchemists in the torture chamber for a few days or weeks, depending on how long they would have endured it, before he would have had them executed. But now it was too late. The torture chamber – and unfortunately also the torture master – no longer existed and the alchemists were already dangling from their necks.

"A shame, isn't it, Your Grace?" he heard his brother say from behind him. He turned to him and greeted him with a slight nod. Rhaegar bowed deeply before him, his king. When they were alone, he still called him brother, but in public he respectfully called him Your Grace. Viserys had to admit that he liked that.

"Indeed. It was a real beauty. But I suppose that you did not come to me to talk to me about the obelisk."

"Not, indeed not. I have come to inform you that everything has been prepared, Your Grace."

Rhaegar looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He had, alongside the loyal Gold Cloaks and the Flameguard, fought almost without respite to secure the Red Keep and restore peace in the city in Viserys' name, and had barely rested afterwards either, personally overseeing the clearing of the castle and construction of the new, provisional defenses.

"Very well."

"Still, I would gladly have ridden out with a host to defeat your enemies, the enemies of mankind, in the field on your behalf."

Viserys had to smile. Who would have thought that his brother, the great Rhaegar, the dream of all the girls and women of the realm, would one day prove to be such a loyal, submissive servant to him? For a brief moment he was tempted to accept his offer after all, but then he changed his mind again. Everything was prepared and to change the plans on a whim now would have been foolish.

"I appreciate your courage and conviction for our cause, brother, but no. Let them come to us. If Stannis wants my crown and throne, he will have to come to me to get it. If the sheep wants something from the dragon, the dragon should not run after the sheep. Besides," he added after a short, dramatic pause, "it is important that I myself bring about victory through my ingenious tactics. Anyone can win a battle with a superior host, but destroying an enemy with cunning and skill is something that will be a warning to all my enemies."

Certainly the plan had been conceived and prepared by Rhaegar and Jon Connington a while before he had handed over the crown to him, but in the end it had been his genial decision as the new king to continue with this plan. So, basically it was his plan and that's how the scribes would write it in the history books. He would see to that.

"That is very wise, Your Grace."

But apart from his place in the history books, Viserys hadn't quite given up hope that his family might come to their senses and come back to him voluntarily if they would see what kind of leader, what kind of king he was. If only they would finally understand that it would be the only right thing for the kingdom, for all mankind and last but not least for their family, which would be completely reborn out of his loins, that he would finally get his dragons... He had not yet completely lost hope in his family and if they only came back to him, he would even openly forgive their betrayal before he would hand them over to the flames.

The day was already late and Viserys had just laid down to rest an hour earlier when a messenger knocked anxiously at his door and brought him word that the hostile army was now within sight of the city. Immediately he dressed again, let Ser Boros help him into his armor – a magnificent piece of red and black steel decorated with flames and dragonheads and Valyrian runes of pure gold – and stepped out of Maegor's Holdfast. The armor was so heavy that it was hard to even walk in it. To fight in it would probably have been completely impossible, but if everything went according to plan, he would not have to fight himself anyway. All he had to do was provide a royal sight for his men, inspiring them to even greater efforts. He went to the southwestern round tower, from where he had a good view to both north and south and over the provisional defenses.

The scouts of the traitors had apparently done a good job and reported the destruction of the river wall. The army approached from the north and split into two almost a mile before the city. One half took up position north of King's Landing, while the second, somewhat smaller half marched in a wide arc around the city, crossing the Blackwater Rush and then, about two hours before sunset, taking up position south of the city. They had small boats with them, so they made no secret of the fact that they would be trying to cross the Blackwater near the harbor and then storm up Aegon's High Hill. Stannis Baratheon had taken over the south, proudly showing the Baratheon banner, a crowned black stag on a golden field, next to the banners of the stormlords following him in his folly, while Jon Arryn would attack from the north with his army of knights of the Vale.

"Brother," he greeted Rhaegar as he appeared beside him.

"Your Grace."

Rhaegar wore a fine doublet of red wool, red trousers and black boots. He was modestly dressed, but noble enough to make a sufficiently regal impression. Appropriate as his heir. The most important thing, however, was that he did not wear armor. He had wanted to don his armor, the old one with the inlaid rubies in which he had slain Robert Baratheon on the Trident years ago. Viserys, however, had forbidden it. He knew only too well what his brother looked like when he wore his armor, and if there was anything he had no use for, it was his brother distracting the eyes of his men or – even worse – his enemies from his own imposing sight.

The reported size of their combined force was supposed to be ten thousand strong but looking down on the two armies to the north and south, Viserys estimated that it was at least twice that. Maybe even more. He would make sure that the maesters would record this accordingly in the chronicles after his victory. Ser Boros and his brother stood next to him, looking down at the armies as well. Boros tried to look confident but did not really succeed in it. It angered Viserys that apparently his dog of all people had not enough trust in him. His brother looked confident enough, if a bit disappointed for not being allowed to face Stannis and his men in battle personally.

The sun disappeared behind the horizon as the drums began to beat. The thundering of the war drums echoed from north to south and south to north and he saw the men, small as insects, ready to be crushed under his boot, gradually starting to move.

A little music won't help you now, traitors, he thought.

The southern army advanced first. Rhaegar had already predicted this would happen when they had been breaking their fast together this morning.

"Stannis will attack first. He is the one who wants to rob you of your throne, brother, so he must show his men that he is someone who can lead and who can be followed," he had said.

They had a hard way to go from the south. First they had to cross the Blackwater Rush and then climb the steep slope of Aegon's High Hill. With or without the river wall it would cost the attackers a lot of blood and lives to even reach the Red Keep, let alone take it. Their hope seemed to be that Viserys would withdraw so many defenders from the northern city wall to protect the Red Keep's open southern flank that they would leave the city and the fortress basically defenseless from the north, so that it could be easily overrun. The fact that, apart from a few ladders, they did not even have heavy siege engines with them showed a special kind of confidence. Viserys didn't know whether to feel insulted or laugh about it.

The first boats were lowered into the water, each with half a dozen men inside. They hadn't quite reached the middle of the river when the archers began shooting from the southern city walls and the nests scattered throughout the defenses below the Red Keep. Despite the poor light, his archers hit quite well and it wasn't long before the first boats drifted down the river completely unmanned, followed by the arrow-littered bodies of the men who had been sitting in them merely moments ago. Some made it ashore, hiding under wooden shields and crawling up the steep slope as fast as they could. They didn't come very far, however, because the archers and now crossbowmen of course hit even better the closer their targets came. Some managed to reach to lowest parts of the defenses and killed a few of his men, but not many and not nearly enough to make difference.

Viserys heard a horn blow and loud war cries broke out among the men, both south and north. This little skirmish was apparently over now and the main attack would begin. Maybe Stannis had hoped Viserys had no allies and no soldiers left and these few men would have been enough to overwhelm him. Maybe he had just wanted to try the defense, or maybe he was just a fool and by far not as great a soldier as always said. Either way, the attempt had failed and now his men would rush at the city from both directions. So finally the time had come.

"It is time, Your Grace. You only have to give the order," he heard Rhaegar say. Viserys had to grin.

He nodded at Ser Boros, who immediately barked some orders. He screamed as vaguely as a whining child, but the soldiers for whom the orders were meant, knew exactly what to do. Viserys had instructed them personally after all. Signal torches were waved, bells were sounded, and after a few moments he could already see how fires were lit on the southern city wall – and no doubt on the northern one, too, even if he couldn't see it clearly from where they stood – and arrows were prepared. The sun had completely disappeared by now and the night had fallen. Apart from the fires on the walls and the few fires in the rear rows of the attackers, it was as black around them as in the deepest of hells itself.

He could only make out faint shapes of the onrushing soldiers, who seemed to be trying again, only this time with full strength, to cross the river in small boats and then rush up to the Red Keep. But the shapes were enough for him. They passed the first marker, then the second, finally the third. They were now just before the riverbank when Viserys gave the last order.

"Let us provide some light for our dear guests," he said with a grin and full of anticipation for what was about to follow.

Again, Ser Boros barked and only a moment later, Viserys heard the last, the largest bell ring as a signal to his men. Burning arrows rose into the air in a high arc, elegantly whizzing across the river and smashing into boats, men and the ground on the other side. Nothing happened yet. No arrow had hit its intended target, but his archers were already sending the next volley on its way. Another hundred arrows, blazing brightly before the blackness of the night. Again nothing happened and a third volley of arrows followed. Viserys was already starting to get impatient when he finally saw what he had been waiting for.

Finally, one of the arrows had struck one of the dead bodies. At first it was only vaguely visible. A small flash, hardly bigger than the flickering of a candle in the night. A faint but beautiful bright green. Then it grew bigger. A darting flame, twice as high as the soldier standing just above it, shot out of the ground, tore it open like a bursting wound and sprayed green flames on half a dozen men around it. Woosh, could be heard all the way up to the Red Keep. Immediately the ground ignited all around it as well. More flashing flames followed. Woosh, woosh, woosh. Further and further the flames spread, faster than any man or horse could have fled, in a pattern that reminded him of a beautiful spider web. Woosh, woosh, woosh. The screams of the men, wrapped in glaring green flames from head to toe and running around in panic, mingled with the crackling of the flames and the ever following woosh, woosh, woosh.

It had taken ten, maybe twelve heartbeats to immerse the entire southern shore in these magnificent, divinely green flames. He saw thousands of burning men trying to escape into the waters of Blackwater Rush, only to discover that wildfire could not be quenched with water. The screams became louder and louder, then less and less as more and more men died in the purifying flames. The two banks, the harbor basin and the ships in it, the steep slope of Aegon's High Hill, the face of his brother, mouth agape from either wonder or terror, the remains of the Red Keep and Maegor's Holdfast were all bathed in an almost divine green glow that made everything seem to be unreal and as if from a dream. Never before had Viserys seen anything more beautiful.

He heard screams from the other direction, turned around and saw the green light already shining on the walls and towers of the Red Keep. Quickly he ran north along the wall to get a better view. He arrived just in time to see how the knights of the Vale were consumed, equally wrapped in divine green. Countless men and horses roamed about, burning and screaming, many then fell to the ground and remained silent. Forever silent.

Viserys laughed and clapped his hands at the magnificent spectacle he was presented with. Ser Boros stood behind him and he heard his dog give another final command. The King's Gate and the Old Gate were opened shortly thereafter, and one hundred armored lancers on horseback stormed out through each of the gates to finish off the last fleeing survivors of his enemies. He looked down into the flames, enjoying the sight of his triumph, which would be written about in history books.

Viserys realized he was in tears. He wept with joy.

Notes:

So, that was it again. Viserys has successfully "defended" the city against Stannis and Jon Arryn. At least for the now. Please feel free to comment and let me know what you think. As always, I love to hear/read your thoughts.

About the next update: I am actually not really sure how long it will take - some days, weeks, months, decades??? - but it will come. The "problem" is that I want to show some things happening in the North as well as -SPOILER- in Storm's End -END OF SPOILER- and as you know I have no POV characters there so far. So I am busy thinking and planning how I can do that and which POV I might add for only two or three chapters to possibly cover both locations AND tell everything I want to tell.

Well, we will see. :-) Hope to see you next time.

Chapter 28: Catelyn 1

Notes:

Hello everyone,

as you can see, the next chapter is here. Apparently, I'm on a roll. :-D And the fact that my new job has not started yet and that I therefore have some more free time certainly helps...

So as I said in the end notes of the last chapter, I had to decide which new POV to add for only a few chapters, because I wanted to show some things in the North/Riverlands as well as in Storm's End but did not have any POV there yet. But before overthinking the whole thing, I simply decided for Catelyn and quickly wrote down her first chapter.

There won't be many chapters from her perspective, as far as I have planned the story so far, but I wanted to give some more insight into what is happening outside of Kings Landing and Dorne, where the others around Aegon and Daeron are now heading. Hope you like it. :-)

The stench of smoke bit her in the nose. She went through the fortress and looked around. Barracks, a few warehouses, a small tavern and a large armory, that's all the fortress had consisted of. Now it was all gone, burnt to ashes. She was grateful that there had only been so few deaths. On both sides. Robb had led his army of nearly fifteen thousand from the north towards the fortress. Ravens had been sent back and forth past the fortress and the archers' arrows, and so Howland Reed had managed to get there from the south, even with nearly a thousand men of his own.

A little over two hundred soldiers had remained in the fortress as defenders, and although she knew that even such a small garrison could have stopped an army a hundred times its size – Ned had told her so more than once – the fortress had fallen within days, its defenses cracked open like the shell of a nut under the blow of a hammer. It had simply not been constructed to withstand attacks from two sides at once. The two hundred defenders, or what had been left of them after the storming of the fortress, had been put to the sword. Robb himself had lost eighty men, Howland Reed thirty.

Now the fortress had been given to the torch, and Robb had ordered two hundred men to stay behind to raze the burnt-out ruins to the ground so that nothing remained of it. The Strangler was no more.

At first, she had tried to convince Robb to keep the fortress intact, to use it himself to their advantage and man it with men of his own. But Robb had not let himself be persuaded. Firstly, he had said, the fortress was clearly not suited to defend the Neck southwards. An argument that Catelyn had hardly been able to counter after Robb's quick and decisive victory. Secondly, the Strangler had been more than a fortress. It had been a symbol for the might of the Iron Throne, for the lack of strength and independence of the North, a symbol that needed to be wiped out. As soon as they would have Ned, Sansa and Arya back with them, his father would undoubtedly agree that it had been best to raze the Strangler to the ground, never to threaten the North ever again. Instead, they would rebuild Moat Cailin, bigger and stronger and better than ever before.

She left the fortress through the destroyed south gate, got on the horse that her personal guard had kept ready for her and rode off. Robb had set up the camp for his troops a little to the south, where they would spend the night before continuing their journey in the first light of the new day. The marshes around the Strangler's ruins were deep and dangerous, full of lizard-lions and other creatures one would not want to encounter. When the Strangler had been built, King Rhaegar had ordered the drainage of a large area in the south, where the building material had been stored for a while. This area, although now partially flooded again, now served Robb's host as a campsite. It was narrow and damp, but still way safer than the swamps around it. She followed the causeway through the marches for almost an hour before the camp finally came in sight, the Stark banners flying high on almost every tent.

She went straight to the largest tent in the middle of the camp, Robb's tent, above which the largest Stark banner flew that they had been able to find in Winterfell. She entered and found that Robb was apparently in consultation with his Lords. The men stood around a small table on which, besides beer, wine, bread and hard cheese, maps of the Riverlands and the Crownlands were spread out together with the books of the quartermaster. The Lords Karstark and Manderly stood right and left of Robb. Dustin, Bolton, Reed, Umber, Tallhart and Hornwood followed around the table. Opposite their son stood the Lords Blackwood and Glover. Everyone turned briefly to her, most bowed to her, others greeted her with only a grunt. Only her son and Howland Reed had a short and little smile for her. They were indeed a strange people, these Northerners.

Some Houses were missing though, not only in this tent but in the camp and the host in general. House Marsh had called the banners, as Robb had commanded them to do, but had not appeared on time to march south with them for reasons unknown. Whether they would join them later, nobody could say. Lord Ryswell had not reacted to the word from Robb about Ned's unjust imprisonment in King's Landing and the call to the banners at all. She had understood that Ned's obvious refusal to marry Sansa off to his oldest son Roger – especially the way this refusal had happened – had done anything but reconcile Lord Ryswell. That the man dared to so openly ignore his liege's call to the banners was surprising, however. He could have sent at least a small force to save face. Not to appear at all and not even to react to the ravens from Winterfell was nothing less than treason, for which he would have to answer for after this nightmare was over. He would pay with his head for his stubbornness. That much was certain.

She poured herself a cup of wine – a terrible swill from Quite Isle, sour as vinegar and scratchy in the throat – and sat down in a small chair a little behind the men, listening to their talk. Several times she wanted to intervene and say something, but she had already decided when they had left Winterfell that it would not be good to appear too dominant. The Lords gathered here were seasoned men who already knew war and bloodshed all too well. In their eyes, Robb was little more than a boy who still needed to prove himself outside the training yard. Robb had to assert himself, had to show the men that he was no boy but truly their liege and lord in his father's absence and he would not succeed in this if she swarmed around him like an old mother hen. So she just sat there, sat and listened.

Shortly before they had set off from Winterfell, Robb had sent a raven to Riverrun to have the Riverlands call the banners as well. Her father, Lord Hoster Tully, had finally answered. Of course, he had called in the banners. Family, duty, honor. The words of her family. Family always came first, and through her, his Tully mother, Robb was family. Her father would not abandon them. But apparently, as they had learned from the letter, not all the lords of the Riverlands had answered the call. Some of them her father had not heard of. Cowards who probably hoped to stay out of the war or opportunists who were waiting for their chance to side with the victor without risking too much. Some Lords – Ryger, Mooton and Darry – had openly declared their support for the Targaryens while others – Mallister and Lychester – openly supported Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn in their rebellion against the Iron Throne. Still there would be a host waiting for them in Riverrun.

The men then talked about what Robb was planning to do in the first place. Some, mainly the Lords Umber and Bolton, wanted to side with the Lords Baratheon and Arryn to overthrow House Targaryen once and for all. What good they expected to come from that, Catelyn could not say. Others, the Lords Karstark, Tallhart and Dustin, wanted to place Prince Daeron on the Iron Throne, to have a Northerner rule the Seven Kingdoms. As if that would make things any different, let alone better, for them just because his hair and eye colors were different from Prince Aegon's. At first, Robb even seemed to be slightly sympathetic to the idea, but quickly came to the conclusion that Prince Daeron would never agree to usurp his brother Prince Aegon. They were as close as brothers could be and so he would certainly never even think of such a thing. Lord Tallhart then suggested to solve the problem of usurping the throne for Prince Daeron by putting a gallows around Prince Aegon's neck after the war. A comment that almost made Robb throw him out of the tent.

Finally someone – in hindsight Catelyn couldn't say who it had been – suggested to just fight until Ned and the girls would be back in the North and then to declare independence. They had bent their knees to the dragons centuries ago, but the dragons were all dead. So why should they still bow down to the wishes and orders of a bunch of sister fuckers half a continent away, just because they were sitting on this ugly iron chair?

Catelyn was shocked by the proposal. Independence? It didn't matter who would sit the Iron Throne – Rhaegar or Aegon or Stannis or even a grumkin – he would and could never accept independence from any of the seven kingdoms. That was as certain as the next sunrise. She looked at Robb, who didn't notice her frightened look, though. Her son seemed to think about it for a moment.

"I think," Robb finally said in a calm tone, "that the most important task right now is to free my Lord Father and my sisters and bring them back home. Whether or not my father will then be willing to bend his knee to the king on the Iron Throne or not will be for him to decide. It remains to be seen anyway, who we are actually going to fight and who not, and above all, who will be left at the end to claim a throne in the first place, iron or otherwise."

Catelyn wanted to jump up and kiss her son out of sheer joy and pride. His answer had been perfect. Not only would it indeed be Ned's decision to bend the knee or not after his rescue, the answer – though much less enthusiastically received by the Lords around him than by her – had been beautifully diplomatic. He had not rejected the proposal flat out, as tempting as it would have been for many young men of his age, but he had not made any promises either. Ned had always been proud of Robb, his fine son. Tall and broad, strong and honorable. But rarely had Catelyn been so proud of her wonderful son as she was at that moment.

"Besides," she heard him continue, "we have to get to the South first anyway. And in order to do that, we still have to cross the Twins."

"Lord Frey is sworn to your grandfather. He can order him to let us cross his stupid bridge," Lord Umber said.

"And you think he'll just do that?" Lord Dustin asked.

"Lord Frey is a coward," Lord Umber returned. "He will not dare to face us in battle."

"Perhaps not," Lord Karstark said, "but no doubt he has already sent some of his sons to King's Landing to kiss Rhaegar's ass. And a few others to Storm's End to do the same to Stannis. The Lord Grandfather is as greedy as a Dornish whore." He looked over at Catelyn. "Pardon the expression, my lady." But Catelyn just waved it off and he went on. "He'll definitely want something in return for letting us pass. We won't get across that bridge for nothing."

"We'll worry about that when we get there," Robb decided. "Lord Frey will surely tell us what he has in mind as a toll."

The meeting ended shortly thereafter. Robb took another cup of wine. He looked exhausted and he would need all his strength for what lay ahead. So she asked him to get a few hours sleep before leaving the tent and he promised to do so after he a short meal. Catelyn wandered around the camp for a while, being greeted by soldiers and the few knights who were with them. She doubted that most of the men really knew who she was, but being the only lady far and wide, most of the men could probably guess that they should better be as polite as possible to her.

"Harold," she finally said to one of her guards who were still following her wherever she went. "Did you not say there was a small village nearby?"

"Yes, my lady. But it's more like a settlement, not a real village. There are no real villages or towns in the marshes."

She knew that, of course, but she refrained from telling him.

"Please take me there."

"Yes, my lady."

The ride into the small village took the better part of an hour. They took some of the small paths leading away from the campsite that Howland Reed had shown them. Harold had been right. It wasn't really a real village, it was just a small settlement and even that was generous. Four small, crooked huts stood around a large fireplace, which the people living in these houses seemed to share. Wooden, no less crooked racks stood nearby, on which fish and small lizards were stretched out to dry. The villagers had not shown themselves since the arrival of the army and did not do so now either. But the reason why Catelyn was actually here was a bit further back and half-sunk in mud.

A small sept adorned the edge of the village, little more than a crumbling barn, at the entrance of which they had hung a seven-pointed star woven from thin branches and vines. She went into the sept and found, not very surprisingly, that there were no elaborately carved or sculpted statues of the Seven in it. There were only seven altars standing in a small circle, but they were also nothing more than small tables with a few cheap tallow candles on them. The villagers probably knew which altar was intended for which aspect of the Seven, but Catelyn found no indication. So she knelt down in front of the nearest altar and began to pray in silence.

She prayed to the Father and the Mother to keep Ned and their girls save, Sansa, their perfect lady and Arya, their little she-wolf. She prayed to the Warrior to give Ned the strength to defend him and their daughters should he need it and to give Robb all strength he needed, should he indeed have to fight battles. She prayed to the Smith to mend their family that has been torn apart by the king. She prayed to the Maiden twice, to keep her girls save, who would surely not be able to defend themselves. She prayed to the Crone to give Robb guidance and wisdom in the weeks and months to come, so that he might succeed in their endeavor. And finally, she prayed to the Stranger, to stay away from their family for as long as possible. She was of course well aware that neither Ned nor Robb followed the faith of the Seven, only she and their girls did that. But if the Seven were real and had indeed any power over the world, they might help and protect them, nevertheless.

When she was done, she stood up and left the sept. Harold had respectfully waited outside for her. He was a Northerner and did not pray to the Seven, she knew. She turned to him, looking at him for a while.

"Harold, you pray to the old gods of the North, don't you?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Then you might know where to find a Weirwood Tree around here."

Again the better part of an hour later they reached a small clearing, in the middle of which indeed a Weirwood Tree rose. It was not very high, but its branches were long and spreading like a wide roof. Candles were burning all around and some offerings had been laid down in front of it. Bread, some wine, an old knife and the toy of a child. Several of her son's soldiers must have been here already to pray. She had never seen Ned offering a sacrifice to the Weirwood Tree at Winterfell and wondered about it for a moment. But then again, what did she really know about this old belief, about its rules and customs? She looked into the carved face of the ancient tree. It looked sad, even sadder than the Weirwood Tree in Winterfell, almost painfully distorted.

Maybe he knows that his brothers south of here have all been cut down and burned, she thought.

"I don't know how this works," she said to Harold. He smiled at her then through his thick beard, looking like a grandfather who had to explain the simplest thing in the world to his granddaughter, even though he could only be a few years older than Robb.

"Just go to them. Go to them and talk to them. Loudly or in your thoughts. As you like. They'll hear you either way."

She went over to the old tree then and crouched down beside it. At first, she thought about kneeling down in front of it as she was used to from the septs of the Seven, but then she decided to better sit down on one of the tree's broad roots. She had seen Ned pray a few times and he had never kneeled.

"The gods have taught us to stand upright," he had told her back then when she had asked him about it. "They would not have done so if they wanted us to kneel."

She spoke to the old gods then, but only in her mind. Harold had again kept a respectful distance, but still she could not bring herself to speak aloud to a tree. Perhaps what she was doing here was folly. Perhaps it was not. She did not know and could not know. She could only hope. But Ned believed in the ancient, nameless gods of the North and if they really did exist, they would answer her prayer and protect her Ned and their daughters no matter where they were. Their girls had been raised in the faith of the Seven, had been anointed with the seven holy oils, but still they were the blood of the North. If the old gods existed and they had any power in the South, they would protect them as well.

After she had said her prayer, she let Harold escort her back to their camp. She still felt strange at the thought of what she had just done, but Harold's eyes seemed to be full of... appreciation for it. She had honored his faith, the faith of her husband and son, even though she did not share it. And that seemed to honor him, too. She decided that maybe she would visit a Weirwood Tree more often in the future. She did not have to pray every time, but she knew how important it was to win the hearts of the people who served them. And winning the heart of a Northerner was a special challenge in itself.

They reached the camp shortly after and Catelyn went straight to her tent to refresh herself and maybe rest a little. She sat down on her little bed and took some cheese and a cup of wine from the table next to it. Fortunately it was not the same wine that had been served in Robb's tent. She had emptied half of the cup when a messenger came to her and asked her to come see Lord Stark in his tent.

Lord Stark, she thought. My son is Lord Stark now. A few days ago, he was still Robb, now he is Lord Stark. But thankfully only until Ned is back with us.

She got up, washed her face as quickly as she could and then left her tent to join Robb. From a distance she could see two soldiers in the colors of Riverrun standing outside the tent. She went closer and indeed both of them wore the leaping silver trout of House Tully on their chests. Messengers from her father, no doubt. They greeted her and bowed slightly to her as she entered. She was Lady Stark, but she was also the daughter of their lord.

She stepped into the tent and for a moment she hoped to see her brother Edmure standing there. But at the table in the middle, on which by now there was even a greater confusion than during the meeting with the Lords of the North, stood only Robb and another messenger in the colors of her family, who apparently had delivered some letters to her son. Robb thanked the man and dismissed him, promising that he would let him know tomorrow morning at the latest whether he wished to send a reply. The soldier left the tent and she and Robb remained alone inside.

The letters had all been opened already, as she could see. Robb turned wordlessly and took a cup of the dreadful wine. He drank the cup in one gulp and immediately poured himself a new one.

"Is there something to celebrate or are you going to drown your frustration, my son?" she finally asked as he brought the cup back to his lips.

"Both," he said briefly and pointed to the letters.

Catelyn went to the table and took the first letter. It was a message from Winterfell that Maester Luwin had sent to Riverrun, since he of course could not know where Robb's host exactly was at the moment. She read the letter, once, twice, thrice, and her eyes grew bigger and bigger.

"Is this true?" she asked excitedly and with a big smile on her face.

Now Robb also began to smile again and approached her.

"Apparently, unless Maester Luwin allows himself a very crude joke," he said giggling. "Wynafryd is with child."

She fell into her son's arms and pressed him to her. Then she let go of him again and immediately took a cup of wine as well. No matter how horrible it tasted, this was a moment to drink to.

"If it's a boy, I could name him Rickard. I'm sure Father would like that. If it's a girl, I'm not sure yet."

"Yes, your father would probably like that. But there's still plenty of time to think of a name, whether it's for a boy or a girl. And if I may give you some advice, my dear son, don't think too much about what name your father would like. For your marriage, it would certainly be good if you would grant your wife at least a little say in the choice of name," she said and winked at him.

"Of course, mother," he said and smiled broadly over his whole face. He had always been a good boy and now he had become an even better man. He would do well. And after all, she and Ned would be there to support him and Wynafryd. Grandmother Catelyn. That sounded crazy. Wonderful, but crazy.

His smile then disappeared when he reached for a second letter and pressed it into her hand with the broken seal of the House of Baratheon of Storm's End.

Baratheon, Catelyn thought. Stannis Baratheon. One of the brothers of Ned's best friend, by whose side he'd gone to war. Memories came back. Memories of how she'd learned Brandon had been murdered on the Mad King's command; of how she'd learned she was to marry Ned instead; of how terribly her sister Lysa had cried when she'd been told she was to marry Jon Arryn, a man old enough to be her grandfather with only half his teeth in his mouth; of how she'd been left alone in Winterfell after their marriage, in a foreign castle in a foreign land surrounded by foreign people. It had been a difficult time, a hard time. It had been war. And now there was war again and they were on the direct way into it.

She knew that there were already rumors that Stannis Baratheon had attacked King's Landing at Jon Arryn's side and that this attack had apparently failed. The reports varied between ten and thirty thousand men in their host. They had not yet been able to fathom the reasons and circumstances that might have led to such a thing, though.

Their soldiers had picked up chatter from the smallfolks about this failed attack. It is said that flaming dragons had risen over the city, ridden by either King Rhaegar and Prince Aegon and Prince Daeron or by King Rhaegar and Prince Viserys and Queen Mother Rhaella or by Prince Aegon and Prince Daeron and Princess Rhaenys – depending on who told the story – and had burnt the armies of the Lords Baratheon and Arryn to ashes. She didn't believe that even for a heartbeat. If this attack had indeed happened and whatever had caused it to fail, dragons certainly had nothing to do with it. Otherwise, there would be more than a few rumors and stories told by drunkards in taverns and roadside inns.

She read the letter, then threw it back on the table and took a seat. She just had to sit down. Then she took her cup of wine, which was on the table in front of her, and emptied it in one go.

"Now you know how I feel," said Robb with a faint smirk when he saw her pouring down her wine.

He went over to the small table, took the carafe and poured her a new one. For a moment she just sat there and tried to put her thoughts in order, to understand what she had just read.

"He can't possibly be serious. He must be joking," she finally said.

"I do not know Lord Stannis personally but from what father told me about him, he is not a man who particularly likes to joke," Robb said. "Have you read it to the end?"

"Of course," she said. The letter had opened with a few empty phrases, nothing more than drivel about the necessary unity of the great houses in the face of a threat, an appeal to the bond they had formed when they had gone to war against the Mad King Aerys all those years ago, and lots of references to the friendship that had once connected Ned and Robert back in the day, which Stannis Baratheon now presumably hoped would also connect Robb and him.

No doubt the words of Jon Arryn, she thought. Stannis was, as far as she could tell, not a man who valued friendship and she remembered only too well that at the beginning of the last rebellion Stannis was more than just a little reluctant to support his own brother in the fight against the Mad King because he didn't want to make himself a traitor.

But then the tone of the letter changed and Catelyn had no doubt that this part came directly from Stannis' quill. Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, now called himself King Stannis of the House of Baratheon, First of His Name, and commanded Robb to come to him to Storm's End to bend the knee to him. Stannis demanded to have Robb pledge his fealty to him and to support him with his men in the war to finally overthrow the Targaryens. As a reward, once Stannis sat on the Iron Throne, Sansa would be allowed to marry his second son, Steffon. If she was still alive, if they would be able to rescue her from the hands of the Targaryens and if by then she would still be a maiden, that was.

"The man is completely out of his mind," Robb said after a moment of silence. "For all we know, he just got his ass whipped outside the walls of King's Landing. Now he is sneaking back to Storm's End with his tail between his legs, and then has the nerve to send me a letter like that? He wants my men for this war of his? Sansa is to marry his second son? His second, not even his first! And he can't seriously believe that the North, that I, would turn against Daeron."

Catelyn sat in silence for a while and watched Robb pacing up and down in his tent like a dog in a kennel. He held his cup in his hand but did not drink of it any further. That was good. Her son needed a clear mind.

"We should at least meet him," she finally said, and the startled look on Robb's face clearly said that this was the last thing he had expected from her.

"You're not seriously suggesting I bend the knee to him and go up against Daeron? Should I just side with the most likely winner and forget about my honor and my family?"

"No, of course not," she said, raising her hands and trying to calm him down. "I'm just saying that we should meet with him. We don't know what's behind all this yet. There must be a reason why a man like Stannis would openly rebel against his king. We know too little of what is going on in the South. We don't know who's fighting whom or who's on whose side. Besides, it doesn't look like Stannis is the most likely winner right now anyway."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he said and handed a third letter to her.

She looked at it and recognized the broken seal of House Tyrell of Highgarden. She read it, rather flew over it. In it, Lord Mace Tyrell announced his loyalty to and support for Stannis Baratheon, the true King of the Seven Kingdoms, as it said. It was followed by paragraph after paragraph about how the blood of the Targaryens had become so sick and unclean from their unnatural sibling marriages that there was no other option but to completely remove them from power and replace them with a new, better king if they did not want to bend their knees to one Mad King after the other in the future. The letter ended with the call to do the same and bend the knee to Stannis, for the good of the realm, as it also said. That changed things. The support of the Tyrells, one of the richest and most powerful families in the realm, could indeed decide the war for Stannis, depending on who the Targaryens had on their side. They still knew way too little.

"I still think it would be better if we at least meet with Stannis," she said. "The Tyrells are powerful, but their influence in the Reach is not unlimited. And Stannis obviously hasn't managed to gather all the Stormlords and Jon Arryn all the Knights of the Vale behind them. Otherwise they would not have marched to King's Landing with ten, twenty or thirty thousand men, but with twice as many."

"And you think Stannis is just gonna answer all our questions and then let us go?"

"No, not so much. But it's our best chance to get some answers at all. Otherwise, we have no choice but to march south, into the middle of a war zone where we don't know who's fighting who, who may or may not be on our side."

Robb seemed to think about it for a while. He now stood still, motionless like a tree in the middle of the tent and looked down into his cup. She herself did not know much about war, tactics or strategy. But Robb did. Ned had taught him all about it since he was old enough to understand. Even before that. But the one thing she knew very well was that ignorance was certain death. Not knowing where the enemy was, how many knights and foot soldiers he had, where he came from and where he was marching to, or – like in this case – who the enemy was in the first place, could break their necks before they even got near the capital, near Ned and her girls.

"All right," he finally said, nodding his head. "I'll go and meet him."

"No, certainly not!"

He looked confused.

"But you said-"

"I said we should see him, but not you," she interrupted him. "It would be far too dangerous to just hand yourself over to him. You're the Lord of Winterfell until your father returns to us. The men in this army are gathering behind you, following you into the war. That's why you need to stay here. I'll go."

"What? No. I need you here."

"No, you don't, Robb. You're a man now, Robb, no little boy anymore, crying into his mother's skirt when he bruised his knee. You and your lords will do fine. I am sure of that. There's nothing for me to do here. I can be most useful to you if I can manage to get you some answers."

Again he seemed to be thinking about it. His eyes were serious when he looked at her.

He has my colors, but he looks so much like his father, she thought. Finally, he nodded again.

"All right. I agree. I will write a letter of authority for you so that you can speak on my behalf. How do you plan to get there?"

"Tomorrow in the first light, I will need an escort to take me to the coast. I'll take a boat to Sisterton. There I'll certainly find a ship that can carry me all the way to Storm's End."

He nodded again, then came up to her and took her in his arms.

Notes:

So, that was it. :-) Cat is on her way to Stannis to try to get some answers and Robb is getting closer to the Twins. Thankfully, he is already married so old Walder can at least not demand of him to marry one of his daughters :-D

As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think. I always love to hear/read your thoughts. :-)

See you next time.

Chapter 29: Arya 3

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. The group has a little stopover on Tarth because of Ned's and Aegon's condition. There is not too much happening here, but I hope you still like it.

Arya stood on the shore and threw some stones at the small boat that swayed slightly in the waves. It had bravely brought them here, much further than a boat of this size should actually go, as the owner, a truly ancient looking fisherman missing three fingers, hardly taller than she was, had not got tired of pointing out the entire time. But they had made it. She still couldn't quite believe what had all happened. They had really made it out of King's Landing, but instead of going north to Robb, they had fled south because their father had mumbled something just before he lost consciousness.

The fisherman they had met less than an hour away from King's Landing had been unable to do anything for her father, but he had at least been able to remove the crossbow bolts from Prince Aegon's chest and stop the bleeding to some extent. Apparently, he had fought in some war some decades ago under the old Lord Baratheon and had seen some maesters doing the same on the battlefield. Still, both her father and the prince desperately needed the help of a maester. The nearby towns and villages had been too dangerous to look for one, as they couldn't have been sure who had possibly sided with the mad Rhaegar and Viserys already. Besides, they had to expect that these red soldiers would come after them, so there had been no time to rest anywhere longer than a few hours. The only option had been to flee to the sea. They had sailed through Blackwater Bay along the southern coast, then had transported the small boat along a tiny, completely overgrown and practically forgotten channel across the narrow headland by a yoke of oxen and then sailed further south towards Shipbreaker Bay.

The owner of the oxen, a young man with a pointy face and too narrow eyes, had demanded twelve copper pennies for his services, but since they had not taken any money with them on their escape, he had also offered his services if he received a kiss from Princess Rhaenys as payment. The Queen Mother, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy had been terribly furious at this insolence and Ser Jaime had suggested that Lady Brienne might kiss him instead, which had earned him an angry look from the giantess, but the man had said that he might as well kiss one of his oxen then. So he had received his kiss from the princess, short and weak and only on the cheek, but a kiss from a princess all the same.

The winds had been good. According to the old fisherman, the gods must have smiled down on them to get there so quickly. Or they had just been lucky, Arya thought. It had taken them just over three days to reach the shores of Tarth. At first they hadn't been sure if that was really where they were supposed to go. After all, House Tarth was sworn to Storm's End and thus to Stannis Baratheon. Lady Brienne, ugly as the night but armed like a knight with a sword and shield of her own, had convinced them however, that her father was a good and true man who would surely help them. Since they had hardly had a choice anyway – the small boat could not possibly have carried them all the way to Dorne and somewhere else in the Stormlands their chances of finding help would have been even worse – they had sailed to Tarth.

Eventually she got bored of throwing stones and so she turned around and went back to the nearby keep. Evenfall Hall was a small castle, at least compared to Winterfell or the Red Keep. But compared to those two, most of the castles in Westeros probably looked small. It was located on the western coast of the island on the flank of the mountain ridge that crossed it from north to south. A winding road led from the nearby fisher town up to the castle. The road was old and in bad shape, and in some places the edge of the road was falling off so steeply that you could easily fall to your death if you were not careful. So Arya was careful.

"Of course I refused," she heard Lord Tarth say when she entered the grand hall about an hour later, barking like an old hound. Old Selwyn Tarth had such a gruff tone in his voice each and every time that, no matter what he said, it all sounded like an insult. It had taken Arya a while to realize that this was simply his way of speaking and that under his rough skin he actually was a kind man. He was talking to the Queen Mother, Daeron and Princess Rhaenys when Arya entered the hall, Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime standing guard behind them.

"That is good to know," Daeron said.

"I would never go to war against you, Your Grace," he said to the Queen Mother. "Lord Stannis may call the banners all he wants. I won't be made a traitor just because the man thinks too highly of himself. Savior of the realm, he calls himself. Wants to prevent the realm from falling apart, he says. Pah. I've known the man all my life and the only thing he can prevent is you having a nice evening when he sits at the same table."

Arya took a chair a little aside and let a servant bring her some food. Since that morning a fish stew was simmering somewhere around here, she smelled it clearly, and she was so hungry that she could even have eaten the fish raw. She listened to the conversation for a while and wondered about the somewhat strange relationship between Lord Tarth and his daughter. Lady Brienne was what could probably be called the farthest from a lady. Her Lady Mother had always told Arya that this would be her, but now that she had met Lady Brienne, she knew it better. She was tall and ugly of face and probably even broader in shoulder than Robb. Arya had even seen many men that would probably better fit in a dress than her. And while it was clear that Lord Tarth was far from happy about this, he seemed to feel a strange sense of pride for his misshapen daughter. Why else would he have allowed her to learn how to wield a sword? Arya had even brought it up with Brienne on their first evening on Tarth.

"My father is very pleased with the way I've turned out. The only thing he lacks for his perfect son are the male parts between my legs," she had said bitterly.

She had thought about it for a while after that but had not dared to ask her about it any further. She herself had always wanted to learn how to wield weapons, had wanted to become a knight in armor and with sword, rather than a lady in silk and with chimes. And at King's Landing, her father had even allowed her to practice the sword with Prince Lewyn. Prince Lewyn, who was now dead. Brienne had received exactly what Arya had always dreamed of. But at what cost? At the cost of being neither a knight nor a lady, at the cost of not being welcomed in either of those two worlds, at the cost of belonging nowhere really. The thought made her sad and since Arya didn't want to be sad, she decided to stop thinking about it and rather listen to the conversation again while she ate her fish stew and drank her watered wine.

Lord Stannis Baratheon, who apparently now called himself a king, had called the banners to overthrow the Targaryens. For what reason, she did not know. One unsuccessful attack on the capital had apparently already taken place and now Lord or King or Whatever Stannis wanted to rally new troops, new knights and new lords around him. Lord Tarth however, although he did not seem to be averse to the idea of dethroning Rhaegar after all he had learned from talking to the Queen Mother mostly, had refused to rebel against House Targaryen. Apparently, the old man's love for his liege was not particularly strong.

After what they themselves had endured in King's Landing, everyone agreed that King Rhaegar and his stupid brother Viserys had to be removed from power one way or the other, either by killing them or letting them rot in some dungeon for the rests of their lives. Even Rhaella, the king's own mother, had said loudly and repeatedly that they too must now call the banners to remove Rhaegar and Viserys and put Aegon on the throne.

So now Prince Aegon should take the throne with the help of Dorne and who knew who else would come to their aid. At least, if he survived. He had been unconscious during the entire journey and even here on Tarth the maester of the castle, a young but fat man named Alavin, had so far not been able to wake him up again. He had apparently lost too much blood through his wounds in the chest, which had weakened him considerably. Even the maester's regular bloodlettings – to bring the bodily fluids back into balance, as he had called it – had not yet helped Prince Aegon. By all accounts, they had only made him weaker. So after three days and just as many bloodlettings, Sansa had forbidden the maester to bleed him any further.

Her father had meanwhile woken up and was able to speak properly again, even though the maester insisted that he did not leave the bed yet. Judging by the painful distorted face that her father always made when he moved his leg even a little bit, there was no real danger that he would voluntarily leave the bed, though. Arya had visited him twice a day for about an hour, as had Daeron. Princess Rhaenys had been there at least once a day and the Queen Mother spent hours talking to him every day. Sansa had also been visiting him once a day for less than half an hour when she was on her way to wash and dress anyway. Sansa had always washed and redressed quickly in these last days, much quicker than Arya had ever thought possible for her sister. Apart from these brief interruptions, she had vehemently refused to leave Prince Aegon's side.

All day long she sat next to him on a small chair, talked to him and sang for him and even slept on that chair. As if that would help him in any way. Sure, Arya wanted him to survive too. He had been friendly to her and had even made her training with Prince Lewyn possible for her in the first place. He made Sansa happy and most of all, he had protected Sansa, risked his own life and caught two crossbow bolts in his chest for Sansa. Yes, she wanted him to survive. But by sitting next to him and singing for him all day while hardly sleeping or eating herself, Sansa would not help him at all, Arya thought.

"When he wakes up, I want to be there. I want to be with him and be there for him then," Sansa had said.

Not when but if he wakes up, Arya had thought but had kept it to herself. The face of Maester Alavin had certainly not looked particularly happy after the last examination of the prince's health and the last, fierce refusal of Sansa to allow another bloodletting.

Arya decided to look after her father. He was lying in a small chamber in a small bed with only a small window and no doubt he could use some company. She walked through the castle, which despite its small size was surprisingly confusing, and passed a courtyard where she saw Brienne with a wooden practice sword. She decided to go to her. Her father would certainly not run away from her.

"Lady Arya," she greeted her with a slight bow of her head as Arya approached her.

"Lady Brienne, it's good to see you. Tell me, who actually taught you how to wield a sword, if I may ask?" Arya asked.

"His name was Ser Goodwin," she said, seemingly a bit surprised by her direct question. "He was the master-at-arms of my father and my grandfather before him here at Evenfall Hall. But he's long dead. Why you ask, my lady? Were you hoping that he could teach you something as well?" she asked and it was obvious that it was meant as a joke.

"Yes, indeed. I practiced with Prince Lewyn at King's Landing but unfortunately, he is dead as well and I don't want to get out of practice," Arya said in as serious a tone as she could. Brienne looked at her confused for a moment, as if she didn't know whether to marvel or laugh about it. But before she could react in one way or the other, Arya spoke on. "You know Prince Lewyn, don't you? From the Kingsguard. Prince Aegon asked him to practice with me and my father gave his permission, so..."

"This must be a joke."

"No, not at all. I can show you, but... I'm not very good yet. Prince Lewyn and I didn't have much time, I'm afraid. Do you think I might be allowed to visit his grave when we are in Dorne? I'd like to say goodbye to him and thank him for everything."

Again Brienne looked down on her and seemed not to know what to do with this information. For a few heartbeats nothing happened at all and Arya already thought she might have fallen asleep standing. But then Brienne quickly walked over to the small stand with the practice swords, pulled out a smaller, wooden sword and threw it to Arya with the hilt first. Arya caught it in midair and made it circle in her hand twice. Prince Lewyn had always hated when she had done that.

"If you want to be a juggler, go ahead and juggle with it. But then you're in the wrong place here," he had then always said with his admonishing voice. "I am here to show you how to fight, not to show off. A knight must master his weapon for what he possesses it for, namely to fight and to protect himself and others with it. But not to perform tricks on a town square to earn a few coins." Arya had to smile when she thought back on his admonitions. Gods, she missed the old man.

Brienne came up to her and took up position. Arya went into position as well. Prince Lewyn had shown her some stances that were suitable for fighting bigger, stronger opponents, which for Arya was just about any opponent. Lady Brienne carried out a few easy strikes but Arya could parry them. Had Brienne hit with full force, she would hardly have been able to do so, but in this case, it was fortunately only about the stances and poses. After five or six parries, Arya dared to try a counterattack for the first time herself. She turned left, then ducked to the right and tried to hit Lady Brienne's knee with her sword. Lady Brienne saw the attack coming and fended it off easily. Her own blows now came faster and harder, though. Obviously, she now believed Arya that she had learned at least a bit how to handle a sword.

Their movements became faster, Lady Brienne's blows harder. Arya noticed how the memories of her training with Prince Lewyn came back, how she became more and more secure. But Lady Brienne quickened the pace more than Arya could keep up with, and so it didn't take long until she could only barely defend herself against the blows that came at her from all sides. Counterattacks were now totally out of the question.

Arya jumped from right to left and back again, her sword twitched back and forth and up and down, fending off Lady Brienne's attacks only at the very last moment now. She saw Lady Brienne making a deep attack at waist level, tore her own sword around and was already getting ready for the parade. So fast that she could not possibly react, Lady Brienne changed the direction of her stroke. Arya wanted to step aside and pull up her wooden blade but it was too late. She just felt the blow against her temple, then her eyes went black. When she opened her eyes again, she lay on the ground. Lady Brienne squatted next to her, almost in tears, which looked more than strange for such a woman.

"Seven hells, I should have seen that coming," she said.

"My lady, are you hurt?" Lady Brienne asked with so much worry in her voice that Arya thought she might have accidentally cut off a part of her body. Arya sat up. Her head ached, the world turned around her and when she brought her hand to her temple, she felt warm blood on it, the rest of her body was still in place however. Nothing was cut off.

"Yes, I'm fine. I should have been able to repel the attack."

"No, no. That was my fault. I should never have fought with you. I am so sorry, my lady."

"Nonsense. I have been bleeding a few times with Prince Lewyn as well. If you're afraid of blood, don't pick up a weapon, he had just said, had wiped the blood off me, and then I had to get back into position."

"Please remain seated, my lady. Maester Alavin will be here shortly."

Maester Alavin, great, she thought. The fat one did indeed appear shortly afterwards, crouched beside her and began to examine the wound on her temple.

"Ah, I see. It's just a small laceration," he finally said. The maester took a damp cloth from a small bag and dabbed her forehead with it. It hurt a bit at first but the more he dabbed the better it got. Eventually half her forehead was numb.

"What kind of cloth is this?" Arya finally asked.

"Just an ordinary woolen cloth soaked with diluted Milk of the Poppy. It helps with the pain. Let me see if I need to treat the wound any further," he said and inspected her head closely again.

I bet he tries to find a reason to do bloodletting on me, she thought. But after a few moments, the maester stood up, apparently without wanting to treat her wound any further, collected his belongings and made himself ready to leave, bowing to both Lady Brienne and her.

"This looks good so far. But I would recommend not to get any more blows to the head."

"I'll do my best," Arya said and stood up.

Maester Alavin then left because he needed to check on her father and Prince Aegon again. Lady Brienne apologized to her at least a dozen times before she put the two wooden swords back in their stands, apologized again and then left the small courtyard in haste, after Arya had ensured her that she did not need an escort back to her rooms now. Arya stood in the small courtyard for a while longer and waited until the dizziness wore off. Apparently, the Milk of the Poppy hadn't been quite so diluted after all. When she was able to stand again without leaning against the wall, she thought about what to do now.

For a moment she considered going to Sansa and looking after her and Prince Aegon. But there was not much to do and apart from sitting next to the bed and hearing Sansa say again and again that today Prince Aegon's eyelids had twitched this way or that way and that this could only mean that he surely was to wake up at any moment now. She thought of visiting Jeyne Poole but she had hardly left her room since their arrival and since Ser Koryn was in that room with her all the time, it was unlikely that they had time for her.

She decided to visit her father instead. That had been her original plan anyway. The last time she had been with him had been after breaking her fast this morning. So she made her way to his small room, still a bit dizzy here and there. It took her longer than expected to reach the small chamber but after what felt like an hour, she finally managed to get there. She entered without knocking at the door and found that the Queen Mother was already there with him. Two pairs of eyes fell upon her as she entered unannounced, grey and purple. The Queen Mother smiled as warm and wide as she always did, her father seemed a little irritated by her coming. She went over to him and hugged him as he was sitting only half upright in his bed. Immediately he noticed the small wound on her temple and began to inspect it.

"It's nothing," she said. "I stumbled. That is all."

"Yes, I heard about that. You stumbled right into Lady Brienne's practice sword."

"She told you that?"

"The maester was here."

Her face immediately became red as fire as she first searched for an excuse, then for an apology, but before she could say anything, she heard the Queen Mother speak.

"Don't blame the child, Ned. She's got the wolf's blood after all. Isn't that what you told me?" she asked with a wink. "Did you do well in the fight then, Arya?"

"Not very well I'm afraid."

"Oh, I don't believe that even for a heartbeat," she said with a wide smile. "I'm sure you did your best. And after all, no one is born a master. If you keep practicing hard, you will surely become a truly fierce warrior, like Nymeria or the first Queen Visenya."

"Please do not put such fleas in her ear, Rhaella," her father said in a half-hearted tone.

"I'm afraid it's a little too late for that, Ned."

They talked for a while about her exercises with Prince Lewyn and how much they both missed him, while her father sat there in silence almost the entire time. Arya now understood better why Sansa had been raving about Queen Rhaella so much. She was kind and friendly, polite and regal and seemed to be the perfect queen, yet she laughed heartily when Arya told her about how she scurried in dirty leather rags and with bare feet through the kitchens and storerooms of the Red Keep to hunt cats, causing the shock of their lives to some cooks and servants and septas. And to Arya's surprise, the Queen Mother even insisted that she continue the exercises.

"It would be a shame to waste your talent," she said. Her Lord father was not even asked for his opinion.

She spent the next days eating a lot and roaming the castle a bit more since – despite the Queen Mother's explicit approval – Lady Brienne did not want to train with her anymore. The Queen Mother, however, had promised her that they would surely soon find someone to train her further, and Princess Rhaenys had spoken particularly excitedly about her Uncle Oberyn's bastard daughters, the infamous Sand Serpents, who would certainly love to teach her more.

With three guards at her side, she was allowed to saddle a horse and ride out into the surroundings of the castle a bit. Lord Tarth, the Queen Mother and her Lord Father had all insisted that she be escorted by soldiers all the time, as no one could be sure how long the island would still be safe, either from Stannis Baratheon or Viserys Targaryen, should one of them learn that their group had fled here. She had tried to escape her guards a few times at first, but those young men were way harder to get rid of than the guards in Winterfell had always been. So after her third attempt she gave up and accepted the silent shadows following her.

The island was beautiful, with lakes and waterfalls and high meadows, if overall boring. She found some small lakes that would have been great to swim in, had the guards not watched her all the time. She was not as prudish as Sansa, yet she felt uncomfortable undressing in front of these soldiers. She also found some rocky cliffs that would have been great to climb on and some caves that would have been fun to explore, but her guards had forbidden her both as they themselves could not climb in their armor and had no torches for the dark caves.

The four of them, however, had great fun when they spotted a naked couple under a small waterfall, less than an hour away from the fortress on horseback, enjoying themselves together. The fun became even bigger when Arya realized that it was Jeyne and Koryn who were standing there under the small waterfall. The whistling and cheering of the soldiers as Koryn turned her around on all fours in front of him, however, frightened the two of them – especially Jeyne, who was probably in tears afterwards – so much that the fun was over in an instant.

On one of her rides, she discovered the ruins of an old fortress on the eastern shore of the island. Maester Alavin then explained to her that those were the ruins of Morne, the seat of the Andal kings that had once ruled this island and the home of the legendary knight Ser Galladon of Morne, called the Perfect Knight, who a lot of nobles and smallfolk from the island claim to be descended from.

After two more days her lord father was finally allowed to leave the bed again. He needed a crutch to walk and Maester Alavin said he could not be on his feet for more than an hour each day. The swelling and infection in his leg had been severe and if he hadn't protested so loudly – which her father couldn't remember at all – he would have taken it off already. According to the maester, the leg looked good again now, but if he overstrained it, he could still lose it. He had been applauded and warmly greeted when, after so many days, he had finally appeared in the Great Hall of the castle again to break the fast. Her father had beamed all over his face. Even Sansa had been there, had hugged and welcomed him, if only shortly. After some tea, dark bread, goat cheese and some fruits from Dorne, she had immediately apologized herself again to go back to Prince Aegon. Now, apart from Sansa, they all sat there, talking and laughing and eating. Her father was of course happy to finally see something else of the castle than his small room.

"Lord Tarth, if you would provide us with a ship, I would like to leave for the North as soon as possible."

"Are you sure, Ned?" the Queen Mother asked.

"Yes, my son has already called in the banners, so I've heard. I will gather the armies of the North and then return to aid you in battle as fast as I can."

"I don't think that's a good idea. We could certainly use the armies of the North, but the journey might be too dangerous right now, Ned. We don't know where Lord Stannis' ships are at the moment, even if his fleet is not particularly large, and Blackwater Bay will most certainly be patrolled by the ships of the Royal Fleet. And after that, Dragonstone would come with his very own fleet. I don't think you would make it through there, Ned."

"You could write a letter telling them to let us pass."

"But that wouldn't work with Stannis' fleet and as for the Royal Fleet and Dragonstone, we don't even know where their loyalties lie at the moment. Some might have sided with Stannis and Jon Arryn, others might still be loyal to Rhaegar. But either way, most of them probably don't even know that we are now a faction in our own right. Not yet at least. I cannot predict what would happen if they captured your ship and took you and your girls prisoner again."

The Queen Mother was apparently right about that, for the expectant smile at the prospect of a speedy return home quickly disappeared from her father's face.

"Have you called the banners yet, Your Grace?" Lord Tarth asked. "My maester told me that you haven't sent a single raven since your arrival."

"No, indeed we have not. Not yet. We must take a stand against Rhaegar openly and proclaim Aegon as new King. Or Daeron if worse comes to worst."

Arya saw the angry look Princess Rhaenys gave her grandmother, yet she said nothing.

"We cannot call the banners until we have an army behind us," the Queen Mother continued. "We appreciate your help and will not forget it, Lord Tarth, but your men could hardly take on the Rhaegar's or Lord Stannis' forces if either of them should learn we are here. We need to get to Dorne and gather an army before we can do anything."

Her father just nodded, downcast by the realization that they might not be returning home anytime soon.

"And even then we have to be careful," the Queen Mother continued. "We know little about the situation, who may be on Rhaegar's side, who may have already spoken out for Stannis and Jon Arryn, and most of all who might be joining us in a war against my own sons. A raven to the wrong castle, a meeting with the wrong person in the wrong place, and it could all be over."

"The most important thing now is for Aegon to wake up again so we can continue the journey to Dorne. Oberyn is awaiting us there. I'm sure Prince Doran has already called for the banners. Once we're there, we will proclaim Aegon to be King and gather as many loyal lords and ladies behind our cause as possible," Daeron said. "Then we will quickly strike at King's Landing and remove father from the Iron Throne. Then we'll be in a better position to deal with the Lords Baratheon and Arryn, once Aegon sits the throne and has most of the realm behind him. I'll look in on my brother later. I'm sure he'll wake up soon."

"I have no doubt the Seven will watch over Prince Aegon," said Ser Bonifer. "If we are only true to ourselves and to the gods, they will love us and protect us, and I have no doubt they will love and protect no one more than our prince and future king."

They all agreed then that Prince Aegon would certainly wake up at any moment now. The Queen Mother smiled at the old knight and patted his hand. It could not be much longer, the all were sure. After all, his wounds healed so well and Sansa took such wonderful and loving care of him. With each day that passed, however, the mood became more depressed. Maester Alavin demanded more and more loudly every day to finally be allowed to do another bloodletting on Prince Aegon again, until Sansa shouted and screamed so loudly at him other outside the door of Prince Aegon's room that a dozen guards rushed there, fearing an attack on the prince and it took both Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur to resolve the situation and restore some peace.

Four more days later, shortly after lunch, they all sat in one of the gardens facing out into the bay and drank tea and wine together. The weather was pleasant, warm but not rainy, yet there was almost no talking. Arya was just telling her father about how she and two soldiers had explored the ruins of Morne again when the door opened behind them. Princess Rhaenys was the only one who looked at the door in boredom at first. But then she jumped as if bitten by a snark and ran to the door.

"Aegon!" she cried.

Immediately all eyes turned and one by one the others ran to the door as well. Prince Aegon stood there in the doorway, supported by Sansa and dressed only in trousers and a bandage around his chest, smiling weakly but happily. One by one they all went to him. Rhaenys and Rhaella hugged him and kissed him extensively on the cheeks. Daeron embraced him so tightly that Sansa had to stop him to prevent his wounds from reopening. Her father and the Sers Barristan, Arthur and Jaime left it with a bow and a strong handshake while Jeyne curtsied before him and Ser Koryn and Ser Raymun even went down to a knee.

"When did you wake up, brother?" Daeron asked, smiling widely.

"Just now. Sansa was there, thank the gods."

Arya looked at Sansa and for the first time since their escape from King's Landing she was smiling all over her face again with tears of joy in her eyes. She saw that her cheeks were so red that they almost had the color of her hair and her lips glistened in the sunlight. Arya was sure that Prince Aegon had been awake at least half an hour longer than he claimed.

They had obviously been kissing again. Ugh!

Notes:

So, that was it. As I said before, there was not that much happening, but hopefully you are not disappointed too much. As always, please let me know in the comments what you think. I love to read your thoughts

The next chapter will be from Daeron's perspective again, what some of you have already been waiting for. If everything goes well, it will follow within the next three days or so. See you there. :-)

Chapter 30: Daeron 6

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. As some of you might have seen yesterday already, this is a re-upload of a chapter that I had posted yesterday already but had to delete again. There had been some minor errors in this chapter as well but most of all, I had not translated it completely. I pre-write all my chapters in German first and translate them into English later but appartently, I forgot some paragraphs in this one. So this is now corrected and the entire chapter should be in English.

Many thanks to user Mocking_point for making me aware of this!

So, this chapter is from Daeron's perspective again. The group finally arrives in Dorne, meets Oberyn and at the end, there is a little suprise waiting for Daeron.

The last weeks had been grey, lifeless and as if through a thick veil. His world had been made of mist and ashes. He had been shocked to learn the truth about their father from Aegon. Although shocked was not a word that came close enough to describe it. Knowing that his father had truly asked for his death was more painful than any sword wound. It had taken him a few days to come to terms with it. After that, however, the real shock had come when he had realized what all this had actually meant. His father's justification for demanding the death of his own son had been even more terrible. It had not even been about him. He had not wanted his death because he hated or despised him, because he was ashamed of him. He had wanted his death to challenge Aegon's alleged suitability for the throne. The realization that his father had not even wanted him dead for his own sake, but only as a means to an end, that his life was so worthless and irrelevant to him that it had not been about him for a single heartbeat, had almost driven him insane. At least he had had the feeling that this was the case.

Still he had been thankful that his brother had told him the truth, as hard and dreadful as it might have been. Aegon did not lie to him and he was thankful for it.

Then he had returned home, only to find it in ruins and flames. They had had to fight their way into their city, had learned that they had almost lost Rhaenys and grandmother Rhaella and his uncle Eddard, that Arya had almost got lost and that Sansa had almost been raped and killed and that apparently, not only their father but also their uncle Viserys were now so completely lost to insanity that they also had ordered people to be burned alive, just as their grandfather, the Mad Kind Aerys, had done so many years ago.

He had not been able to grasp, let alone to really understand this situation at all, when they had fought their way out of the city again. Once again he had had the feeling that he had gone almost insane while trying to understand all this. The grey of his world had become a glaring and wildly screaming sea of dazzling colors. The whole world had become a confusing storm of blinding brightness that had literally robbed him of his senses, and the longer he looked into this brightness, this wild confusion of death and fire and blood and madness, the blinder he had become.

He remembered very clearly the moment that had torn him out of all this. He should have been grateful to finally be freed from the burden of this confusion, but this moment had been worse than all the others before. Seeing his brother sinking to the ground, bleeding and with crossbow bolts in his chest, had almost killed him. His brother had been wounded, possibly fatally wounded, and immediately the bright colors had given way again to an all-covering gray, so dark that it had almost been black and had veiled his soul from the world. He would never have forgiven his brother if he had left him alone in this vile, crazy world. But his brother had not left him, had not died. He was still with him, at his side and that would remain so. He would see to that.

Daeron decided to take better care of him from now on, to protect him. There was nothing more important than his brother now. Aegon was the center of all their efforts. Aegon was the future king, the rightful king. He had been prepared all his life to one day take the throne and the crown and now it was almost time, even if the circumstances were worse than he could have ever imagined as a child. He himself was also a prince of course and he knew that there were at least a number of lords in the North who would prefer the Lady Lyanna's blood on the throne over Princess Elia's. But that was not how it was supposed to be. That was not how he wanted it. That was not what he would be fighting for, that he was willing to die for if need be. Aegon would be a king, would be his king. Protecting him was all that mattered now.

Three days after Aegon had finally woken up, they had left Tarth again, had sailed around Rain House, had passed Estermond on its eastern shore and had sailed into the Sea of Dorne two days ago. Aegon was still shaky on his feet but was getting stronger every day. Another week, two at the most, and he would be back to his old self. He was already eating a little more every day, though still very little. But it certainly helped that Sansa was always the young one who brought him the food and asked him with deep looks from her blue eyes to eat a little more every day to get well soon. So he did.

Daeron stepped out on the deck of the Sapphire Queen, the only ship Lord Tarth had been able to spare that was fast enough to possibly escape a hostile fleet should they happen to encounter ships under a stag or a falcon banner. He found that he was already coping much better with this voyage than the last two.

Maybe I'll become a famous seafarer after all, he thought amused. It had been a while since he had been amused about anything. Far too long, he thought.

For a moment he enjoyed the strong wind and the sunshine on his face. Then he looked around. Some sailors were busy hoisting sails and pulling others in and unhooking and attaching ropes to be able to cruise against the wind. Daeron had no idea what they were doing and for a moment he just marveled at how the men could handle the tangle of lines and pulleys better than any rider could handle a wagon or a carriage. The men shouted orders to each other, of which he only understood half, and in some almost magical way they all reached the goal together and let the ship drift forward by the wind, no matter from which direction it seemed to come.

He tore himself away from the sight and kept looking around. At the bow of the ship he found Aegon, standing in the wind, tall and proud and gazing forward like a king from one of the stories he had loved so much as a child. Sansa was with him. Of course she was. They both wore their hair loose and let it wave in the wind like flags announcing the arrival of their king. Red and silver-white and even more red.

Too bad we don't have a painter on board now, Daeron thought. That would be a sight to behold. He had never had a special eye for art and painting, though. Perhaps it would have been too kitschy.

At the stern of the ship, sitting on small chairs, richly covered with blankets and furs to protect them from the chill of the wind, he found his uncle Eddard together with his grandmother and Rhaenys. The knights of the Kingsguard stood lined up behind them, proud and strong in snow-white, but at least with Ser Arthur it was clear that he did not cope well with sea voyages either, and would have preferred to bend over the railings to get rid of his breakfast again. But he held out bravely, stood motionless and looked with a grim expression at some point in the distance.

"Daeron, come and sit with us," his grandmother said to him.

"Well, I see there's no more chair available," Daeron said, pointing to the round.

"Come on, we can manage that," said Rhaenys, stood up, pushed Daeron into her seat and sat on his lap.

If I were Aegon and Sansa did not exist, she certainly would have done it now with completely different ulterior motives than just offering me a seat, he thought and had to smile at the thought how much things had changed lately.

He knew that Rhaenys loved him. She loved him like a sister should and he loved her the same way. But Rhaenys and Aegon had always been different. He had always loved her as his sister, but she... she had felt differently for him from the first day on. But that seemed to have changed now. Her love for Aegon was unbroken, maybe even stronger than ever before. Anyone with two eyes could see that. And yet... something had changed. She seemed to have grown up somehow, this love. It had become deeper and truer and yet... different. Whatever that change was exactly and whatever had caused it, Daeron was thankful for it. He was happy, happy for his family. Happy for Rhaenys, who seemed to have finally found some kind of balance. Happy for Aegon, who now received the same kind of love from his sister that he gave her. And especially happy for Sansa, who no doubt would have had her eyes scratched out by the old Rhaenys not so long ago, but now seemed to have become something like her best friend.

Together they sat on deck for some time, enjoying the sight and the wind and the peace of it all. They drank wine and talked a lot about their time on Tarth and his uncle Eddard finally told them about the marriage between Robb and Wynafryd Manderly.

"The next time you see each other, he will probably be a father already," his uncle said.

Daeron tried to wrap his head around this thought but did not succeed. He had seen his cousin not so long ago and there they had been nothing more than boys. Now, the world was a completely different one. Robb was married, would soon become a father. His own father… was no longer his father. He had fought and killed and soon, when the war began, there would be more fighting and killing. Rhaenys and his grandmother discussed excitedly what name Robb should give his first child, but his uncle didn't want to commit himself, especially since it would be the decision of Robb and his wife in the end.

"If Robb is wise, it is probably more that of his wife," he said with a wink.

"Then I wish you luck that he is as smart as his mother," said his grandmother with a broad grin and raised her cup to it.

"I was already lucky that he is as handsome as his mother. I can't really ask for anything more."

They all laughed about it, talked a little more about trivial things that distracted them from the approaching war, and laughed even more. It was a great day and an enjoyable evening, which became even more enjoyable when Aegon and Sansa joined them, well-behaved and chaste on two separate chairs of course, which the captain of the ship had ordered to be brought to them, together with a new chair for Rhaenys.

The journey at sea lasted another three days until they finally reached the mouth of the river Wyl and drove it up a short distance until they reached Castle Wyl, where they were welcomed by Lord Edmund Wyl. The soldiers on the walls of the castle and in the small fortifications on the river banks had first been alarmed to see a foreign ship entering their river and had excitedly sounded the alarm bells. The large Targaryen banner at the stern of the ship and especially the sight of Aegon and grandmother Rhaella on deck had calmed them down quickly though. Aegon had been excited to be in Castle Wyl for the first time and had asked to be allowed to visit the tunnels under the fortress that led into the mountains. Although having fought against their ancestor, the story of how the Wyls had retreated into those caverns after King Aegon I Targaryen had attacked their mountain fastnesses with Balerion, had always been one of his favorite stories as a child.

A small, brave family that stands together against an impossible enemy... how appropriate, thought Daeron with a wry smile. But with astonishing diplomatic skill, Lord Wyl had somehow succeeded in denying his prince this request without openly insulting him. The tunnels were their greatest pride and a well-kept secret of their family, he had said, that no one outside of their family ever got to see, except in the event of a war. Besides, even if he didn't want to admit it, a Targaryen prince would probably be the last person he would want to show these tunnels to in good faith. So, despite Lord Wyl's invitation to rest here for a few days from the rigors of the sea voyage, they spent only half a day at Castle Wyl before letting themselves be given horses and some provisions and heading for Vulture's Roost.

They had been given Dornish steeds, red and golden and pale as snow. Only Aegon had received a stallion black as sin with a mane and tail the color of fire. Lord Wyl had insisted that he receive this special steed. The horses were small, but swift and sturdy and carried them up Dorne's rough, red mountains as safely as if they were climbing goats. The way through the mountains, along sharp-edged cliffs, small ravines and over steep ridges, was tiring and challenging, but would undoubtedly have been even more challenging on ordinary horses. In some places the river disappeared underground and they had to follow dry riverbeds and beaten paths to find their way again.

They followed the river Wyl for another five days on horseback high into the Red Mountains of Dorne, before finally the ruins of Vulture's Roost and the guards of Oberyn's camp came into sight. Vulture's Roost was indeed nothing more than a ruin. It consisted of little more than a few half high, crumbling walls of red stone, two small round towers, one of which had already half collapsed, and a moated keep, which was the only building that still looked like it could keep the rain off. When the soldiers announced their arrival, Oberyn hurried to them and gave them a hearty embrace. It almost seemed as if he did not want to let go, especially Aegon and Rhaenys.

"It's good to see you, all of you," he finally said. "We received only scattered reports from King's Landing, but we feared the worst."

"What kind of reports?" Rhaella asked, but Oberyn beckoned.

"There will be time for that later. All that matters is that you all made it here safely. Tents have been prepared for you and refreshments await you there, fruits and cold water and Dornish Red, of course. If you don't want to sleep in tents, there are also some rooms in the old keep prepared for the ladies. It doesn't look like much, but from the inside it's quite pleasant."

"Are my sweet ones not here?" Rhaenys asked on the way to their tents.

"No, not yet," said Oberyn, who, like Aegon and Daeron, knew exactly who she meant. The Sand Snakes. "They will reach us with the rest of the troops."

"I was already wondering if this was really all the troops that Dorne was giving us. How many are there? Four hundred spears?"

"Five hundred, my dear nephew. And no, of course that's not all. Doran called the banners. Ten thousand spears are coming up the Boneway and another eight thousand are gathering at Skyreach, at the southern end of the Prince's Pass. Enough for your taste?"

"Yes, that sounds more like my taste," Aegon said with a grin. "But why are they gathering at the Prince's Pass? We need to get to King's Landing as fast and as strong as possible."

"Because we have received this," Oberyn said, and pulled a small, crumpled letter from one of his pockets and handed it to Aegon. He looked at it, drew his eyebrows closer together with each line, and finally passed it to Rhaenys. She read it as well and then gave it to Daeron. He recognized the broken seal of Highgarden, the rose of House Tyrell. Quickly he also read the letter and could hardly believe what it said.

"He cannot possibly be serious," Rhaenys said shortly after. "Mace Tyrell cannot seriously believe that Dorne would turn against us, let alone support Highgarden and place Stannis Baratheon on the throne."

"Perhaps not all of Dorne," Aegon said, "but he may hope there are houses in Dorne that would not... be too eager to jump to our side if they believe there's an alternative."

"Even if there were," Daeron said, "he could not possibly hope for Sunspear to side with him."

"No way," Oberyn said. Meanwhile, Daeron had passed the letter on to Rhaella, who had his uncle Eddard read it to her. "We also wondered about the letter. If the Fat Flower hadn't written the letter, we would have stayed in the dark much longer, needed more time to raise our armies, and Highgarden and Storm's End would have had more time to take the throne."

"He's an idiot," his grandmother finally interjected. "I have never been happier to know that my great-grandchildren will not share his blood."

"I still don't understand why there is an army at the Prince's Pass," they finally heard Sansa say. Aegon turned to her and pulled her beside him. Immediately she hooked into his arms and clung to his side.

"If Lord Tyrell truly intends to support Stannis, he must offer him an army," Aegon then said. "But the position of his house in the Reach is far from strong. Many lords and ladies with better claims to Highgarden are just waiting to get rid of the Tyrells. So Mace Tyrell cannot afford to make too many mistakes. If an army approaches from the south, he must defend the Reach, no matter what plans he may have in King's Landing with Stannis and Jon Arryn."

"Otherwise, he will lose the support of his lords if he leaves their castles and cities defenseless because of his ambitions," Sansa said.

"Yes. So a Dornish army will invade the Reach from the south. It doesn't need to achieve great victories, but it will be enough to bind a significant part of Mace Tyrell's army."

"And the more men are bound here, the less he can send Stannis."

"Exactly," Aegon said, kissing her on her hair. He looked over to his uncle Eddard and it did not escape him how he looked when he saw the two together. Daeron knew his uncle was pleased to see Sansa happy and safe, but he still seemed skeptical about her and Aegon's… relationship. Daeron knew that his uncle Eddard wished them all the happiness in the world, while Lord Stark knew that these two could never be more. But was that still true? Sure, their father would never have agreed to this union. But Rhaegar was no longer the measure of all things. Daeron's gaze wandered a little further as he pursued his thoughts. Next to one of the soldiers' tents he finally discovered Jeyne and Ser Koryn. Immediately he lost the desire to think about weddings and relationships.

"I could join this army," he finally said. "Aegon will lead the troops back to King's Landing while I cover your back in the Reach."

But did he really want to do that? Daeron knew it was a good idea to join the forces at the Prince's Pass. The men there, firmly sworn to House Martell, would have to fight and bleed and die for them if need be, and it could only be good if a member of House Targaryen was there to fight and bleed but hopefully not die with them. Still, as soon as he had said it out loud, he had a bad feeling about it. Of course he wanted to help and support Aegon as much as he could, but he did not want to leave his brother's side. He had almost lost him once before and he never wanted to experience that again. Should his brother accept his proposal, he would of course do so.

"We can decide that later," Aegon said after considering it briefly. "The idea is good, but actually I'd rather have you near me, brother."

"But now it is enough with the discussions and decisions," Oberyn finally decided. "You have only just arrived. Go to your tents, refresh yourself and rest. Tonight we will celebrate your arrival, eat plenty and drink even more. There will be enough time to make decisions over the next few days."

"Oberyn is right," Rhaella agreed with him. "Until an army is here to secure the Boneway, we are not safe enough to do anything anyway."

With these words, they split up and went to the tents to which the soldiers led them. Daeron was glad to finally be in the shade again. He drank some cold water, half a cup of Dornish Red and then lay down on his bed. It was wide enough for two, although he had no one to lie with him. He wondered if the bed in Ser Koryn's tent was this wide as well. But since he was no more than a landless knight, he doubted it strongly. For a while he looked at the ceiling of his tent and it didn't take long before his eyes closed and he sank into a dreamless sleep.

Loud noises finally woke him from his sleep. The last thing he saw in his thoughts was his father's dismissive face. Apparently the dreams had come after all and after the way he felt his heart pounding, the dreams had not been pleasant dreams. He sat up and listened to the sounds from outside. He heard spears pounding on shields, the laughter of men and wildly jumbled music. The celebrations had apparently already begun. He got up, washed the sleep off his face and left his tent. The sun had already set and he wondered for a moment how long he had been sleeping. In the middle of the camp a big fire had been lit, on the sides of which animals were now roasted on skewers. He recognized at least two pigs, a lot of poultry and even a number of snakes. Soups and sauces were simmering in pots all around, and barrels of wine had been placed on tables and were already being poured out abundantly. A large table had been set up where his family would probably sit, while the soldiers all around would have to make do with bales of straw, stones and tree stumps.

He saw Aegon standing a little aside with Sansa, explaining something to her and pointing into the distance. He saw Rhaenys and his grandmother walking through the already celebrating men, escorted by the Sers Jaime and Arthur, greeting them and speaking briefly to them, always with a royal smile on their noble faces. He saw his uncle Eddard sitting on a chair at the large table. He held a cup in his hand, from which he sipped only sparingly, and spoke with an excitedly gesturing Ser Raymun, while he kept looking over at Aegon and Sansa with an anxious expression the entire time.

Of the others he could not find anyone. Daeron therefore decided to go to his uncle. When he saw him approaching, Ser Raymun immediately stood up and bowed.

"I did not want to expel you, Ser," Daeron said, but Ser Raymun waved off.

"You did not, my prince, not at all. But I still urgently need to speak with Prince Oberyn. I've been completely talking my head off and I've already taken up far too much of Lord Eddard's time anyway. If you'll excuse me?"

Then he bowed again and walked away. Daeron also took a cup, let one of the nearby soldiers pour it for him and sat down with his uncle.

"Uncle, how is your leg?"

"Much better, thank you, my prince," he said, but after a wry look, he corrected himself. "Thank you, Daeron. And how are you after everything that's happened?"

"Better," he said after a while. "That my father wanted me dead is an experience I cannot recommend. And then to learn that he is now so mad that he wanted to burn you and grandmother and Rhaenys alive... I don't really know how to deal with that. What was it like when you found out about your father and brother, if I may ask?"

He looked at his uncle for a long time. His eyes wandered back and forth between his cup of Dornish Red and the celebrating soldiers around him. It took a long time before he finally spoke.

"It was... difficult. I cannot describe it. I knew something would happen. Lyanna was gone, father and Brandon were in a frenzy, and with Aerys, there was a man sitting on the throne who was known to banish or even execute people for the most trivial of reasons. When the news came, I was... stunned. I couldn't believe it. It just couldn't be true. Then Aerys demanded our heads, mine and Robert's. I was caught in a storm of anger and fear and despair. Then Jon Arryn called the banners, the war began and after that everything became clearer. Somehow. No better. The pain didn't go away, but it became clearer. I knew what I had to do, what we all had to do. And we did it. It wasn't until the end of the war that I even started to think about everything again. About my father and Brandon and Lyanna and Robert."

"I see."

"That probably didn't help you much, did it?" he asked with a weak smile.

"Yes, I think it did. I just hope everything will become clearer for me soon as well."

His uncle looked at him for a while, then put his hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. It was a sad smile, but a smile after all. They were silent for a while, drank their cups of wine together, then another one. At some point the music became quieter and the meat now smelled as if the meal was about to begin. He saw his grandmother and Rhaenys as they gradually worked their way through the soldiers towards the big table. He saw Oberyn and Ser Raymun talking and laughing together. Now he also saw Ser Bonifer again, walking through the crowd with Arya of all people and talking to her. Judging by the expression on her face, he was probably giving her a lecture on the eternal grace of the Seven, if only she would go to the sept regularly. Then he noticed his uncle's gaze wandering back over to Aegon and Sansa, who were approaching the fire from out of the darkness of the night.

"You needn't worry, uncle. Aegon would never let anything happen to her. Nor would he defile her honor."

His uncle then smiled again, mischievous like a little boy who had just been caught stealing cakes in the kitchen.

"I know. Your brother is a good man. I'm just still worried about Sansa. She loves your brother. She loves him with all her heart."

"And he loves her."

"I'm sure he does. But I also know things aren't always that simple. There is war coming, and in war, love is the last thing anyone can worry about. Aegon will have to find a woman who can offer him an army to win his throne. And since he already has the support of the North through me, that will not be my daughter. Sansa will also marry to strengthen our position and be a more important ally for House Targaryen, so the man who will eventually take my daughter's hand will not be Prince Aegon. It will break her heart, break it beyond repair and that is the last thing I ever wanted for her."

Daeron thought about it for a while. It was true. They already had the support of the North, at least in theory. His uncle stood by them and would rally the northern lords behind their cause as soon as he got the chance to travel north or at least send a letter. So Aegon's marriage to whomever would indeed have to be used to gain more allies.

"And what," he finally said, "if you make your support dependent on this union?"

His uncle then laughed, but again it was that sad laugh.

"I could do that, but I'm afraid Rhaella would never believe me that I would stand against her and her grandson. I owe her my life and everything I have. My loyalty is the least I can offer her, without conditions or pitfalls."

The meal finally began. Fortunately, there were no big speeches, but as Oberyn had predicted a lot of food and even more wine. There was laughter and drinking and some dancing. After they had all eaten and just held on to their wine cups, Rhaenys started a traditional dance from Dorne, supported by the frenetic clapping of the soldiers around. It didn't take long before Aegon stood up and started dancing with Sansa as well. She was unsure as she had never danced such a dance before, open and wild and by northern standards downright suggestive. But Aegon took her by the hand and led her. Rhaenys took her hand from time to time, then led her herself and showed her the steps. Sansa was very reserved at first, especially when it came to circling her hips, which was an integral part of the dance, but the longer the dance went on, the more freely she moved and the wider her smiles and louder her laughter became.

Aegon, Rhaenys and Oberyn tried several times to get Daeron to dance as well, but he preferred to stay seated. Dancing had never been something for him. Especially not one such dance. Aegon and Rhaenys had Dornish fire in their veins, Daeron rather the coolness of the Nordic winter. At some point, after the seventh or eighth cup of wine, he finally got up to take a walk through the pleasant freshness of the night. The moon stood high and bright in the sky and gave enough light to walk safely through the night without stumbling and breaking your legs. He walked along the crest of a small hill and enjoyed the silence. Somewhere a night bird was singing, courting the favor of his chosen one.

Daeron knew that there was a small creek nearby that would flow into the river Wyl a few miles downstream. He had never been here before but knew the area from old maps that Maester Arnol had always forced Aegon and him to study when he had taught them the history of Aegon's Conquest. He decided to go there. It was not far and apart from a few lizards scurrying about, there was no one to be seen. He found the small creek, sat down on a stone on the bank and listened to the rushing of the water, which, as he knew from maps, tumbled down a tiny waterfall behind the next bend.

For a while he just sat there, listening and looking up into the night sky when he suddenly heard a noise behind him. He turned around and saw Jeyne approaching him. Immediately his heart began to beat violently in his chest. Since he had broken their... connection, whatever kind of connection that might have been, they had hardly spoken to each other anymore, and if they had, it had been only in the group. She came to him, sat down wordlessly on a stone next to him and also looked out at the small creek and into the darkness. She remained silent and Daeron could do nothing more than look at her. The moonlight shimmered in her hair and he was sure that it would have reflected beautifully in her eyes had she looked at him now. He became hot and cold at the thought.

"It's beautiful here," she finally said. "So completely different from home and yet... similar. Is it like this everywhere in Dorne?"

"Not everywhere. Large parts of the south are sand desert. But they also have their very own beauty."

"Yes, I believe that immediately."

"Are you happy?" he finally asked after he had gathered all his strength.

"Yes," she said and looked at him for the first time. He had been right. The moonlight reflected wonderfully in her eyes. "It was hard at first. I thought my life was over when you left me. But then Koryn came into my life. He is good to me, you know? He loves me and I love him."

"That's good."

Again they were silent for a while and looked out into the darkness, over the shapes of the Dornish Mountains, faintly visible against the blackness of the night sky.

"And you?" she finally asked. "You got a new lady on your side?"

She knew that wasn't the case. At King's Landing, no lady had interested him but her, and after that he'd first been to Godswood with Aegon, then fled the city together with all of them. But Daeron knew what she actually meant. Are you over me?

"Not yet, but that will probably change soon."

"Really?" she asked amused. "You're very confident about yourself."

"No really. Aegon needs allies, so no doubt a young lady will soon be introduced to me whom I will marry to strengthen Aegon's position."

"Oh."

Daeron looked at her again and cursed himself for letting her go. No, he had not just let her go, he had sent her away. In the very moment he had ended it between Jeyne and him, he had known that he would never be able marry for love, no matter how much he had wanted this with Jeyne. But he also knew that it had been the right thing to do, even if more painful than he had ever imagined. He could not have offered Jeyne any kind of future other than that of his mistress, which would have made not only her but also his future wife miserable.

"I miss the North," she said after a long while.

"Me too. And I was only there a few years. To you it's home. I'm sure once this damned war is over, you can go back to Winterfell."

"I won't," she said, looking down at the ground before her as if there was something magnificent to admire.

"You won't?"

"Koryn is going back to Sandstone tomorrow in the first light of the day. He will join the army of his liege, Lord Quentyn Qorgyle. And… I will go with him," she said hesitantly. "When we arrive at Sandstone, he will take me as his wife, before the army marches up the Prince's Pass. Since my father is dead, Koryn and I spoke to Lord Stark and he gave his consent to the union."

Daeron almost fell over backwards. His head was spinning and he didn't know what to think or feel. He wanted Jeyne but he couldn't have her. But did that mean that nobody else could have her either? He wanted to jump up, grab her and kiss her, take her into his tent and never come out again. He wanted to run away and not turn around, he wanted to get drunk or do anything, but he did not know what. Had he needed any more reason not to go to Skyreach, he had just gotten it. No, he would stay with his brother, by his side. He would fight for him and protect him, whatever the cost. He did not know how long he must have just sat there staring at her with his mouth open until he finally managed to speak again.

"Congratulations," he said in a toneless voice. Jeyne smiled at him. Whether she knew what was going on inside him or not or whether she just ignored it, he couldn't tell. She thanked him for his congratulations, his understanding and simply for everything, kissed him goodbye on the cheek and then left without another word. Daeron knew that he would never see her again.

Notes:

So, that was it. This is a good point to remove the Jon Snow/Jeyne Poole-tag again, isn't it? What do you think?

As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think or if there is anything unclear. :-)
The next chapter should come pretty quickly. Maybe still today (since this was merely a re-work and I am almost done with the next one already), otherwise tomorrow and it will be from Catelyn's perspective again.

Hope to see you there. :-)

Chapter 31: Catelyn 2

Notes:

Hi everyone,

so, as I said at the end of the last chapter, this one is already here. Two new chapters in two days. Yay! :-)

We now see Catelyn arriving at Storm's End and having few conversations with Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon. At the end, there will be a "little" shock for Catelyn when she learns of the "little wildfire-accident" in King's Landing. Hope you like it.

They had been at sea for eleven days, had had to cross back and forth through the Narrow Sea so much due to the bad winds that at some point they had even been able to see the coast of Andalos in the distance. In the evening of the ninth day they had passed Dragonstone at some distance. Catelyn had hoped not to have to come too close to the fortress, but the captain of the Winddancer had not been able to prevent it.

"If you want more distance, m'lady, we will lose at least two more days, maybe three," he had barked. So she had decided against the distance and had hoped for the best.

A small fleet of four war galleys had left port as soon as they had come into sight and had approached them, proud and big ships under Targaryen banners, which they could not have escaped even with the best winds and the blessings of the old storm gods. But after they had hoisted the great Stark banner at the stern of their ship, the galleys had turned back and had left them alone. The Targaryens obviously hoped for the loyalty of the House Stark and the North as well, and they had received orders to leave them in peace.

By the morning of the eleventh day, Durran's Point finally came into sight, with Storm's End, the ancient fortress of the Storm Kings, enthroned on its top. A single colossal drum tower rose out of an enormous cloak of curtain walls. The tower, crowned with formidable battlements, looked almost like a huge, spiked fist thrusting towards the sky from.

Their small ship anchored in some distance to Storm's End and a few sailors brought Catelyn and her guard closer in a dinghy. She looked up to the fortress, the wall beginning no earlier than one hundred and fifty feet above her, as she knew, when they rowed into the small cave below Durran's Point. They landed at a small jetty and were met by Baratheon soldiers, polite but not very talkative. They were led through a portcullis, past fortifications and beneath murder holes that had all been driven into the massive rock. They reached a stairway, also carved into massive rocks, which, after a hard climb, led them up to the fortress.

She stepped out into the cool air and had to control herself not to snort loudly. There would have been the option to anchor further north or south of Storm's End and then to take horses to the fortress, but the direct route had seemed wiser to her. Approaching the proud fortress on her own ship, even if it had been a small one, with a large and proud Stark banner waving on it was to be more impressive than showing up at the gates with half a dozen riders like any merchant or minstrel. Now that she was breathing heavily and her legs were burning, she cursed herself for it. But she was a lady and a lady always kept her poise. So she pulled herself together and stepped forward between her soldiers.

They were in one of the courtyards of the fortress, bordered on one side by the enormous, impenetrable outer wall of Storm's End. Two men stepped in front of her and she immediately recognized them. Stannis Baratheon was tall, very tall and broad in the shoulders, with a dark beard around his strong jaw and a ring of dark hair around his head like the shadow of a crown. He had the blue eyes of his brother Robert, as she noticed immediately, but in a face that looked so bitter and serious, as if he had been laughing all his life. Jon Arryn stood beside him, crooked and thin as a wheat stalk, with long but thin hair. His eyes were deep in their sockets and he looked so tired as if he hadn't slept for a year. She knew from the last letters she had received from Ned that the years had not been kind to Jon Arryn, but seeing him here before her now startled her nonetheless.

"Lady Catelyn," said Jon with a toothless mouth. "It's so good to see you."

She had to think of her sister Lysa again, of her crying and sobbing when she had been told she would be given in marriage to Jon Arryn. Even back then, he had only had half of his teeth, and now there seemed to be none left. She had pitied Lysa then already, but now all the more. Neither of them had gotten the man they once wanted, but while she herself now had Ned at her side, her wonderful, silent wolf, loving and strong, who had given her the most wonderful children, Lysa had only Jon Arryn.

"Lord Jon, it's good to see you too," she finally said.

"Where is your son?" Lord Stannis asked and did not even bother to greet her. She thought for a moment whether she should address him as King Stannis but decided against it. Whatever title he might have given himself, he had neither a crown nor a throne, let alone a kingdom. He was not a king. Not yet, at least.

"He is of course with his army, Lord Stannis. It seemed unwise for him to travel into the middle of a war zone without knowing whose loyalties lie where."

"This is not a war zone."

"Not yet," she said, "but since your first attack on King's Landing seems to have failed, it soon might be one." She resented her own words the moment they had left her mouth. She knew little about this attack and, if she was honest, she could not even tell if it had taken place at all or if she had only fallen for gossip and chatter. And even if it had happened, this was certainly not the best way to come to good terms with Lord Stannis. "But I can assure you, my Lords, that I have the authority to speak on behalf of my son Robb."

She reached into the small bag she was carrying with her and pulled out the document Robb had prepared for her. She handed it to Jon Arryn, who opened it and read through it briefly. It carried Robb's seal and his signature, as he doubtless recognized immediately. Then he handed it to Lord Stannis, who did not even look at it.

"Are you also here to bend the knee to me in the name of your son? Otherwise you can get right back on your boat," Stannis growled at her now.

"Lord Stannis, I would advise you to reconsider your tone. I am here to speak to you on behalf of my son, whatever the outcome. My presence is, first and foremost, a mere courtesy to honor the bond of friendship that once united your brother Robert and my husband, no more and no less. But if a fall to the knee and a please of allegiance is all you expect and accept, then maybe I should indeed just turn around and get back on my board and head home."

"Please, it was just a misunderstanding," Jon Arryn finally said. "Lady Stark has had a long journey, and the past few weeks have been exhausting for His Grace, of course."

His Grace. He already speaks of Stannis as His Grace, she thought.

"Let's give Lady Stark a chance to first arrive properly and rest," he continued. "After that, we can begin to discuss matters. But it's true, of course. The friendship between the old and proud houses Baratheon and Stark was once indeed close. As you know, my Lady, Robert and Eddard were once bound by a friendship that was as close as otherwise only between brothers. And they were both as dear to me as if they had been my own sons. So now we hope to build a similar, strong bond between our three houses once again."

Catelyn thought about that for a moment. Of course, she had not planned to leave Storm's End right away, but it also had to be clear that she would not accept Lord Stannis talking to her like that. After all, he wanted something from her and her son, not the other way around. And this talk from Jon Arryn? It irritated her. Robert and Ned had indeed been brothers in all but blood. But how should she ever imagine a similar connection between Robb and Stannis? Those two men, her wonderful son and that grouch, should be connected in friendship as closely as brothers, and at that with Jon Arryn as a caring father? Catelyn had her doubts. For a moment, she wondered why Lord Jon didn't allude to the idea of creating such a bond between Stannis and Ned.

Probably because Ned is not available for him. That makes sense, she thought. Or because Ned knows the man well enough not to want such a thing in the first place.

The more than icy welcome fortunately was quickly over then and Catelyn was shown to her rooms by a guard. Once again she had to climb up staircase after staircase inside the massive tower of the fortress, but this time the soldiers around her, Stark and Baratheon men, also gasped and puffed, so that she was no longer ashamed to ask for a short break in between. Her chamber was small and sparsely furnished, and she wondered involuntarily if Stannis had placed her here on purpose, or if simply all the rooms in Storm's End looked so depressing. She then undressed and washed herself in the small bowl in front of her window. The window faced out onto the courtyard, but it was so high up that nothing could be seen without opening it first. Since she was undressed, however, she refrained from doing so, not to give the soldiers on the walls any reason for gossip.

She then put on a more comfortable dress that she would later be able to wear at the next official meeting with Lord Stannis and Lord Jon as well, and after a servant, a little mouse of a girl with straw-blonde hair, had brought her something to eat and drink, she strengthened herself a little. The bread was dark and difficult to chew, but it quickly filled her up. She ate a little of the strong-smelling cheese, but the brown sausage was too greasy for her. She had also been served watered wine – or perhaps the wine had not been watered, but simply with no flavor – and some milk, which she drank all up quickly to get rid of the cheese's strong taste.

The exact time of their meeting had not been agreed upon, so she decided to have a look at this legendary fortress. That was definitely better than just sitting around here in this depressing chamber. She put on a cape with fur trimming on which the wolf's head of the House Stark was embroidered and left her small chamber. Two Stark soldiers had waited by her door and accompanied her on her way. The fortress was, despite its enormous size, surprisingly well structured. She quickly found a way out of the mighty central tower and onto one of the walls that connected the tower with the curtain walls and formed the numerous inner courtyards.

She considered whether she should climb one of the huge outer walls of the fortress to look down into the bay or over the vast Stormlands on the other side of the fortress, but decided against it after thinking about the numerous steps she would have to climb to do so. For a while she just stood there, enjoying the fresh wind and listening to the sounds of the busy fortress around her. She heard horses in stables that seemed to be being fed. A blacksmith scolded his apprentice for completely ruining a spearhead. Soldiers barked orders to each other at a distance and somewhere she heard the regular beating of wood on wood. Practice swords, no doubt.

She walked along the wall for some time until she saw the group of young men in the practice yard. Six young men were there, split up in groups of two, with wooden swords and wooden shields in their hands. She watched for a while as the boys - they all had to be between ten and fourteen name days old - beat each other up under the watchful eyes of a bald man with a fiery red beard. After a while the practice partners were regrouped, then again. Half a dozen times the boys were regrouped, the bald man corrected their stances and sword strokes, or exhorted more seriousness in the exercises, something Lord Stannis certainly loved to hear. Then they took a short break before continuing later, as the bald man said, with exercises with the hammer and the axe. The boys took off their helmets and immediately Catelyn could recognize two of them. Although she had never seen them before, it was unmistakable which of these boys came from Lord Stannis' loins.

Two boys, the tallest of the group, had the same, jet-black hair of their father, and although she could hardly be more than thirteen or fourteen name days old, it was already visible that they had inherited their father's hair loss as well. They had large ears, a massive jaw and - even from a distance - the same deep blue eyes as their father, but unfortunately an equally grim, never smiling face. While the boys around them were laughing and joking, having lively conversations, Orys and Steffon Baratheon stood next to them, looking as angry as their father always did, absolutely wordless.

So these are supposed to be the next princes of the realm, she thought. She hadn't had too much contact with Prince Daeron during his presence at Winterfell, but from what Robb had told her, he was a good man and had become a good friend to him. And Prince Aegon seemed to be cut from the same cloth, a good man and hopefully one day a good king. He had been tall, broad in the shoulders and – as one would expect from a prince of House Targaryen – absurdly handsome. But these two? They were grim-faced lads with hard, unsightly faces and fading hair. Men one would expect to see swinging an executioner's sword, but not sitting on a throne. Perhaps they would become good lords one day, if the gods were kind, but they were certainly not the wood from which princes and kings were carved.

"Have you recovered a bit?" a voice next to her suddenly asked. She turned around and saw Jon Arryn standing a few steps away from her. The thought was awful but she caught herself thinking how grateful she was that it had not been her who had had to marry him.

"Yes, indeed. Thank you, my lord."

"That's good to hear. I know His Grace can be a little... harsh at times. But that's just the rough shell."

So deep inside he is a friendly, loving man? I find that hard to believe.

"I am to greet you warmly from your sister," he said after a short pause. That too was hard to believe. Her sister had become bitter over the years, had written only sparsely and at some point had stopped answering Catelyn's letters altogether.

If you want my trust, Lord Arryn, you better not lie to me so shamelessly.

"How is my sister anyway? I haven't heard from her in a while."

"Oh, she's doing just fine. Our son is her greatest joy," he said, smiling at her toothlessly. That was not hard to believe though. In the last letters she had received from Lysa, she had raved about her Robert, what a great boy he was and what a good lord he would be one day, how the lords and ladies of the Vale were already in love with him and how it could not be long before the first girls and women would become interested in him.

Catelyn, however, had also heard from others – mostly from Ned of course, who still held contact to some of the lords in the Vale, the Lords Royce and Redfort mainly – about Robert Arryn and these stories, even if not everything could be believed, had been less praiseworthy. Little Robert was a boy of ten, almost eleven name days, but it was said that he was so weak that he only looked half as old. He was constantly sick, suffered from shaking fits and it was said that even at his age he was still sucking his mother's breasts, which Catelyn thought was exaggerated. Or at least hoped.

"Lady Catelyn, of course I understand that the situation is not easy for everyone involved. But I beg you to believe me that His Grace and I are only doing what is best for the realm. All we want to achieve is to stabilize the realm, to give it a new, stronger order than the Targaryens are able to."

"That sounds like an honorable cause, Lord Arryn, but what I see is a rebellion that could cost me and my family everything in case of a defeat if my son were to support you and Lord Stannis."

Lord Arryn's look did not escape her when she spoke of Lord Stannis and not His Grace.

"We all suffered badly in the last war, but I assure you that House Stark will emerge victorious at the end of this war. Your first daughter will be allowed to marry into the royal family. And as soon as the two of them are old enough, we can even consider a marriage between my Robert and your second daughter. Arya, right? She would be the Lady of the Vale. Baratheon, Stark and Arryn, all bound by blood. It would be a strong alliance that would permanently stabilize the realm."

Catelyn didn't have to think about it for long to find all this absolutely absurd. If even half of all the rumors and stories she had heard about Robert Arryn, the heir to the Vale of Arryn, were true, the proposal alone was laughable. It would be hard enough to find a suitable husband for Arya one day, but a sickly weakling like Robert… Arya was more likely to push him out the next window rather than to let him into her bed one day. Lady of the Vale or not.

And Sansa, her perfect sweet lady... Sansa had dreamed of a glamorous life at a southern court since her childhood, of noble princes and dashing knights courting her, of feasts and dances. What she certainly did not dream of was a life at the side of a grumpy boy with too large ears, who – if he took after his father in character as much as in the looks – would probably have less affection and kind words for her than for his horse.

"Words are wind, Lord Arryn," she said and turned away and walked a few steps.

At first she had not noticed that from where she was standing now she could see at least a little bit down into the bay below the mighty fortress. The Winddancer could not be seen, but another ship was coming in sight, just about to drop anchor. It was a galley, lean and fearsome, with pitch black sails on a single mast and a blood-red hull. Catelyn could not take her eyes off this sight, even though she was sure the ship would give her nightmares.

"The Silence," said Jon Arryn, who was now standing beside her again. "The ship of Euron Greyjoy."

She did not know the man personally, but she had heard stories about him. It was said that he had raped his own brother's wife and forced a bastard on her, for which he had been banished from the Iron Islands years ago. There were rumors about him, about the terrible pirate who was said to raid the seas and coasts all the way from Lys to Quarth, about his cruelty and licentiousness. Catelyn was shocked at the mere thought that Lord Stannis and especially Lord Arryn could ally themselves with such a man.

Before they had left Winterfell, they had received reports that there had supposedly been a kingsmoot on the Iron Islands in which Euron had been elected king. Therefore, Robb had left almost a thousand men in Winterfell and spread another thousand to smaller forts on the coast of Cape Kraken to protect the North from possible raids of the ironmen.

"With such a man would you ally yourself, Lord Arryn? A pirate, a murderer and a rapist and probably worse?"

"One must not believe all the stories that are told, Lady Catelyn. Lord Euron... King Euron, as you have surely heard, is truly no Baelor the Blessed, but we cannot approach King's Landing by land anymore. Not without risking getting attacked or ambushed by Targaryen forces on the way. An attack from the sea is all we have left if we don't want to drag the realm into months or even years of war. And that is certainly not what we want. Therefore, as reluctantly as His Grace and I admit it, we need his ships."

"And what does he want in return?"

"The independence of the Iron Islands."

"And Lord Stannis will agree to this?"

"Please, Lady Catelyn, you may call him Lord Stannis in my presence for now, but if you speak to him in person, he is His Grace."

"I have not bent the knee to him, Lord Arryn. Nor my husband nor my son. Therefore, for now, he is a Lord in open rebellion against the crown. Nothing more."

"As you say," the old man gave in, but it was clear how much he disliked it.

Had he hoped I would simply accept that? That I would come to them and address this man with Your Grace just because he would like me to? Stannis has fought one single battle so far and has lost it. What makes him think I would just call himself king anyway?

"His Grace will accept the Iron Islands' independence," the old man finally continued.

"I thought you wanted to prevent the realm from falling apart, or did I misunderstand something?"

"Not at all. King Stannis is happy to grant the Iron Islands its independence as long as there is peace between Pyke and the Iron Throne."

"A peace I'm sure the Iron Islands would not hold for long. Then Stannis would have an excuse to attack and reclaim the islands without breaking his word to Euron Greyjoy."

"Exactly," he beamed as best he could without teeth.

So Stannis just makes any promise Euron wants to hear, but plans to stick to it just far enough not to break his word. It's not a lie, but not the whole truth either. Catelyn decided to remember that well. Lord Arryn then excused himself. He now had to welcome King Euron and then prepare for the official negotiations with her and Lord Stannis later, whom he of course called His Grace. The meeting would then take place after lunch, he said.

Catelyn then returned to her small room and had the maid bring her something to eat again. It was a hot, thick stew of fish and goat meat with turnips and mushrooms, accompanied by water and more of the flavorless wine. It did not take long before a servant came to her and asked her to let him escort her to the meeting with His Grace and the Hand of the King.

So the positions at Stannis' new court are already settled. Good to know.

The servant, a skinny young lad with red hair and smallpox scars all over his face, led her down various corridors and up a multitude of steps to a small chamber, which had to be almost at the top of the mighty central tower of the fortress. The chamber pointed inland, giving it large windows and even a small balcony. In the center of the room was a round table in which the stag of the House Baratheon was artfully carved. Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon already sat at the window side of the table. Behind them stood the red-bearded bald man, whom she only now recognized as a member of the House Penrose by his coat of arms on his chest, and a bearded man with brown hair and a weathered face, dressed in plain brown and a green woolen coat.

Lord Arryn briefly stood up to greet her and pointed to the only free chair opposite the two of them, while Lord Stannis remained seated, motionless as a statue, glowering at her. Lord Arryn indeed introduced the red-bearded man as Ser Cortnay Penrose, the other as a certain Ser Davos Seaworth. She had never heard of a House Seaworth, however. Catelyn greeted both men with a smile.

"The realm is on the verge of collapse," Lord Stannis began without a moment's hesitation. "The last war left it weakened. Great alliances have not come to pass, and once again a mad king sits on the throne and threatens to bring the realm finally to ruin."

"Many would surely wish for independence from the Iron Throne, but no one thinks about what that would really mean," Lord Arryn now said. "The time of the seven separate kingdoms is over and it is not possible to simply go back, as you surely are aware, Lady Catelyn. The economic damage alone would cause one famine after another. Not to mention the political entanglements between the kingdoms through centuries-old alliances and weddings that would trigger one war after another. The Iron Throne may have been forced upon Westeros, but as much as some wish it had never happened, it is now the center of this realm, of the entire continent, and the wheel of history cannot simply be turned back."

I wonder how long he worked on this one sentence alone.

"We must not allow the realm to fall apart," Lord Stannis continued now. "The realm must be united and protected."

"And you think, Lord Stannis," Catelyn now interjected, "that this can best be accomplished with a rebellion that will cost thousands of lives and possibly devastate entire regions?"

She had hardly believed it possible, but she saw Lord Stannis' gaze grow even darker.

"With a swift and decisive strike against the capitol, it will certainly not-" Lord Arryn began, but was immediately interrupted by Lord Stannis.

"Yes, if that means giving the realm lasting stability. The Seven Kingdoms now need a real king, a savior and a hero, if you want to call it that." Well, hero is certainly not the first word that springs to mind for most people when they see Stannis Baratheon. "But what it gets instead," he continued, "is a feeble weakling running around in women's clothes, worshipping a false god."

Women's clothes? What makes him think that King Rhaegar is running around in women's clothes? Sure, she had heard stories about King Rhaegar, disturbing stories about his state of mind, especially from Ned after he had spoken with the princes Aegon and Daeron about King's Landing before their departure. Prince Daeron had of course not known much as he had spent the last few years in Winterfell, but Prince Aegon had made some disturbing remarks here and there. But she had not heard of the king allegedly wearing women's clothes. If those were the kind of stories these two were planning to spread about the king to gain further support from the lords and ladies of the realm, they would probably gather more singers and bards than lords and knights around them. Hardly anything to win a war with.

"My Lords, I am somewhat surprised to hear such things from you. Whatever may be wrong with the king, which clothes he wears or which god he worships, all in all it seems to me clearly too little to call the banners and openly rebel against the Iron Throne for that reason. If I may be so open, it rather appears to me as if I were sitting opposite two dissatisfied men – one disappointed by the outcome of the last rebellion and the other... by the wickedness of the world in general perhaps – who are now looking for an excuse to start a rebellion against the crown."

"Careful, woman," barked Lord Stannis while Jon Arryn raised his hands in appeasement.

"Please, Lady Catelyn, you completely misunderstand. If I may-"

"If I may," she said and cut him off, "I would like to finish. Nothing I have heard so far makes me believe in the sincerity of your supposedly noble aims. Nothing so far can convince me to advise my son to take up arms against Prince Daeron, his own cousin and close friend. And since Prince Daeron will certainly stand behind his brother, Prince Aegon, Robb will do the same. Unless you have something far better to offer than 'The King wears women's clothes', my Lords."

"How about this?" Lord Stannis said and threw a letter across the table to her. It stopped in front of her and immediately Catelyn recognized the broken seal, the three-headed dragon of the House Targaryen. She took the letter, unfolded it and read.

"Is the letter real?" she asked.

"Of course," said Stannis, almost offended by the question itself.

"Yes, it is real. We received it only yesterday," Jon Arryn said.

She read the letter again, studying every line and every word. King Rhaegar had abdicated and – as the letter said – with no other male Targaryens left, Prince Viserys had apparently been crowned the new King of the Seven Kingdoms, from now on to be Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

"Rhaegar has given up his crown. Probably the smartest thing he has ever done. And his sons are dead," Stannis said. "So your son's loyalty to them is wasted."

"We don't know exactly what happened in the capitol," said Jon Arryn, "but whatever it was, the two princes did not survive apparently."

That changed everything. She didn't know much about Prince Viserys... no, King Viserys now, but if he was like the princes Aegon or Daeron, then he was a good man. Should she and her son really rebel against such a man? But what if he was more like his brother Rhaegar, whose state of mind had apparently become weaker and weaker lately, or even like his father, the Mad King Aerys? They just didn't know enough about what had happened at King's Landing, what had led to Rhaegar's abdication of the crown and the deaths of the princes. And then there still was Ned and her girls. Oh, her poor girls. She could not care less about who sat the Iron Throne as long as Ned and her girls were in danger. She shook her head.

"No, I can't accept it like this. I can't just bend the knee like that."

"Did you misread the letter a bit, woman?" Lord Stannis barked again. "Do you need someone to read it to you?"

"Rudeness is certainly not a quality for a good king, Lord Baratheon," she hissed back.

"Please, there's no need for this," Lord Arryn said. "His Grace certainly meant no disrespect, my Lady. He merely has a strong will, and that is certainly a quality in a King."

A strong will? If he were a donkey, it would be called stubbornness.

"Lady Stark, I understand your reserve, but please face facts," Lord Arryn continued. "The time of the Targaryens is over, and now a new time must dawn. Viserys is too much like his father, maybe even worse. The realm would not survive him as king. Therefore, it is even more important now to unite our forces and put someone on the throne who can bring order and justice back to the realm instead of fire and madness."

"All I can offer you is that Robb will not march against you."

"This is no support," Lord Stannis said.

"No, but it's the best I can offer. At least until my husband returns. Should he bend the knee to you then, in the name of the entire North, the lords will follow him and thus you. But for that, he would first have to be freed from the dungeons of the Red Keep. And let's not forget my daughters, who are also still-"

"Lady Catelyn," Jon Arryn then said in a lowered voice, "I am sorry it is I who must bring you this news. But... Ned is dead. We don't know exactly what happened, but a large amount of wildfire seems to have consumed the largest part of the Red Keep. The dungeons have been completely torn apart and burned to ashes. Ned was in these dungeons."

"No," she said in a soundless voice. "No, no. This is impossible. This cannot be."

"I'm afraid it's true. I grieve with you, my lady."

"What... what about my girls?" she asked and already felt the tears running down her cheeks and the first sobs beginning to shake her body.

"We do not know. We haven't heard about your daughters, but since most of the fortress is destroyed, the odds are not good. I am sorry."

Catelyn got sick, her stomach and her head started to turn. She jumped up but could hardly stand on her feet. She couldn't remember much after that, knowing only fragments of how she had been brought back to her chamber by some men. She had been laid on the bed and a maester had been there, pouring her a bitter tea to let her sleep.

She was alone when finally everything broke out of her, the sadness and the anger and the rage. She cried and screamed and sobbed, banging her fists against the walls and the bed. Then she threw up, once, twice, thrice. She laid down on the bed then, still crying and sobbing, her head aching and her thoughts racing. It simply could not be. Ned was gone, her girls were gone. Her gorgeous, wonderful girls.

She fell into a deep, uneasy sleep and dreamed of her family, of Ned and Sansa and Arya, shrouded in darkness, screaming in pain and covered with green fire and black blood.

Notes:

So, that was it. How did you like it? Please let me know in the comments. :-)

Hope to see you next time.

P.S.: Hopefully no more German has crept in this time. If so, let me know. ;-)

Chapter 32: Aegon 6

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is ready. Hopefully this time, there are no parts I forgot to translate :-D

So first we see Aegon and Daeron together a bit, but only very shortly. After that, Aegon and Sansa have a little chat and then, for the largest part of this chapter, all of them gather to discuss where to find new allies. Hope you enjoy it.

It pinched a little but didn't really hurt. Aegon was glad that the stitches finally got out of his chest. His wounds had healed well and finally it would no longer be pulling so uncomfortably with every movement and scratching under his clothes. Lazar Foros, a healer whom his uncle Oberyn had brought with him to Dorne from his time in Essos and who was now something like his personal maester, squatted in front of him and examined the stitches one last time before he pulled out the last threads.

"It looks good," he finally said with the heavy accent of the Pentoshi. "You were very lucky."

"Yes, the maester on Tarth already told me that. One bolt was stuck right between two ribs, the other one shattered a rib. The maester had to cut the splinters out."

"He did that quite well too. For a Westerosi..."

His uncle Oberyn stood next to the man, watching the whole procedure and smirking at the words of his healer. Then he looked at Aegon again and he could see in his eyes what he wanted to say. It is good to see you well, nephew. Aegon smiled at him before he squeezed his eyes together one last time when the last thread was finally removed.

"We are done," Lazar Foros finally said and stood up. "Another week, maybe two. Then you should feel nothing anymore. But the splintered rib will never be as stable as before. You should avoid taking hits there."

"I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will," Oberyn said, smiling wider now. Lazar Foros packed his things back into his small leather bag, bowed to Oberyn – not to Aegon, as he amusedly noticed – and left the tent. Aegon began to dress again, a black top with a red dragon on the chest to go with his light grey trousers and the high, dark brown leather boots he was already wearing. Oberyn wanted to hand him a cup of Dornish Red, but Aegon declined. It was still too early in the morning for that.

"You'd better stay clear in your head as well, otherwise you'll fall off your horse," Aegon said.

"Trust me, nephew, it takes more than a cup of Dornish Red in the morning to get me out of the saddle."

"I know," Aegon said with a wry grin. "My victory in the jousting wasn't that long ago."

Oberyn punched him on the shoulder for it, but not hard, and grinned broadly. His uncle would leave the camp in a moment to meet some messengers from Wyl and Yronwood a few miles away to find out if there was any news from King's Landing or Storm's End, and where their ten thousand Dornish spears were at that moment. So they left the tent and walked together through the camp to the horses. Oberyn mounted a Dornish steed in bright gold that was already saddled and waiting for him. They said a short goodbye and then he left the camp. Later in the day he would return and be able to report.

Aegon briefly considered whether he should ride out a little, but then decided against it. They were safe in Dorne, as safe as they could be anywhere at the moment, but still there was no absolute safety and to unnecessarily leave the five hundred spears they had here for their protection would have been thoughtless, foolish.

He wandered around a bit between the soldiers, greeted some of them whose faces he remembered, and spoke a few short words to some of them here and there. After a while, he came to the edge of the old castle wall and saw Daeron sitting there on a large stone that must have been broken out of the wall half an eternity ago. He looked sad and Aegon could already guess why. He missed Jeyne. Aegon knew that Jeyne had gone to Sandstone with Ser Koryn. They had asked Lord Stark for his permission to marry and had left the camp in the first light of the very next day after their arrival again. He felt sorry for his brother. There was not much he could do for him, but he decided that he still had to be there for him as best as he could.

He and Rhaenys had told Daeron that nothing could ever become of him and Jeyne and had urged him to end their relationship. Now, when he saw his little brother sitting there with his head and shoulders hanging down, he regretted what he had said to him. Not that it hadn't been true. Nothing could have ever become of these two. At least not without Daeron giving up his claim to the throne. He knew, of course, that Daeron was not interested in the throne and that as long as he did not have to – and that would only be possible if he himself did not survive the war – would never lay claim to the throne. But Aegon also knew that they would all have to get married soon. They needed allies, supporters, and most importantly, knights and soldiers in the field.

Their grandmother and Rhaenys had been juggling possible political alliances for days and weeks already which could be achieved with the right marriages. At the beginning, Aegon had still hoped to win the war without this sacrifice, but it did not look like it. Dorne was loyal and strong but could not hope to win this fight for him alone as long as it faced the combined might of the Stormlands, the Reach and the Vale of Arryn on one side, and the Crownlands and the lords loyal to his father on the other. They would have to marry politically, all of them.

He thought of Sansa, who fortunately was nowhere near in this very moment. Had he seen her, he could hardly have held back from going to her, kissing her and just disappearing with her into the Dornish Mountains, as his father had done so similarly all those years ago. He loved her. He knew that. He had been willing to die for her and would do so again without hesitation. He loved her with all his heart, but he was no dreamer. Not anymore. He would enjoy the time by her side, give her all the love he could without defiling her honor. But there would be nothing more. He knew that. His grandmother would no doubt choose a wife for him, for both of them. He could not imagine loving another as much as Sansa.

Maybe once we have children. Maybe love will come then.

All he hoped for was that Daeron would get a wife who would make him happy. Daeron would marry for his sake, to strengthen his position and his claim to the throne. He hoped and prayed that it would at least make him happy.

He went over to his brother and sat down beside him on the big stone. They looked at each other for a short moment and Aegon could see that he wanted to cry but held back the tears. His little brother was too much of a Stark after all. Aegon was sure that he would not have been able to hold back his tears had he seen Sansa ride off with another man. He had talked to Oberyn about it and had made him promise not to tell Daeron, but Oberyn's suggestion had simply been that Daeron should get into bed with the next best woman to clear his head.

"There are enough beautiful women in the world," he had said. "Let him find another."

Find another... Aegon hadn't answered, hadn't been able to answer anything that would not have made his uncle either angry or laugh. Aegon had imagined what it would have been like if he had lost Sansa and someone would have given him this advice. The thought alone had caused him pain. It would be as if I knew that the sun would never rise again and someone would advise me to just light a candle instead.

Aegon and Daeron said nothing, just sat there and looked out into the red and golden vastness of the mountains around them. Aegon put his arm around his brother, and Daeron returned the gesture. So they sat there for an hour or more, looking wordlessly into the distance, and yet all was said that needed to be said. Finally, Daeron spoke.

"Thank you," he said.

Aegon got up then, kissed his little brother on the head and left.

Two hours later Oberyn returned with good news. Their ten thousand spears were almost there, would march past Wyl in five days and take position a few miles north to secure the Boneway. So they themselves would leave their camp in the next few days to join the army. Most importantly though, they could now finally send out ravens without running the risk of betraying their almost unprotected position.

It was not long before it was decided to meet immediately in the large tent at the head of the camp. Aegon was just about to go there when Sansa stepped in his way. She was wearing a light dress of Dornish silk in bright yellow with her hair down as almost always lately and smiled so adorably that he would have been perfectly happy just to look at her face for the rest of the day. She was beautiful. She gave him a quick kiss and then pulled him aside into his tent.

"Sansa, we have to go to the meeting," he said with a smile, even though he didn't feel like leaving the tent ever again when he looked at her.

"I know, but I needed to speak with you quickly. I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"First of all, I... I haven't thanked you for saving me. You risked your life, almost died, and I haven't even said thanks. So... thanks."

Once again, she stood on her toes, reached up to him and kissed him. He lowered his head, took her in his arms and kissed her back. Their mouths opened and their tongues danced around each other in their now familiar dance. She tasted so wonderfully sweet.

"I haven't thanked you yet either," he said after they separated again.

"For what?"

"I know that you were with me the whole time. When I was unconscious, you did not leave my side. Rhaenys and grandmother told me. I have no real memories, but I'm sure I heard you singing for me from time to time. Your singing kept me alive, I'm sure. So thank you, Sansa."

She blushed and only looked more ravishing as a result. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to his chest and kissed her on her wonderful hair, which smelled of fresh flowers and spring honey.

"There is something else," she said after a while. She raised her eyes to him and they looked at each other in silence for a while. She seemed nervous, restless. He saw how she had to wet her lips to be able to continue speaking.

"What is it, Sansa? You can tell me."

"It's... well, you must know..." She swallowed hard, first looking down, then back into his eyes before continuing. "You... you should know that... you can have me... if you want."

His heart seemed to stop one beat, then another and another. He looked at her, looked into those ravishing, enchanting blue eyes and could not say anything. He wanted her, wanted her more than anything else in the world. More than the throne and the crown and even than his own life. He wanted her for himself, completely and utterly, and wanted to give himself to her just as completely. She seemed to become even more restless under his gaze and looked as if she wanted to break free and run away in shame before Aegon could finally speak again.

"I love you," he said, pulling her close again and kissing her again.

"I love you too," she said between two intense kisses. "So very much."

"But... I love you too much to ever defile your honor. You are perfect in every way imaginable, Sansa, and I would never dare do that to you."

"I know, Aegon. I just wanted you to know that... if you want me, you can have me. That's how much I love you."

He was just about to kiss her again when the flap of the tent was thrown aside and Oberyn stuck his head through it.

"Come on, everyone is waiting for you," he said and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

"We... should go now," Sansa said. Aegon could only nod, offered her his arm and together they left his tent to go to the meeting in the large tent. They entered and Aegon took a seat next to his brother, Sansa on his other side. A row of tables had been set up, forming a large, albeit crooked, square around which everything now had taken seat. His grandmother and Rhaenys sat a bit further away, Ser Bonifer beside them. Opposite them sat Ser Raymun and Lord Stark, followed by his Uncle Oberyn, who had brought Ser Cletus Yronwood and his cousin Quentyn Martell with him, who now sat to his right and left. Brienne and the Knights of the Kingsguard had spread out into the four corners of the tent.

"So what news do you bring us, Oberyn?" his grandmother asked without much ado.

"Quite a lot. Another raven has arrived at Yronwood to demand fealty."

"Stannis?" his grandmother asked.

"No, from King's Landing," Oberyn said, and Aegon could see that he was not quite sure how to go on. "Viserys has been crowned King and now demands loyalty from Dorne."

"But that means...," Rhaenys began.

"That means Rhaegar is dead? He is not, but he has renounced the crown and Viserys has been crowned king," Oberyn continued. They all remained silent for a moment. Aegon didn't know what to think or feel and he saw that his sister and brother felt the same. He did not dare to say it out loud, and yet he felt shame for the mere thought that he regretted that their father was still alive. Their father had wanted Daeron dead, had tried to burn his sister and grandmother and Lord Stark alive. He himself had never received anything but rejection and punishment from him, and yet... he was their father.

"That's a shame," Rhaella finally said. "I had hoped he would already be dead. My son, your father, died long ago. That man is no longer my Rhaegar."

Aegon was startled by the clarity of his grandmother's words. Yet he admired her for it and decided to do the same.

"Grandmother is right. I no longer consider this man my father and I will fight him like I would fight any other of my enemies," he said as determinedly as he could and felt Sansa's hand rest on his arm. Then Oberyn continued.

"Viserys has crowned himself king because, as he claims in his letter, there are no more male Targaryens and he is therefore the rightful heir."

"What? How can he say that?" Daeron asked. "He knows we are still alive."

"The red witch," Rhaenys said, "When Father had tried to murder us, he had renounced the Seven and declared all rituals of the Seven null and void, which had made us all bastards in the eyes of his new god. I suppose that's what Viserys is referring to."

"But he can't possibly think the rest of the realm would just accept that."

"Maybe not. But he doesn't even say that you're dead, but just that there are no more male Targaryens. If you were two bastards, that would even be correct. The phrase sounds like both of you are dead," Rhaenys said, pointing to Daeron and Aegon, "but without saying it explicitly. He is dancing along the lines of the truth in order to gather as many supporters as possible around him as quickly as possible."

"He wants to create accomplished facts," said Aegon. "If he can find allies and defeat Stannis and Jon Arryn somehow, it wouldn't matter if we crawled out of some hole after that. He would be the king, with the lords and ladies of the realm sworn to him, and he could declare us bastards just like father did."

"Then the most important thing now is to let the rest of the Seven Kingdoms know that the princes are still alive and proclaim Prince Aegon to be King as quickly as possible," said Ser Raymun. The others agreed, nodding their heads and here and there a "Yes" and "So be it" was heard.

"But that alone will not be enough," Rhaella said. "Hopefully, it will keep enough Lords from joining Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn or bending the knee to Viserys too quickly, but that won't get us an army. And we will need armies."

"And besides, where do we send these ravens? We don't have enough ravens for the whole realm, even back at Yronwood," said Ser Cletus.

"We should definitely contact some of the great Houses in the Reach. House Tyrell might be allied with Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn, but the position of the Tyrells among their bannermen is far from strong and there are enough loyalists in the Reach to make a difference," Rhaenys said.

"How about House Florent?" asked Ser Cletus. "They are strong and have always been bragging about actually having the best claim to Highgarden. They could be offered Highgarden as a reward."

"It is unlikely that they would respond. Stannis' donkey of a wife is a Florent," said Rhaenys and received an admonishing look for the donkey from Rhaella, which she deliberately ignored. "The Redwynes, perhaps. They are not happy with the Fat Flower either."

"Mace Tyrell's mother is a Redwyne," Daeron said.

"What about the Hightowers? They've always been loyal to us, are one of the most powerful Houses in the Reach and Lord Leyton's wife, Lady Rhea, is also a Florent. They could be offered Highgarden as well," Daeron suggested.

"Furthermore," Ser Bonifer interjected, "the Hightowers are good, devout people, deeply rooted in the belief in the Seven. They would never side with Prince Viserys, who so shamefully renounced the Seven for his personal gain."

"We will do both," his grandmother decided. "We will send ravens to Oldtown and the Arbor. Kinship or not, there is little love between either house and the Tyrells, and we could make good use of both the soldiers from Oldtown and the Redwyne fleet."

"Maybe we should also send a raven to Goldengrove, not forgetting to mention that there are unmarried Targaryens. Lord Rowan may have not the largest army but is a highly respected man that many others would follow. And he has three unmarried daughters," said Rhaenys.

"Very good idea," said her grandmother. "Mathis Rowan's wife is a Redwyne and Baelor Hightower's wife is a Rowan. If we get one of them on our side, the others may follow. If even we were to receive an answer from only one of those three, we would have gained a great deal already and would have greatly weakened Lord Tyrell and with him Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn."

"I would like to try to contact Jon Arryn," Lord Stark then said, earning more than a few confused looks.

"And may I ask why?" Oberyn asked with barely concealed disgust.

"I know it sounds odd, but Jon Arryn is a good man. Maybe I can convince him to stop this folly before it's too late. What he does, he undoubtedly does out of the best of motives. I am convinced he only does what he thinks is the best for the realm."

"And the best for the realm shall be the death of my grandchildren?" his grandmother now almost shouted at him, apparently unable to find patience for Lord Stark at this moment, despite their friendship.

"No, of course not. Aerys and Rhaegar gave him a completely wrong, a distorted picture of the future of House Targaryen. He does not know the two princes and if he knew them, I am sure he would think and act differently."

"That may be," his grandmother said in a tone that did not allow for any contradiction. "He does not know my grandchildren and his opinion, wherever and however he formed it, has now led to the fact that we have to fight a war on two fronts, against him and Stannis and against our own family, instead of simply proclaiming Aegon as the King with the support of the entire realm. A war that we could very well lose. I know how deeply attached you are to Lord Arryn, Ned, but he's made his choice and that choice is to stand against us."

"We should still send letters to the Vale of Arryn," said Ser Raymun. "I know many of the lords and ladies of the Vale personally, and although they are firmly sworn to House Arryn, they surely do not appreciate rebellion against the crown. I'm sure we'll find some supporters."

"Who do you have in mind?" Oberyn asked, still glowering at Lord Stark.

"Gulltown and Heart's Home perhaps. They were loyal in the last war and could be so again."

"Old Lord Grafton was killed at the beginning of the last war, by Robert Baratheon himself. Do you really think his son will join our cause now?" Aegon asked.

"I think it's possible. Marq Grafton fought for his king and was killed by a traitor in return. I don't think that his son Gerold therefore has any particular sympathy for another rebellion against the crown."

"And Heart's Home?" Rhaenys asked, "The Corbrays started out as loyalists in the last war, but then changed sides."

"Then maybe they can change sides again," Aegon said. "This time in our favor. And let us not forget House Waynwood. Harold Hardyng is Lady Waynwood's ward and has the best claim to the Eyrie after Jon Arryn and his son. After the war he could become the new Lord of the Vale and nobody could object."

"What about the North and the Riverlands," said Ser Cletus.

"The North is standing firmly behind House Targaryen," Lord Stark said in a strong voice, bowing his head in Aegon's direction. But Ser Cletus did not seem convinced.

"And does the North know this too? As far as I am aware, your son marched into the Riverlands with an army and is now sitting his arse off in Riverrun. They will have received the same letter as we did. So if your son thinks the princes are dead, who knows how he'll react?"

"We should send a raven to Robb. He needs to know where we are, that we're all right and what to do. He will take our side, I have no doubt about that," Daeron said, receiving a grateful, warm smile from Lord Stark.

"We have a problem there," Oberyn said.

"What problem?" Aegon wanted to know.

"The ravens, these stupid critters, were taught to stay in castles and fortresses overnight so as not to fall prey to predators or poachers."

"And if we send ravens north from here," Aegon said, "they will have to fly through the Stormlands, then through the eastern part of the Reach, and will almost inevitably stop at King's Landing."

"Exactly. We might as well ask Viserys and Rhaegar to deliver our messages personally then."

"We have to try anyway," his grandmother decided. "We can send multiple ravens. One will hopefully come through. And if not, we won't tell Viserys any more than he already knows, namely that my grandsons are still alive. We will simply leave out our exact location. It will suffice to mention that we are in Dorne. He can probably count that on two fingers anyway."

Again they all agreed with nods and half-loud murmurs.

"I would like to try to make my way north," Ser Raymun then said. "To the Riverlands, to Darry, and to call the banners there in the name of my king. Ravens may not get through and the soldiers and knights there, who have not yet answered the call from Riverrun, will need a commander anyway."

"That seems like a good idea, but please take care, my lord," his grandmother said. "The way is long and dangerous."

"War is always dangerous, my Queen."

His grandmother briefly looked over at Aegon as if waiting for his approval. He smiled at her and nodded. Then she too nodded at Ser Raymun, who immediately got up, bowed to Aegon, and left the tent as there would be no time to lose.

"What about the Golden Company?" Oberyn then asked. "I have already seen them fight. They are ten thousand strong but are worth twice as much on the battlefield. At least."

"And how are we going to pay them?" Rhaenys asked.

"The treasuries under the Red Keep are flowing over with gold."

"Yes, but the Red Keep, or what's left of it, is held by Viserys," Daeron said. "Besides, the Golden Company has a contract with Myr, doesn't it? You yourself told me that. They're fighting in some ridiculous war for the Disputed Lands again. So if we want them to break a contract for the first time in their history, we have to reward them not princely but kingly, and with gold, not with the promise of gold should we win the war."

"Besides," Aegon said, "they have spent their entire history fighting against House Targaryen, not for it. Should they even consider supporting us, it would certainly not bring down the price."

"There are no more Blackfyres," Rhaenys then said. "They claim to be more than mere mercenaries, hungry for gold and riches. If that is so, and if their goal really is to come home to Westeros, then this would be their chance. Aegon is the only dragon left to bring them home. Surely it shouldn't matter if he's a red dragon or a black dragon then."

"Even if all this is true, the Golden Company is out of the question," Ser Barristan now said from the background. Aegon had almost forgotten that the old man was standing there, but that was probably also the task of the Kingsguard, he thought. "The Golden Company is too far away. First, one would have to take a ship to Essos, then find the Golden Company somewhere in the Disputed Lands, then negotiate with them, and then get them to break a valid contract for the first time in their history. And even if all this were to succeed, the entire Golden Company would have to march to the coast of Essos, find enough ships to cross the Narrow Sea and then get to Westeros. With a bit of luck, they would be here in half a year at the earliest, probably even later. By then the war could already be over."

They all remained silent for a moment. Ser Barristan was right. The Golden Company, even if they had somehow been able to find and reach them and convince them to come to Westeros without payment and fight for instead of against House Targaryen, was just too far away to be of any help to them here and now. Aegon looked around, looked into the faces of those present. They would receive support surely, from the southern Riverlands and no doubt from the Crownlands, where there would be enough Lords who would not follow Rhaegar's madness and Viserys' attempt to steal the crown and the throne. Loyal houses from the Reach would hopefully declare for them, and should they somehow manage to contact Riverrun, the North and the rest of the Riverlands would come to their aid. Right here and now, however, they did not have much in their hands. Finally, his grandmother started to speak again.

"All right, enough dancing around. Let's talk about the elephant in the room. Tywin Lannister. We all know that Tywin will not come to our aid out of the goodness of his heart and his loyalty to House Targaryen died long ago when my late husband refused his daughter's hand for Rhaegar. So what do we do?"

For a moment, everyone was silent, a few eyes wandering to Ser Jaime, who stood restlessly in the corner and looked as if he would like to sink into the ground.

"You must offer him something, Your Grace," Lady Brienne finally said, who for the first time seemed to dare to breathe at all.

"I am aware of that, Lady Brienne, thank you. The question is what do we offer him," his grandmother said. "The best way to bind allies more closely and gain new ones is through blood, of course, through a wedding. For most loyal lords, the prospect of marrying into the royal family is worth more than the promise of gold or titles. Tywin has three grandsons, but these are no more than children, and his second son, this deformed dwarf. What's his name?"

"Tyrion, my Queen," Ser Jaime said visibly uncomfortable. Aegon saw in his face that he wanted to say more, probably to defend his brother, but held back. His brother, Tyrion, was indeed a dwarf and no doubt deformed. But Ser Jaime obviously loved his brother and wanted to be loyal to him. Aegon appreciated his loyalty, even if he held back with regard to Aegon's grandmother. He was sure, however, that there were not many other people who could have spoken about his brother in his presence like this.

"Tyrion, right. Joanna died to bring him into this world. I remember that well. In any case, none of them are suitable for my beautiful girl. I would rather have both hands cut off than my Rhaenys marry a child or that gremlin."

"Let me go to him," Rhaenys said after a moment of silence. "I will convince him."

"And how do you want to do that?" Aegon asked. It was true that they needed Tywin Lannister. He was one of the most powerful men in the realm and whoever had him on his side had all but won the war. But everyone knew that he was a proud and relentless man who neither forgot nor forgave a slight. And there was hardly a man who had ever slighted him as much as their grandfather had. It would take a lot to get the Old Lion to support them.

"I'll bring him back his son," she said with a look at Ser Jaime. "I need a royal decree that Ser Jaime be freed from his oath in the Kingsguard. Tywin will get his heir back, the heir he always wanted."

"My Princess, I cannot-" Ser Jaime wanted to protest, but Rhaenys silenced him with a gesture of her hand without even looking at him.

"And if that is not enough, he will get the promise that Ser Jaime's first daughter will marry your first son. Tywin's daughter did not become queen, but then his granddaughter will."

Aegon could see Ser Jaime's jaw almost drop to the ground. The sight amused him. Rhaenys' idea was good. Lord Tywin wanted his son back. He had always wanted that and had, after Aerys had been dethroned and died, even asked their father what it would take to free Ser Jaime from his oath. Their father had never agreed to this, though. Aegon now could agree.

"Please trust me on this, brother. Please," Rhaenys said.

"I trust you, sister. Of course I do," he finally said.

"But my prince-" Ser Jaime began again. This time, a look and a raised eyebrow from Rhaenys was enough to silence him.

"I will prepare a formal letter for this. And another one to allow you to speak on my behalf."

"But why do you want to go yourself, my princess? Should Lord Tywin decides against your offer, it could be dangerous for you there," Ser Barristan asked.

"Lord Tywin is a proud man," Rhaella said. "It must be a member of the royal family who makes him this proposal. Anything else would be too little for him. And since I'm too old for such a journey and Aegon and Daeron are needed on the battlefield, my Rhaenys will take over. I am proud of you," she said, smiling widely at Rhaenys.

"But that also means something else," said Daeron and looked at Aegon. "It means we must crown my brother king."

"Indeed," their grandmother said. "We should do that first thing tomorrow. A small ceremony, nothing grand. But the protocol must be adhered to."

Aegon grew hot and cold at the thought. He looked around, looked at the approving faces of the men and women around him. He was really going to be king. He had always known that one day it would come to this but sitting here now and hearing that tomorrow would be that day still overwhelmed him. Soon he would no longer be Aegon or Prince Aegon, soon he would be King Aegon, Sixth of his Name. He looked at his brother, who beamed at him broadly and nodded encouragingly, then at Sansa on the other side. She clasped his arm a little tighter and smiled wonderfully at him, radiant as the sun.

Gods, she is perfect.

"I will leave for Sunspear in a few days as soon as the army is here and has secured the Boneway. There is no room for an old hag like me near a battlefield," his grandmother said, tearing him from his thoughts and the sight of Sansa's smile.

"I would gladly accompany you, my Queen," said Ser Bonifer, "but I must serve my new king."

"You have already done so," Aegon said, smiling at the man. "You are a good man, Ser Bonifer, and I thank you for everything. And if you want to continue serving me, accompany my grandmother on her journey to Sunspear and keep her safe."

His grandmother smiled at him, then at Ser Bonifer. She held out a hand to him, which he took immediately. The old knight then looked back at Aegon, bowed his head and Aegon could see that he understood. I may be a good man, but I'm too old for war, his face said. Still, Aegon saw the deep gratitude in the man's eyes.

"If I could ask you for something, my Queen," Lord Stark said, "please take my daughters with you to Sunspear. There they'll be safe and far enough away from the war."

"But of course, Ned."

"I don't want to go. I want to be by your side," Aegon heard Sansa whisper. He turned to her again.

"And I want you by my side, but your father's right. I'm going to war, and that's not the right place for my love. I need to know you'll be safe when I ride into battle. I promise you that I will come back to you," he whispered back and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"We will have a safe journey and your daughters will love Sunspear. And I'm sure you will too," said his grandmother.

"Me?" Lord Stark asked confusedly. "I'm going to war with my king."

"Ned, don't be silly," she said in laughing tone, looking at him almost pitifully. "With your leg, you can hardly hold yourself on a horse, let alone ride into battle."

"But I could still try to make my way north, reach Riverrun and bring the armies of the North to our cause."

"Ned, Ser Raymun is already on his way to the Riverlands. When he arrives in Darry, he will no doubt send a raven to Riverrun as well, which Viserys or Stannis will not be able to intercept. You are slow on the horse and even slower on foot and still need the help of a maester every day. All you can do is send ravens to Riverrun, of which hopefully some will arrive. And that you can do from Sunspear as well. You will accompany us."

Aegon saw that Lord Stark wanted to contradict, but he obviously knew his grandmother well enough not to even try. He seemed to think about it for a moment and then, finally, raised his hands resignedly, smiled weakly and nodded.

"Then it is time to prepare the ravens," Rhaella said. "We have some options for allies, and with the prospect of a royal marriage, there will certainly be lords coming to us in the hope of marrying into the royal family. Ned, there is one more thing."

"Whatever you wish, my Queen."

"I am sure of your loyalty, Ned. We want and need you and the North as allies."

"You have the North, my Queen."

"I know that I cannot ask you to marry off your children for our cause, but… I do so nevertheless. Arya is still young, but Sansa is old enough to marry."

A cold shiver ran down Aegon's spine. He looked at Sansa, saw the same shock on her face. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth half open and he saw tears streaming into her eyes.

"Grandmother-" Aegon wanted to begin, but she interrupted him directly.

"Aegon, I know what I'm doing."

"If you want me to be king-"

"No," she interrupted him again. "I do not want you to be king, I want you to become king!"

"It's all right," he heard Sansa's sweet voice from the side, so soft that it was barely heard. He looked at her, saw that she held back her tears with her last strength and forced herself to a weak smile. "I do what is necessary, Aegon. For you."

Then she turned her eyes away. His grandmother looked at Sansa, smiling warmly and heartily. Aegon wanted to jump up, grab Sansa and storm out of the tent. To where he did not know, he did not care, as long as it was far enough away from here. But he knew that Sansa was right, that his grandmother was right. There were things that had to be done, sacrifices that had to be made. It was war, and in war there was no place for love.

"As I said, some unions strengthen alliances, others forge new ones," his grandmother continued.

"Who will I marry?" Sansa asked in a low voice.

"Oh my dear, Aegon, of course."

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think of the ending? I wanted to make it a bit tense. Haha. :-D As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think.

The next chapter will most propably come on monday or tuesday and will again be a Sansa-chapter. Hope to see you all there.

Chapter 33: Sansa 5

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. As you can see, this is from Sansa's perspective again. We begin with Aegon's coronation, immediately followed by Sansa's and Aegon's wedding, as there is no time to lose but a war to fight. After the wedding, there will of course be the wedding night, so our two love birds finally don't have to hold back anymore. ;-)

The first night after the war council had passed in a blur. She had not slept much, had not been able to sleep due to excitement, and instead had sat with Rhaenys in her tent, drunk wine and talked excitedly. Most of the time Rhaenys had talked though. Sansa had hardly uttered a word. The day after she had walked back and forth through the camp, sitting on chairs or benches, drinking little and eating even less. Rhaella had wanted to proclaim Aegon king that very morning, but Prince Oberyn and a few others had convinced her that it was better to wait, get a septon and have him crowned in the eyes of the Seven directly, so as not to allow any doubt about the legitimacy and correctness of the coronation. So Prince Oberyn had ridden out to make preparations and get everything they would absolutely need. All she could remember of that day afterwards was that Aegon, her wonderful, beautiful Aegon, had been with her most of the time, holding her hand, stroking her hair, and kissing her, on her hair, on her cheeks and on the lips. Then the second night finally came and Sansa was so excited again that she could hardly sleep. Only after Rhaella had given her two cups of Dornish strong wine did her eyes finally close.

The morning after, she woke up early. Her mind was buzzing with thoughts. Today was the day, the big day. Shortly after noon, Aegon would receive his crown and all those present would swear their fealty to him. King Aegon, Sixth of his Name. They would talk and drink a little and then... after that... he would take her as his wife. The thought was still incredible. She loved her Aegon with all her heart and there was nothing she wanted more than to become his wife. But now, so close to this actually happening, the thought still frightened her. It was nothing that could make her not want it anymore. She was further away than ever from such thoughts. But still she felt frightened. Or was it just the excitement? Everything rumbled inside her as if she had swallowed butterflies.

Rhaenys entered her tent with two dresses under her arm. They had not been able to take any clothes with them when they fled – especially no clothes worthy of the coronation of a new king and his subsequent wedding – but fortunately, the Lords Tarth and Wyl had each provided them with some dresses and good fabrics from which Rhaella, Rhaenys and she, together with a few maids, had been able to sew some dresses for them. Now she offered her a light blue dress made of good but plain linen. It had no embroidery and no embellishments. Sansa still thought it looked splendid.

"You will look wonderful in it," Rhaenys said. "Aegon will love to see you in it."

Rhaenys helped her put it on and closed the laces on her back. It didn't fit perfectly, but well enough. She would wear it at Aegon's coronation. She would have preferred to wear the light yellow silk dress she had received from Lord Wyl and which Rhaella had changed for her. But she had worn it for the last two days already and would not be able to wear it for a third day. Especially not on such an occasion. Then came the really exciting part. Rhaenys helped her to take off the blue linen dress again, presented her with the second dress and for a brief moment Sansa could do nothing but stand still and look at it.

My wedding dress, she thought, and had to fight not to burst into tears immediately.

They had only had a little real silk available, but somehow Rhaenys had managed to get enough for this beautiful dress. The dress was in light cream color, interspersed with bands of clear white and wonderful pearl trimmings at the neckline.

"Come, try it on," Rhaenys said with an excited smile, but Sansa needed a few more moments before she could breathe and move again, let alone try on a dress. When she finally did, Rhaenys helped her in and fastened the laces on her back once more. They stood together in front of the big mirror, Rhaenys holding up her hair, and now Sansa could no longer hold herself back. She burst into tears, stood in front of the mirror, crying and sobbing, and through tearful eyes, looked at the woman who was to be seen in it, the woman who would soon become a wife. The tent flap was opened and Rhaella entered. She saw Sansa and Rhaenys standing there and, without saying a word, came to Sansa, took her in her arms and kissed her on the cheek.

"You look absolutely ravishing," she said after a moment and smiled at her as warm and wonderful as only she could. "Just gorgeous."

Sansa could not answer, could not respond anything. Instead, she simply embraced the two women who would soon be her family and enjoyed the moment.

"Look, I have something for you," Rhaella finally said, breaking away from Sansa's embrace. Only now did Sansa notice that Rhaella was holding a bag in her hand. She opened it and pulled out a large piece of cloth. At first Sansa didn't know what to do with it, but when Rhaella unfolded it, she saw it immediately.

My maidencloak.

The cloak was sewn from plain linen, gray with a white wolf's head on it. Of course, she had also not taken a fitting maidencloak with her on her escape from King's Landing. But to let her marry without one had been out of the question for Rhaella. So right after the end of the war council, she had the soldiers come to her who were responsible for sewing and mending the banners after a battle and had ordered them to sew a maidencloak for Sansa. There had not been enough suitable white fabric, so the colors had to be reversed. There had not been enough time for the form of a complete direwolf, so they had limited themselves to the head and had simply made it a bit bigger. The seams were so skewed and crooked that even Arya would probably have been able to do it better. It was absolutely perfect. She loved it and would keep it in honor for the rest of her life.

She put on her blue dress again and left the tent with Rhaenys and Rhaella. Aegon was nowhere to be seen, but that was not surprising. In less than an hour, he would be crowned the new, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Oberyn had somehow managed to get a septon from a small village nearby, hidden deep in the Dornish Mountains. He had only arrived back shortly before the first light of the morning, completely exhausted but indeed with a septon on a second horse.

There had also been a blacksmith in the village, as she had learned, and the man had been surprised to suddenly have to forge a crown instead of the usual horseshoes and nails. He had done it, however, and so Prince Oberyn had returned with a septon and a crown. She had already been able to take a quick look at the crown in the morning. It was forged from plain iron, little more than a simple ring, on the front of which the blacksmith had forged three nails that looked like the imitation of the teeth of a real crown.

A little outside the camp, there was a massive tree, almost as large as the Weirwood Tree in Winterfell but so long dead already that it had been impossible for Sansa to say what kind of tree it even was, in front of which first the coronation and then their wedding would be performed by the septon. He was a young and tall man, thin as a spear, with Dornish dark skin and a mop of black hair on his head. The septon looked as if he had slept even less than Sansa since his arrival and walked back and forth like a startled chicken. Being septon in a small village in the middle of the Dornish Mountains, he probably didn't expect to ever be allowed to crown a king and have him married afterwards.

Rhaenys and Rhaella already wanted to take their places, but Sansa was too excited to just sit down now. She would come to them right away, she assured them and looked around. At the edge of the camp, she discovered her father sitting on a small chair, his injured leg stretched far from him, clutching a silver cup. She went over to him and stood beside him, looking out into the vastness of the mountains as he did.

"How are you?" she asked him. Only now did he seem to notice her. He looked at her then and she could see how the feelings inside of him wrestled with each other.

"I am fine. My daughter will marry soon and you will become my new queen. How is this even possible? You have only just been born. I remember exactly how I held you in my arms after your birth, so small and chubby and sweet. I'm happy for you, my daughter, but I'm a little overwhelmed."

She believed that immediately. When Rhaella had decided on her marriage at the end of the war council, her father had jumped up and immediately dropped to one knee, as good as it had been possible with his injured leg. "You honor me," he had said to Rhaella, his head lowered so far that he could not possibly have seen more than her feet. It had taken the combined strength of the Sers Arthur and Barristan to get him back on his feet because of his leg, only for him to sink down on one knee before Aegon again.

"I know how you feel," she said and had to laugh. Her father laughed with her and for a while they just looked out into the vastness of the mountains.

"I am proud of you," he finally said.

"Thank you, father. I only wish... I only wish mother was here and Robb and Bran and Rickon."

"I know. Me too," he said after a short pause. "If you don't want to do this, you don't have to. I will support Prince Aegon even without you marrying him. So if you're not ready..."

"I am and I want to. More than anything else in the world," she said and was surprised how he could think anything else.

"Very well, I just wanted to be sure."

After that she helped him up on his feet and accompanied him to their seats. Since she would soon be part of the royal family, for her, her father and Arya seats had been reserved in the first row, the only row that consisted of real chairs and not only of wooden blocks, stones, benches or bales of straw. Rhaella and Rhaenys already sat there, waiting for the coronation to begin. The tree had been decorated with woven tendrils and Dornish wild flowers, making it almost look alive again. To the right and left of it, great Targaryen banners blew in the wind, which Prince Oberyn had brought with him from Sunspear when he marched north with his five hundred spears.

Their father had somehow made Arya to wear a real dress to this special occasion in contrast to the plain brown linen and leather clothes she had been wearing the days before. She sat surprisingly calm on her chair, apparently a little overwhelmed by the situation as well. Someone, probably one of the handmaids, had even braided her hair. She looked like a real lady and Sansa couldn't help but notice how grown up her little sister had become. It wouldn't be long before her father would find a husband for her as well – not that he had found Aegon for her but had rather thankfully agreed to Rhaella's decision – but if there was one thing she couldn't imagine Arya doing even with the best will in the world, it was being the wife of some lord, running the household of some castle. Arya was wild and strong, a true wolf, more like a knight than a lady. Whoever would take her as wife already had Sansa's fullest sympathy. She had to smile at the thought. She looked around and discovered Lady Brienne sitting a few rows behind her, also squeezed into a dress and with braided hair.

It would have been better to let her wear her armor, she thought pitifully. As far as she had come to know her up to now, Lady Brienne was brave and honest, faithful and strong, but it was impossible to call her beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. She was probably the most unsightly woman Sansa had ever laid eyes on and she felt deeply sorry for her. Was there a worse fate in the world than being an ugly woman? Sansa did not know.

It did not take long until a herald – obviously one of the soldiers who had been ordered to make the announcements in as loud a voice as possible – proclaimed the beginning of the coronation. Everyone rose from their seats and waited patiently while Aegon, escorted by his brother and his three knights of the Kingsguard, walked towards the massive tree. He wore a deep black doublet of shiny fabric with an elaborately embroidered red dragon on the chest, blood red trousers and high, black boots of good leather. A sword hung at his side in a plain black scabbard with a dark leather handle and a pommel in the shape of a hammer head. Sansa was sure that no crown in the world could make him look more like a king.

"His Royal Grace, Aegon of House Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone", the voice of the herald boomed over them.

Aegon took the last few steps towards the tree, Daeron and the knights of the Kingsguard following him and taking positions to his left and right. On the left stood Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime, on the right Daeron and Ser Barristan. Aegon glanced briefly over the crowd, all but a few of them soldiers in the colors of Dorne, and nodded at them with a serious expression. All sat down after that. Aegon looked at her for a moment and smiled. She returned his smile and had to pull herself together not to jump up and run to him. Then he turned his back to her and knelt down.

The septon now appeared from the background, dressed in a simple white robe, the only color being the crystal dangling from his neck. He raised his hands, and the faint murmur of the crowd, which could just have been heard in the background, faded away.

"The gods gave us the world to make it subject to us. But just as man makes the world subject to himself, so is he himself only himself a subject of the gods. This is the eternal order of the world, that there are rulers and those who are ruled. And as much as we trust in the grace of the Seven, we also trust in the grace of our King, that with the help and the blessing of the Seven he may guide us and lead us and rule us. A new King shall be given to this Kingdom and its people today, who shall lead and protect this Kingdom with the grace and the love of the Seven in their spirit."

Then he turned around, took the clay jar with the seven holy oils from a small table some feet at the side and stood before Aegon. In his right hand, he held a short staff with some small feathers at the end, which he dipped into the first oil.

"Aegon of House Targaryen, I ask you, do you swear in the name of the Father to uphold right and justice?"

"I swear it."

He sprinkled the first oil on his head and dipped the staff into the second oil.

"In the name of the Mother, do you swear to be merciful?"

"I swear it."

The second oil followed.

"In the name of the Warrior, do you swear to show strength to protect this realm and those who cannot protect themselves?

"I swear it."

The third oil wet his head and the staff went into the jar with the fourth oil.

"In the name of the Smith, do you swear to unite this realm that it may heal and grow?"

"I swear it."

Another oil.

"In the name of the Maiden, do you swear to honor the women of this realm and to protect them from all harm?"

"I swear it."

Another oil.

"In the name of the Crone, do you swear to rule with wisdom and ask for the guidance of the Seven if need be?"

"I swear it."

Another oil.

"And in the name of the Stranger, do you swear to bring forth death to all those who deserve it and to defend and protect those from it who do not?"

"I swear it."

The seventh, the last oil dripped on his forehead. The septon turned again, put the jar down and took the dark, iron crown from the table. He stood before Aegon again, holding the crown over his head for a moment before putting it on.

"Then, in the name of the Seven, I hereby crown you as king. Arise."

And so he did.

"All witness our new king," the septon continued, "All hail Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign."

"Long may he reign," repeated the crowd, rose and bowed before their new king.

Prince Daeron was the first to take a step towards Aegon, kneel down before his brother and swear his everlasting fealty to him. Aegon accepted his vow, then pulled his brother back on his feet and firmly embraced him. Rhaella and Rhaenys followed, curtsied before him and swore their fealty to him. He embraced them as well, letting both of them kiss him on the cheeks. Then the knights of the Kingsguard followed, Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime, who swore loyalty to him and then repeated the vow of the Kingsguard to serve him as sword and shield. Sansa found it amusing for a moment to think that Ser Jaime, whose release from the Kingsguard had already been decided, was now repeating his vow again. But had he not done so, it would probably have looked strange. She couldn't think about it for long, however, as she now noticed her father fighting his way to his feet next to her, leading both her and Arya with him to step in front of their new king together. Prince Oberyn and Prince Quentyn just rose after swearing their fealty and stepped aside. Then it was their turn already.

Her father painstakingly knelt down again and swore his loyalty and allegiance to his new king. Sansa curtsied deeply, repeating her father's vow. Arya did the same and performed well, as she remarked contentedly. As she was just about to step aside, Aegon reached for her hand. He led it to his mouth and breathed the softest of kisses on it. His lips formed a silent "I love you" before he let go of her. Immediately, she felt the blush rise to her cheeks.

Their father led them to the side, where a broadly grinning Prince Oberyn pressed each of them a cup of Dornish strong wine into their hands. Her father accepted with thanks, while Sansa decided against it. Today another ceremony would take place – mine and Aegon's ceremony, she thought, and immediately felt the butterflies flitting through her belly again – and for that she wanted to stay clear in her mind. Her father took the cup out of Arya's hand, who apparently had no such concerns and had already been about to bring the cup to her lips. Her weak protest was of no use, however, as was Prince Oberyn's objection that this was such a special day that one could make an exception.

She looked over to her Aegon – her beautiful king, her soon-to-be husband – who still accepted vows of fealty. Ser Bonifer Hasty was struggling to get back on his feet and she saw Lady Brienne immediately drop to one knee before him.

She is wearing a dress. She should have curtsied, Sansa thought with a smile. The poor thing probably doesn't even know how to do that properly.

Apparently, their five hundred soldiers had also been promised, no doubt by Prince Oberyn, that they would all be allowed to personally swear allegiance to Aegon if they wanted to, and since only very few of them would ever get the chance to attend a royal coronation and kneel before the newly proclaimed king again, it seemed as if each of the soldiers would accept the offer. It took indeed nearly two hours before Aegon had accepted all the vows of fealty. Afterwards there was only a small meal for the nobles present, during which she could not sit next to Aegon unfortunately, since for reasons of protocol the seats at his side were reserved for members of the royal family. That she was not. Not yet. Typical for Dorne as she had learned, a thick soup of green peppers, various kinds of fish and oranges was served, followed by roasted snakes in a sauce of mushrooms and Dornish Red, which she did not eat though. After that it was already late and she retreated to her tent.

She bathed herself in a big tub that had already been prepared for her, washed her hair and combed it until Arya, Rhaella and Rhaenys entered her tent. They brought her the new small clothes she was to wear under her dress and she put them on. Exquisite silk and finest linen, so thin that you could see through it. She had no proper shoes, only light sandals made of fabric and a thin leather sole, but she hoped that no one would pay attention to them. Rhaella even creamed her feet and legs with some boiled goat's milk to make them look even more soft and silky before she put the sandals on, just in case someone would indeed pay attention to it, while Rhaenys did the same with her hands and arms. Arya sat there uninvolved at first, until she finally slipped a "you look pretty good", probably the nicest compliment Arya had ever given her. After that the spell of her inactivity was broken and she agreed to comb Sansa's hair a little bit more so that Rhaenys could braid it for her afterwards.

Sansa had thought about wearing her hair open because she knew how much Aegon loved it, but Rhaella had spoken out against it and Sansa knew by now that Rhaella was better not to be opposed. This would be her wedding, her wedding to a king, and for that she did not need to look seductive but as royal and majestic as possible. Rhaenys then began to braid her hair in an opulent Dornish style. Countless small braids were plaited, tied into larger braids that held the rest of her hair in a thick, soft bun at the back of her head. Thin silver chains set with pearls and small amethysts were braided into this bun, so that her hair would shine and glow in the evening sun.

When her hair was done, Rhaella eventually stood up, kissed Sansa on the forehead and went outside with the puzzled looking Arya, leaving only Rhaenys with her in the tent, which she threw a clear wink as she left. Sansa got up and wanted to go to her wedding dress that was waiting for her on the bed, but Rhanys held her back.

"What-" she was about to ask when Rhaenys signaled her to be silent. She reached into a small bag and took out a vial. When Rhaenys opened the vial, Sansa immediately recognized it as Lyseni Water, as fragrant as it was precious. Rhaenys put a tiny drop of it on a white cloth and before Sansa knew what was happening to her, Rhaenys pulled her small clothes down a little and gently dabbed the cloth over the lips between her thighs. Sansa's face turned fiery red with shame.

"I learned of this from my cousin Arianne. It's my wedding gift," she purred. Then she pulled her small clothes back up, put the vial away and walked over to the bed. "Now it's time for the dress, my beauty."

Sansa was completely beside herself when she turned around and walked over to her bed as well. She wanted to say something, ask something, anything, but no words left her mouth, so much the shame still closed her throat. Rhaenys then wordlessly helped her to put on her wedding dress and closed the lacings on her back. She then pushed her in front of the mirror again and together they looked at the result.

"You're absolutely perfect, don't you think?"

Sansa could only nod weakly. Her face was still reddened from the rest of the shame that only slowly faded away. The sight of her in that dress, so beautiful and ready to be taken to wife, finally stole the last strength from her to say even a single word.

"As soon as you are standing next to my dear brother, you better find your voice again. Otherwise the wedding won't happen," Rhaenys said laughing and finally Sansa recovered, laughing with her.

"I think I'm going to be okay. I was just a little surprised by your… wedding gift."

"It's for both of you. Trust me," she said, winking at her through the mirror. Again Sansa felt the blush rise to her cheeks again. They heard how outside the voices and the noise fell silent. This could only mean that the king had arrived and was now waiting for his bride. They took a few more moments, breathing deeply together, then Rhaenys left the tent to go to her place and tell her father to come and pick her up.

For a few moments Sansa was alone in the tent and did not know what to do. She was so excited that she would have loved to burst into tears, but at the same time so happy that she would have loved to cheer with joy. She looked around for a moment in her tent, which would soon no longer be her tent. They would spend their wedding night in one of the rooms in the remaining part of the keep of Vulture's Roost, which had been specially prepared for this purpose. And after that... after that, they would be husband and wife and would spend every night together, in their tent and in their bed and in their home, at least as soon as Aegon would return from the war. She knew it was dangerous and his chances were still not very good, but that would change as soon as the loyal lords of the realm would gather around him and come to his aid. Then he would win, ascend the Iron Throne and take her to King's Landing with him, where she would never again be a prisoner, where she would never again have to fear anything or anyone. There she would be a queen, the queen, his queen.

She had dreamed about what her wedding would be like since she was a little girl, had dreamed about a grand sept with musicians and rich dresses, noble ladies and knights and with her mother at her side. This wedding would be different. Without a sept, without ladies and knights, without rich dresses and even without her mother and her brothers at her side. She knew that her Lord Father and Prince Oberyn – would she soon call him uncle Oberyn? – had spoken with the septon to weave in some of the customs of a northern wedding into it today. She wondered what that would be like. But she would find out soon enough. It would be a completely different wedding than she had ever imagined or dreamed of. And she could not be happier about it.

The flap of the tent was opened and her father entered. For several heartbeats he just stood there and looked at her from top to bottom. He smiled at her, half sad and half happy.

"I am so happy for you, but I am still going to lose my daughter today."

"You won't lose me, father. I am and will always be your daughter, but you will gain a son today," she said and fell around his neck. After a moment he freed himself from her embrace, kissed her on the cheek and went over to her bed. He took her maidencloak from the bed and placed it around her shoulders. She fastened the clasp with shaky fingers. Her father offered her his arm then and she took it. Wordlessly they left the tent, walking the short distance to the end of the rows of seats. She noticed how difficult it was for him to walk next to her, as for once he had to lean on his crutch with his other arm. The crowd rose and she walked up the aisle at her father's side towards the old dead tree next to the entrance to the keep of Vulture's Roost, in front of which their wedding would take place. Halfway along the way, she dared to raise her eyes for the first time. Aegon stood there, waiting for her all dressed in noble black, the most wonderful smile on his ravishing face.

They reached the tree and Sansa stood beside Aegon, looked at him and returned his beautiful smile. "I love you," his lips formed again in silence and hers answered with "I love you too". The septon stepped forward and began to chant one of the holy songs. The crowd joined in as Sansa and Aegon just stood there and looked wordlessly into each other's eyes. A prayer then followed that the Seven might bless and strengthen this union. Still they just stood there and looked at each other, smiling widely. The ceremony passed as in a dream. There were more prayers more singing, candles and fires burning all around them, a hundred dancing lights that the soft tears of joy in her eyes transformed into a thousand.

"Who gives the bride?" the septon finally asked.

"I, Eddard of House Stark, give the bride," her father said.

"And who shall take the bride?"

"I shall take the bride, Aegon of House Targaryen," said her beloved.

She felt her father step behind her and take the maidencloak off her shoulders. Then Aegon took a step towards her. The bride's cloak he held was huge and heavy, sewn from one of the large Targaryen banners that flew all over the camp, night-black with an elaborately embroidered red dragon on it. Her betrothed stood behind her then, tall and strong, and swept the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kissed her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. Never in her life had she felt so sheltered, so calm.

Aegon stood beside her again, looked at her and smiled as sweet as honey.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," her king replied in an almost hoarse voice, "and take you for my lady and wife."

He leaned forward then, clasping her face with his soft, warm hands, his fingers tracing the shape of her cheekbones, and their lips touched in an intense kiss.

He is so beautiful, Sansa thought when his face was close to hers. He is even more beautiful than I ever thought possible for a man.

The septon then raised his crystal high in the in dwindling sunlight, so the rainbow light fell down upon them.

"Here in the sight of gods and men," he said, "I do solemnly proclaim Aegon of House Targaryen and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

The crowd rose, clapping and cheering as they walked down the aisle back to the large table where their wedding feast would now take place. There were only five courses of Dornish food because they did not have enough supplies in their camp to prepare a real feast. However, she had made sure that there would be no more snakes or lizards served. There was soup made of mushrooms and nuts, roasted pheasants in a light sauce with oranges, a thick stew of fish and shells, and a whole goat stuffed with cheese and hot peppers roasted over the fire. Sansa almost lost her eyes when a plate of lemon cakes was placed in front of her at the end. Aegon beamed at her all over her face as she pressed kisses over kisses on his mouth in thanks.

A few of the soldiers played a song on some old lyres, two small drums and a violin, to which they both then opened the wedding dance. The song was way too fast for a wedding, and she was sure to hear some of the soldiers singing rather obscene rhymes in the background, but she loved it. Aegon and she circled each other, tightly embracing each other in the turns, only to move away from each other and land in each other' arms again. Each time he pressed her to him, he kissed her on the lips, accompanied by the cheers of the men around them, and each time the redness shot into her cheeks.

Other couples formed, danced around them to similarly fast and rather unsuitable music. Rhaenys danced first with Daeron, then with Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan. Rhaella first tried it with her father, but his leg would not allow a real dance, so she danced with Ser Arthur Dayne instead, and the rest of the evening with Ser Bonifer. Prince Oberyn persuaded Arya to have a short dance with him, which turned out to be more of a wild foolery. Afterwards he tried his luck with Lady Brienne, who, like the other men who had tried before him, scared him away with a grim look. Sansa danced and danced with Aegon, in between only interrupted by one dance with Daeron and one with Oberyn.

She noticed how the soldiers around them got drunker and drunker, just like the highborn guests, and finally she heard the first calls for the bedding. She knew that there would be no real bedding ceremony. Aegon had made sure of that. Rhaenys had told her that Aegon was convinced that no man could resist the urge to steal his beautiful bride away once he would see her bare before him and so he had forbidden it. Still, it was time now.

After the song they had just danced to had ended, she looked at him, looked into his eyes and smiled as she uncertainly bit her lower lip. They did not need words to communicate. Aegon offered her his arm, which she thankfully took. Immediately an aisle was formed between the guests and Aegon led her through it. She looked into the happy, laughing and wine reddened faces of Rhaenys and Daeron, Rhaella and Ser Bonifer. The sun had set by now and a chain of torches lit their way into the old keep. The laughter, shouts and music became softer and softer as they approached their bedroom, where their wedding night would now take place and where she would gift her maidenhood to her beloved. The butterflies were back, her whole body felt like little animals were crawling under her skin, but at the same time she felt as safe and calm as never before in her life. There was nothing she wanted more now than to be here with Aegon, her husband.

She stood in the middle of the room and looked around for a moment. The room was dark, but some candles were burning on a small table next to the massive bed, completely covered with blankets and furs and pillows. There was a small shelf with some old books in it and a large window, which had been hung with blankets and furs as well. The room smelled of lavender and lemons. Aegon closed the door behind them, came to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He kissed her then, on her hair first kissing his way down to her neck and shoulders.

She turned around, wrapping her own arms around his neck now, running her hands through his silken white hair. She kissed him then, opened her mouth for him and let his tongue enter. She did not know for how long they just stood there wildly and passionately kissing before she let go of him and took a step away from him. She turned around again and presented her back to him, offering him the lacings of her dress. He understood and began to open them, carefully and gently with warm hands.

When the lacings were opened, she slid the dress over her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Without saying a word or waiting for Aegon, she let her small clothes slide to the ground as well, took a step forward to step out of the pile of her dress and turned around to him again, naked as on the day of her birth. She then looked at him, her head slightly lowered and saw how he examined her from top to bottom, his mouth half open. He now began to undress as well. His body was strong and muscular, but not bulky. He was athletic, with muscles that could only be obtained from years of hard work with the sword. He pulled his shirt over his head, the boots off his feet and began to open the fasteners of his trousers. Even before he had taken off his pants, she saw the big bulge that had formed inside.

He is beautiful, she thought. Absolutely perfect.

When he had finally removed his trousers, she saw his manhood in front of her for the first time. He was already hard for her, long and stiff and thick and as beautiful as the rest of him. He came closer to her then and her mouth went dry. He took her face in his hands again and kissed her.

"You are so incredibly beautiful. You can't possibly be real. Surely this is just a dream," he whispered. She came a little closer to him, clasped his strong upper body and pressed herself against him as she passionately returned his kiss.

"I am not a dream, my love. I am yours."

She pulled him to the bed and sat down on it. She swung her legs on the bed and signaled him to follow her. He did as he was told and came to her on the bed, lay down beside her and bent over her. Again he kissed her. She searched for his hand, found it and led it to one of her breasts. Her nipples were hard and his first touch was a sensation of its own. He grabbed her, kneading her breast as he kissed her further and further. She moaned into his mouth and he returned her moans. His hand then let go of her breast and went down, over her belly and between her thighs. She flinched at the touch, but let it happen.

"I am ready for you," she said between two kisses.

"I can feel that," he said with a grin and brought his hand back up, his fingers soaking wet.

She felt how she turned bright red with shame, but he simply kissed this feeling away. His kisses went deeper, away from her mouth and down her neck, over her shoulders and along her collarbones. He grabbed one of her legs and swung it across his back, crouched between her thighs, her legs now spread wide for him. Her heart pounded in her chest as if it was about to jump out. He began to kiss her body again, wandering further to her breasts. He now kneaded them with both hands, kissed them and sucked on her nipples. She moaned with ecstasy. His kisses wandered further down, over her belly. His tongue played lovingly in her navel for a short time as he passed it with his mouth.

She laid her head to one side, pressing her face into her pillow in shame. When she felt his kisses stop, she looked down at him, along her naked body. He crouched between her thighs, his hard manhood hard and raised high and wet at its beautiful head. Her legs were spread wide, ready to let him enter. He squatted there and looked between them as if he could not believe what he saw before him. Then he looked into her eyes and a predatory grin spread across his beautiful features. He slid a little deeper and bent over.

A groan and a short scream escaped her and her body was flooded with a wave of pure ecstasy as he disappeared with his face between her legs and passionately began to kiss the lips between her thighs and caress her little pearl with his tongue. She grasped his head with her hands and pressed it into her wetness. The sensation of his lips and his tongue was indescribable. She breathed heavily now and her body began to stiffen, her moans and screams grew louder and louder until finally another wave went through her body, making her tremble and shake from head to toe.

He came up to her again, his mouth completely wet from her juices. He smiled at her as his face hung over hers. She could still do nothing but breathe heavily.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she said. "Please make me your wife, Aegon. Please."

He kissed her again and she tasted herself on his lips. For a moment, she thought that she would have to thank Rhaenys later for her wedding gift, although she doubted that Aegon would have been less enthusiastic without the Lyseni Water on her lower lips. Any thought of the world outside this room, however, quickly disappeared as she felt Aegon's hard manhood touching her thighs. She twined her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist then, bringing him into position. He leaned down again towards her, kissed her on the mouth and along her neck, alternating between moans and the whisper of her name, and she felt his hardness pressing against her entrance.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

"I know, my love," she said. She knew the pain was inevitable. "I am ready for you."

She whimpered in anticipation of his entering, feeling their lips meet again in a gentle kiss. She felt her legs relax and her feet began to rub his butt and legs, gently pressing him against her. His hands then grasped her hips, held them in position and with one powerful thrust, took her maidenhead. The pain was sharp. He mouth fell open for a short cry and to gasp for air. Aegon kissed her again, muttering apologies and gently caressing along her body to calm her down. The pain quickly became nothing more than a faint memory. She grabbed his head then, pulled it towards her face and kissed him to assure him that everything was fine, wonderful and perfect.

He began to move, carefully and gently, as if he feared he might break her. The sensation overwhelmed her to feel his strong body on top of her and deep inside of her. He moved back and forth, in and out and in again, accompanied by passionate kisses, only interrupted by their heavy breathing, deep moans and muttered vows of love. His movements were getting faster now. "Aegon, oh, Aegon," she whispered again and again. The pleasure almost seemed too much and she swallowed a short sob as he pushed hard into her and found that very special place within her. Sansa arched her back as he completely filled her out again and again and the sensation rose inside of her. She felt herself tightening around his manhood, felt the waves of shaking and trembling rush through her body again as his thrusts became erratic, until finally he spent his seed in her, her name on his lips.

He rolled off her, grabbed her waist and pulled her on top of him. She snuggled up against his body, kissed his chest and then laid her head down on it. They both breathed heavily, his hand stroking her naked back up and down and she felt the pain from the fierceness of his love between her thighs. She was wet and sticky between her legs, felt sore. Never before in her life had she felt better.

I am his and he is mine, now and forever, was the last thing she thought before she sank into sleep.

She awoke the next morning from the feeling of Aegon's hands and lips on her breasts. He kneaded them, licked and sucked them. A short moan was the first thing she brought out and it showed Aegon that she had awakened. She looked at him, looked into the eyes of her wonderful husband and smiled. He looked at her, smiling at her in that special way that she knew she would never be able to refuse him anything.

"Good morning, my queen," he said. He continued to suck on her nipples and immediately she felt the wetness return between her thighs. She spread her legs for him, looked down at him and immediately saw his hard manhood again. He brought himself into position, pushed her legs a bit further apart and with a hard thrust quickly pressed into her.

This time there was no pain, just pure ecstasy as she felt her husband inside her, filling her completely. A downright feeling of emptiness spread through her every time he retreated, but with every thrust that made her feel him inside her again, she sent a little prayer to thank the Seven for this perfect man on top of and inside of her.  He immediately found that special place within her again and so it did not take long until her whole body was shaking and trembling with pure pleasure again. After he had spent his seed inside of her again, they lay on the bed for a while, cuddled to one another. She let him caress her back and the roundness of her bottom with one hand while petting her breasts with the other, kissing her hair and swearing his love to her again and again.

About an hour later, a servant brought them their breakfast, telling them through the thick wood of the door that he had put it in front of the door for later, once they were ready and willing to break their fast. When she heard servant's voice, she was down on all fours, Aegon pulling her hair like the reins of a young mare that needed to be broken in, forcefully thrusting into her from behind.

After breakfast – warm bread and soft goat cheese, grapes, nuts and sweet wine – Sansa took one of the books from the shelf and flicked through it a little. It was a book about the history of Dorne, and since the Dornish were now her family as well, it certainly couldn't hurt to know more about them. She lay on her stomach on the bed and read from it to Aegon who sat behind her, still as naked as she was, gently massaging her thighs while he was passionately sucking her toes. She hoped that he was already hard for her again, because she was sure that he could already see and smell the abundant juices in her crotch again. As it soon turned out, she was right, because it did not take long before he let go of her feet – which she regretted quite a bit, as she noted – climbed over her and spread her buttocks with one hand in order to be able to enter her from behind again.

Then they slept a little more, again closely cuddled together, with her head on his chest. She dreamed of her wedding and of Aegon, her Aegon, her king, her husband. She dreamt of standing completely naked in front of the old tree. But somehow it was not unpleasant for her, because her Aegon was naked as well. In her dream he took her right in front of the old, dead tree, wild and reckless. Then she was in Winterfell, in front of the Weirwood Tree. He took her there as well. Then in her old room, then in the Red Keep. She dreamed of all the places she had ever been. Each time her Aegon was with her, was inside of her. At some point the dreams changed and it was no longer he who took her, but she who took him, riding him like a Dornish steed, squatting on his hip and jerking her own hips back and forth ecstatically.

It was already evening when she woke up again. Aegon slept deep and soundly beneath her. Soon, before the first light of the next day, they would have to leave their room and head back to Wyl with their soldiers and the thought of leaving Aegon's site made her sad for a moment. She wished she could just spend the rest of her life in that room with him. She knew that this was of course not possible. Aegon had to ride to war, had to win his crown and his realm. After the war however, he would take her to King's Landing as his queen and his wife and she would never have to leave his side again. The thought made her incredibly happy again.

For a while, she just looked at him, at his naked, perfect form and the marks her fingernails have left on his skin. She almost regretted that no one would be able to see these marks under his clothes, that not everyone would immediately know that she had claimed this man for herself entirely. Immediately felt the heat pooling in her body again. Had there ever been a more beautiful man? Sansa could not imagine it. She looked at his strong arms and the muscles of his chest and abdomen. She crouched down beside him, gently caressing his body, along his hips and down his strong legs. She looked at his manhood, no longer hard and big but still perfect and beautiful. She looked into his face, but her lover was still asleep. So she grasped his manhood and softly began to stroke it, up and down and up and down. It only lasted a moment before it grew bigger and harder in her hand.

Her lover woke up with a deep moan and looked at her. Now it was her turn to grin like a predator. She bent over, stroking him further and further. She opened her mouth and took it in, as deep as she could. She tasted his seed from before and her own wetness on him. She sucked on it passionately, accompanied by his ever louder moans. "Oh, Sansa" and "I love you so much" was all he could say over and over again. She had power over him now, she realized. Absolute power. And she decided that, given how much she loved his taste in her mouth, she would want that power more often in the future.

She felt that he was nearing the end, so she stopped sucking him off, ignoring the slightly disappointed look on his face. She knew it would only have been fair to let him finish in her mouth just as he had made her shake and tremble with his mouth and his tongue before, but that was something she wanted to save for another time. Now, she wanted to mount him, ride him like he had ridden her before. So she straddled on his hips, brought his hardness into position with one hand and let herself sink down on it. She was so wet again that, apart from the tightness of her entrance, he slid inside of her without much resistance.

She began to move her hips back and forth and she had the feeling that now he was even deeper inside of her than the times before. He had already been closer than she had expected and so it was only a short time before she felt the pulsation of his manhood inside her, accompanied by a deep groan. She kept sitting on him, kept him inside of her, so that his seed would remain in her.

I want to give you a child, my love. After this night and this day, I should at least be delivering twins, she thought amused. She bent down to him and kissed him again. They spent the rest of the night cuddled up together, kissing and caressing each other until they fell asleep.

The next morning, just before sunrise, they finally left their room for the first time again and never in her life had Sansa been so happy and so completely satisfied. With a regally restrained smile, she walked between the men and women of the camp, holding on to Aegon's arm, to the arm of their king. She noticed the looks of the men around her, heard the giggles and the whispers of the women about what Aegon might have done to her during the entire time in there. The old Sansa would have felt nothing but utter shame under the eyes of these men and women. But this Sansa no longer existed. She was a woman now, a married woman, a queen, the queen.

She looked over to her husband walking beside her, looked in his wonderfully smiling face and what she now felt was not shame, but pride.

Notes:

So, that was it.
What do you think? Did Sansa and Aegon make good use of their time together? ;-) As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think. I love to read your thoughts.

See you next time.

Chapter 34: Catelyn 3

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here and we will now see a bit more how Cat is doing in Storm's End. The chapter begins with Cat talking to Jon Arryn and Davos Seaworth a bit, then she is alone in her chamber for a night and the next day, she is introduced to a certain prisoner in Storm's End.

Hope you all have fun reading.

"I can only warn you not to indulge this folly. The realm needs unity and strength under its king," said Jon Arryn.

"One king," agreed Ser Davos. "One king means peace."

Catelyn looked at him for a moment, this so-called knight. She had learned that the man had once been a smuggler, raised to nobility by Lord Stannis after the lost rebellion in gratitude for saving Stannis and his men from starvation by sneaking his ship through the Royalist barricade during the siege of Storm's End.

"That may be, my lords, but telling me this changes very little," she returned. "The longing of many Northeners for independence form the Iron Throne is strong. And the claim of any of the Targaryens to the Iron Throne still is better than Lord Stannis' claim could ever be. Sadly, I have so far not heard anything that convinces me to tell my son that bending the knee to Stannis is the better alternative."

"You can't seriously consider advising your son to bend the knee to Viserys," Jon Arryn interrupted her in a startled tone.

"All I've received from you and Lord Stannis so far," she continued, trying to ignore his rudeness, "is the news that my husband died at King's Landing and that my daughters have gone missing there."

"Lady Stark, please do not forget that you have also received an offer that your eldest daughter may marry Prince Steffon, given that she is still alive and a maiden," said Jon Arryn, and his eyes lit up as if he thought it was an incredibly generous offer.

He probably does, she thought.

"But still Lord Stannis does not intend to help me get my daughters back," she hissed. It had taken her a few days to recover from the shock of learning about Ned's death. Even worse than thinking about never seeing her Ned again, however, were the thoughts and nightmares of what had become of Sansa and Arya, of her sweet and innocent girls. She had overheard enough talk of the soldiers and servants of the keep to know how severe the situation in King's Landing was, with a new Mad King on the Iron Throne and riots all over the city, people being burned alive and women and girls being raped by hundreds every day. Even if not all of it had to be true, a tiny fraction was already enough to give her the most horrible nightmares about the dire fate her girls had to suffer in King's Landing. Arya was wild, impetuous and uncontrollable. Whatever man sat on the Iron Throne, Arya would not know how to behave in such a hostile environment and this time there would be no one to help her out of trouble. And Sansa... her lovely, sweet Sansa. She was the perfect lady, kind and gentle and beautiful. Too beautiful for her own good when there was no one to protect her. She did not even want to imagine what the men in King's Landing would do to an unprotected young woman as beautiful as her.

Finally, after four days of crying and sobbing and locking herself in her small chamber, she had met Lord Stannis and Lord Jon once again and offered them that Robb would bend the knee if they would help her rescue her girls from King's Landing now. Lord Stannis had harshly refused, however.

"If I could just walk around King's Landing and the Red Keep at will, I would have cut off the head of Viserys Targaryen long ago already," he had barked at her and had then sent her back to her chamber as if she had been a misbehaving girl. Lord Stannis truly was an unloving man. She wondered how in the world he had managed to inspire such unquestioning loyalty in a man like Jon Arryn, who – for all she knew – had always been a rational and considered man.

Since that day, Lord Stannis – most likely on the advice of either Lord Arryn or this Ser Davos – had stopped showing up at their meetings and discussions. Not that there had been much to discuss in the first place. In fact, she had been listening to the same things from the mouths of the two men for days. Ned was dead and her daughters were probably dead as well, but had definitely disappeared and would most likely never be seen again. Robb had to bend the knee to Stannis because Viserys and Rhaegar both were as crazy as the late Aerys had been. Stannis was the only alternative and since His Grace would never accept the independence of the North. All attempts from the Northeners to free themselves from the Iron Throne would therefore inevitably lead to another war, once Stannis had taken King's Landing.

More than once she had raised the question why the independence of the North was not up for discussion, while the independence of the Iron Islands had apparently already been decided. Each time, Lord Jon had only smiled mischievously and babbled some nonsense about a temporary solution, while Ser Davos had always fallen silent as if he had swallowed his own tongue. Negotiating independence for the North had not been the purpose of her trip, but the longer she was here, the clearer it became that there was nothing more for her to learn that could actually help Robb. And since Lord Jon had so generously admitted that the independence of the Iron Islands had already been agreed upon, this was a convenient thing to prolong the negotiations before she either had to make a clear decision for or against Lord Stannis or leave Storm's End with empty hands.

"Lady Catelyn," Ser Davos finally said, tearing her out of her thoughts, "I have children myself and can't even imagine how you must be feeling right now. But please understand that for His Grace there is more at stake than the lives of a few. His Grace cares about the future of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And I care about the lives of my daughters. The Seven Kingdoms therefore interest me very little at the moment, Ser," she hissed and spat out the Ser as if it were his insult.

"We understand that very well, Cat. I have lost children myself, as you know," said Jon Arryn, and for a moment she was irritated by his intimate tone. Sure, he was her brother-in-law, but it was not as if they had any close relationship. The man had indeed lost children, three in total, all stillborn. But as sad as that thought was, she was not willing to accept that having stillborn children felt the same as losing her almost grown up daughters. "I can sympathize with your pain, so please believe me when I say that sometimes it is better to simply accept their deaths and move on."

"Move on?" she yelled at him. "I hope you're joking, Lord Arryn. I would have expected a father to understand my situation better but obviously, I was wrong. So let me make myself very clear that if there is anything I will not simply accept without proof, it is the alleged death of my daughters!"

She jumped up and left the room, ignoring the half-hearted apologies and justifications of Jon Arryn and this would-be knight. She just could not bear to look at their faces anymore. So she ran away without a goal in mind, all across the enormous fortress. Through corridors, up and down stairs, over walls and bridges, through small halls and courtyards. Every step she took helped her to calm down a bit more and get the horrible words of these heartless men out of her head.

She had not written a letter to Robb yet, except for a short note telling him that she had arrived safe and sound at Storm's End. But she decided that she would do so today. She would write him a letter today, make sure that Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon and that horrible maester with his bitter tea didn't get to see it, and advise him not to bend the knee to Stannis under any circumstances.

He has another brother. Renly, she suddenly thought. He was said to be Robert's spitting image, cheerful and handsome, popular with nobles and commoners alike. For a moment, she thought about whether he could be an alternative. She knew that she could not reach him. Asking him for help in saving her daughters was impossible. Renly was in Highgarden, as she had learned, and had been instrumental in securing the Reach's support for Stannis through his influence on the Tyrells. He could not help her to free her daughters, but after this war he could be an alternative for the throne. To a young man like him, the realm would bend the knee more willingly than to Stannis. There was no doubt about that.

Perhaps he would agree to the independence of the North if Robb would support him against Stannis, she thought, but she immediately scolded herself for the thought. Who could say if Lord Renly even wanted that? And since Stannis wouldn't simply renounce his self-declared claim to the throne, either another war or Stannis' execution would be necessary. A shiver ran down Catelyn's spine when she caught herself thinking like this.

She knew, of course, that the promise to grant independence to the Iron Islands was no more than a feint, an arranged prey that Stannis and Jon Arryn knew the ironmen could not resist. The promise of independence stood on the shaky legs of an even shakier peace between Lord Stannis and Euron Greyjoy, and after the war, Stannis planned to take the first opportunity that presented itself – an attack by a Greyjoy ship on a merchant vessel or any other welcome aggression really – to break that peace and subjugate the Iron Islands once again. It was a devious plan that was not based on an outright lie, true, but it was also far enough from the truth to be dishonorable.

Ned would never have gotten involved in such a thing.

She stood on a small, roofed bridge and looked down on a narrow passage between the central tower and a smaller building, which, as she had learned, contained the actual guest quarters. After her arrival in Storm's End, she had wondered about her exceedingly sparse chamber, since there certainly had to be better accommodations for noble guests in a fortress like this. But now that Euron Greyjoy and his men had arrived, she understood better. Stannis and Jon Arryn had obviously been anxious to keep her away from the ironmen. Not because they didn't want her to see them, but apparently to protect her from them. Euron and his men were sneaking around all over the fortress and Catelyn was sure that more than once she had heard cries for help from women and girls that had crossed their path. She could only hope that the guards of Storm's End had protected the girls.

Euron's men were a strange bunch and every time Catelyn saw Euron or one of his men, there was a cold shiver running down her spine. They were always scowling, but never spoke a single word, and Cat had already thought about whether Euron had forbidden them to speak or whether they were all mute. But of course that had been a silly thought. Where would one possibly find a complete crew of mutes?

The weather was sunny, but the wind was so fresh that she shivered for a moment. It was a pleasant feeling that reminded her of home, of the North, of Winterfell, of Ned...

She drove away the sad thoughts of her dead lover and continued to think about Stannis and Jon Arryn and the Iron Islands. She couldn't help but wonder how a man who had hesitated to support his own brother in the war against the Mad King in order not to defile his honor could not only be capable of an open rebellion against his king – whatever kind of men Rhaegar and Viserys might be, one of them was their king – but also of such a devious plan. She wondered what might have happened to make such a man out of him, out of both of them. For what she knew from Ned about Jon Arryn didn't fit at all with the man she had been talking to again and again lately and who had tried to persuade her to join their rebellion.

Jon Arryn had been known as a rational man with a deeply rooted sense of honor. Ned had even told her that all he knew about honor, he had learned from Jon Arryn. But now this man argued for an open rebellion and for the overthrow of the royal house, to put a man like Stannis Baratheon on the throne. And then, through a ruse, he had also allied himself with Euron Greyjoy, a well-known pirate, murderer and rapist. What worth could such a vile man possibly hold for them?

Jon Arryn had told her a few days ago that Euron Greyjoy had allegedly even visited Valyria, and a man who survived that must surely be a great help to their cause. Catelyn had doubted it, but Lord Jon had insisted that he had personally seen that Euron possessed a full knight's armor made entirely of Valyrian steel, which of course could only be found in the ruins of Valyria itself. She had had her doubts about that all the more. Such an armor would be worth more than all the treasures of the Seven Kingdoms combined. Why would a man with such a possession ally himself with Stannis to gain the independence for and rule over a few cold and barren islands in the Sunset Sea, when he could easily buy a whole kingdom for the price of this armor everywhere else in the world?

When the sun disappeared behind the massive central tower of the fortress, it became too cool for Catelyn's taste and she withdrew into the warmth of her chamber. A servant girl later brought her something to eat and drink – hot stew of fish and turnips and a carafe of red wine. Better wine this time, after she had remarked to Lord Jon that the last one had been hardly drinkable. She looked at the girl, watched her as she placed the tray on the small table next to the window and poured a cup of wine for Catelyn. She was quite pretty, though in a rather ordinary, peasant way. Her hair had the color of old straw, but had a reddish shine, and she had pretty, green eyes. They would have been prettier if one of her eyes had not been beaten blue and black and completely swollen.

Just as she was about to leave, Catelyn held her back to look at her injury.

"Are you all right, my child?"

"Oh… yes… thank you, my lady," she stammered, obviously surprised to be addressed by her at all.

"Who did this?" Catelyn asked and pointed to her eye.

"Oh, that's nothing. Really, my lady. It's nothing."

"Tell me," Catelyn now said in the same voice with which she always rebuked the servants at Winterfell when they did not do their work properly. She understood that the girl didn't want to talk about it, that she might be afraid, but Catelyn couldn't and wouldn't just let it stand. "Please, tell me who did this to you," she then said in a softer, more motherly tone. It took a moment before the girl could bring herself to answer.

"The pirate's men," she said in a low voice. "They say he is a king, but he does not look like one. And his men, they... they always come to the servants' quarters and... then the soldiers have to come and throw them out. But sometimes they are too late."

"That's terrible."

"Oh, I've been lucky so far. My friend Anya hasn't. Lord... King Stannis has arranged that she be given Moon Tea so she doesn't give birth to a bastard. If you'll excuse me, my lady, I still have work to do."

She curtsied briefly and clumsily and then hurried out of the room without another word. After she had eaten her stew and drunk her wine, and a servant had come - another one this time - to clean up, Catelyn sat down at the small table by the window, took out paper and quill and thought about what she would write to Robb.

She began to take notes of everything she had to tell him. Lord Stannis had allied himself with the pirate Euron Greyjoy and he threatened war if the North declared independence, a move that would inspire little love in the Northerners. Especially since Lord Stannis' situation was apparently quite problematic. He himself was the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and had the Lords Paramount of the Vale and the Reach on his side, but in reality his forces were apparently weaker than it seemed. She had learned only yesterday, through an overheard comment of a soldier, that fights had broken out in the Vale. Some of the Lords of the Vale seemingly did not want to take part in this rebellion and had instead declared themselves for House Targaryen. Gulltown had closed its harbor and the Lords and Knights of the Vale were apparently unwilling to use too much force against one of their own without Lord Arryn leading them in person, so that no further support for Stannis from the Vale could arrive by ship.

The situation in the Reach was no less difficult. Although, as far as she had learned, all the Lords of the Reach had called the banners, whether they would all gather behind Lord Tyrell was less certain. United under one banner, the Reach was said to be able to field more than eighty thousand men, but from what she had picked up here and there, Lord Tyrell was merely able to provide one third of that. Still a remarkable force, but way less than Stannis probably had hoped for when he had promised his first son for Mace Tyrell's daughter, the Rose of Highgarden.

And since not even the Houses of the Stormlands had gathered around their liege in this war, Stannis' position was rather weak. Of course, he could still win if he managed to gather new men fast enough, march against King's Landing again and, after a hardest possible blow and a decisive victory against the forces loyal to the king, ascend the Iron Throne. The remaining Stormlands, Vale and Reach would no doubt fall in line and after the deaths of the princes Aegon and Daeron, Dorne would most likely not oppose his claim to the throne either. Sure, Dorne could try to proclaim Princess Rhaenys as queen, but since the customs of succession in the rest of the realm were so very different, Prince Doran could not hope for much support in such a case. The best he and Dorne could hope for, was to keep the princess alive.

The Westerlands under Lord Tywin have been remarkably quiet so far. As far as she had learned even before her departure to Storm's End already, Lord Tywin had indeed been collecting his steel. In addition to his bannermen, mercenary companies from Essos had rallied to Casterly Rock and – as Howland Reed had put it – certainly not for the sparse pleasure of a chat with Lord Tywin. There was no reason for the Old Lion to stand against Lord Stannis in case of a victory against King Viserys, however, so the Westerlands should not be a problem either. It was more likely that Lord Tywin would summon his forces to side with the winner at the decisive moment and then be in as strong a position as possible and try to gain as much for himself as possible – just as he had done before at the end of the last rebellion after the death of Robert Baratheon in the Battle of the Trident.

So in the end, only the Iron Islands, for which the Lords Stannis and Jon already had a plan, and the North and parts of the Riverlands remained to possibly refuse to bend the knee to a newly crowned King Stannis. So for her son, despite Stannis' apparent weakness, it was a dangerous situation. Catelyn knew well enough how a war of the North against the united strength of the South would end – no matter how good Robb might be as a commander or with how much heart and conviction the Northerners might fight.

She thus wrote the letter to Robb, describing everything she knew and giving him all the details she had voluntarily received or overheard by chance. There was one thing she refused to reveal, however. She did not dare to write even a single word about Ned and the girls. She would sleep one night about what she should write to him about them. The next morning, after a restful sleep, would hopefully give her some clarity as to whether she should simply pass on the claims about their deaths, whether she should advise him to take it all with a grain of salt, or whether she should simply leave them out completely, because until some sort of proof could be presented to her, it was nothing more than mere claims. Not long ago, she would never have thought it possible to doubt Jon Arryn's words on such an important matter, but after learning of the dishonorable plan regarding the Iron Islands... things had changed.

She undressed then, put out the candles in her room and buried herself in her bed under blankets and furs. When she closed her eyes, she hoped for a deep sleep. She hoped for a sleep that would help her to order her thoughts and bring her some clarity as to what to do.

It did not.

When she woke up the next morning, she was still as uncertain as the night before. What was she supposed to report to her son? Should she tell Robb everything or just a part of it or nothing at all? She did not know. Her thoughts circled around nothing else all morning. When the blonde girl from the day before came back in and brought her breakfast, she couldn't even bring herself to thank her or wish her good morning as well. She just sat there, nibbled on a slice of bread and a piece of dry sausage, drank a cup of cold water and stared at the wall, lost in thought.

It must have been almost noon when she finally got ready for the day, put on a real dress and left her chamber, hoping that a walk in the fresh air would do her good. She wandered aimlessly through some of the corridors of the fortress at first, until she finally took a turn and stepped onto the eastern outer wall of Storm's End by climbing a flight of stairs and crossing a short bridge. The wind was even fresher today than the day before and the sky was covered with clouds as far as the ye could see. She looked down into the bay as she walked along the top of the wall. Her ship was still anchored, proudly displaying the Direwolf Banner of House Stark at its stern.

At a distance lay the Silence, the ship of Euron Greyjoy, and again a cold shiver passed through her as she looked at the eerie ship. A blood-red bow, black sails and a crew of mutes. And then this captain... That ship was really a thing coming straight out of a nightmare.

"Lady Stark," she heard the voice of Ser Davos standing next to her. She looked at him, examined him from top to bottom. He seemed a good man, but despite his title it was clear that he was a commoner through and through, as out of place in the presence of knights and lords as a septon in a brothel.

"Ser Davos," she greeted him and tried to smile.

"I wanted to apologize for how our conversation ended yesterday. Of course, you should not give up hope. I myself could never do so, if I did not know of the fate of my own children."

"Thank you, Ser. I expected Lord Jon to come to me and apologize, but now you are here. Perhaps you and I should better conduct the negotiations from now on," she said jokingly, but Ser Davos looked so startled that it was clear he had not understood her joke. It took him some moments to recover from that shock.

"I am also here for another reason," he said in a serious tone. "I have spoken with His Grace and he has agreed that I show you something that will perhaps dispel your doubts about our words."

"And what might that be?"

Half an hour later, Catelyn walked through a thick oak door, fitted with heavy iron bands, and descended a narrow, steep stone flight of stairs behind Ser Davos. The staircase wound in circles and led them deeper and deeper until they finally arrived in a long corridor, guarded by soldiers, in which torches gave off little flickering light. They walked past other iron sheathed doors of dark, heavy wood.

The dungeons, she thought. Maybe I am to be locked up here now. Stannis certainly does not seem to be a very patient man.

They went around a corner, then around another and along the corridor again, on and on. Somewhere she thought she heard thunder rumble in the distance. Ser Davos, who seemed to notice her bewildered look, then told her that what she heard were the waves crashing against the rocks of the storm coast and that they now were so deep underground, that the waves could be heard more clearly than up in the fortress.

They reached a series of cells that were not secured with heavy wooden doors but with iron bars as thick as her wrist. They stopped in front of the third cell. Catelyn looked inside and saw the shape of a man crouching in the shadow of one of the dark corners, dirty and without shoes, dressed in rags which might have been of dark black and bright yellow once but now were all no more than shades of grey and brown with stains of dried blood on them.

"I will leave you alone now so that you can talk in private, my lady," said Ser Davos, turned around and left without another word.

Catelyn stood there for a while and looked at the man wordlessly. She knew that he had noticed her because she could see the white of his eyes, which were looking at her just as wordlessly.

"Who are you?" she finally asked.

"Ser Richard of House Lonmouth," he said in a hoarse voice. At last he rose. He was tall and indeed had the stature of a knight and now she could see the remains of his coat of arms on his chest. "And who are you, if I may ask, my lady?"

"Lady Catelyn Stark," she said.

"I see," he said, and Catelyn thought she could hear his voice getting sadder.

"Ser Davos thought you might be able to dispel some of my concerns regarding the truth of their words. What do you know about the whereabouts of my husband and my daughters?" He looked at her again without speaking for a while. "Please, Ser, tell me what you know."

"Why should I do that? To convince you of the honor and honesty of a traitor?"

"You are a knight of the Stormlands," she just now realized. "Why do you sit in Lord Stannis' dungeon?"

"The fact that you still call him Lord Stannis and not King Stannis is certainly a good sign for me," he said with a weak smile. He was filthy from head to toe, covered with dirt and dry blood on his face and he looked as if he had been beaten. But she also saw that he was actually a good-looking man, with a strong chin, friendly eyes and an aquiline nose. "So what do you want to know, my lady?"

"First, why you are here in the dungeons, Ser."

"I fled King's Landing when the riots began and I was convinced there was no hope for my King... for Rhaegar, I mean."

"No hope? What do you mean?"

"It pains my heart to say that but… he's gone mad, as mad as his father. When I last saw him, he was willing to sacrifice himself, his sons, his daughter and his own mother to wake dragons from stone in some insane ritual. I did everything I could to convince him to turn away from that idea, but… I did not succeed." For a moment, she was sure to see tears rising into his eyes. His voice was weaker when he finally continued. "He was convinced that this sacrifice would bring the dragons back to life and that Viserys would have to follow him on the throne. So I fled the city to call to the banners in the name of Prince Aegon. Stannis' men picked me up as they were marching on King's Landing, and since I refused to bend the knee to him, I now enjoy Stannis' hospitality," he said, mockingly pointing around as if he was presenting her with an exquisite chamber, not a cold cell smelling of urine.

"You were very close to King Rhaegar."

"Indeed. I was once his squire and was lucky enough to call him my friend."

"So please, tell me what you know about my family. Please, Ser," she begged. He had been close to Rhaegar but had not supported his madness, even turned away from his old friend to support his son instead. And as sure as the seven hells he was not on the side of Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn. She was convinced that he had no reason to lie to her. He seemed to be a good man whose word could be trusted, as far as she could tell.

"Unfortunately, there is not much I can tell you. I have not seen your husband die but I know that he sat in the dungeons before I fled the city and before I was taken prisoner I have the seen the Red Keep burn bright with wildfire. The dungeons are gone. Nobody could possibly have survived that. I'm sorry, my lady."

She had to pull herself together in order not to break out in tears and sobs again. So it was true. Her Ned was dead.

"What... what about my daughters, Ser? What do you know about them?" she asked and heard how shaky her voice had become.

"Alas, even less, my lady," he said with sincere regret. "Your younger daughter had not been seen after your husband had been arrested. I do not know what happened to your elder daughter, but there were riots everywhere in the city and even fights inside the Red Keep. I do not know if your daughters are still alive, my lady, but if they got caught up in the riots, I pray that they are not. It would be the more merciful fate."

The world around her began to turn and she had to sit down to avoid falling. Ignoring her dress and the dirt around her, she sat on the floor and leaned against the damp, cold wall.

"I am truly sorry, my lady," she heard Ser Richard say, but could not answer. For quite a while no words left her mouth, only silent sobs. She could not say how long it took her before she finally had herself under control again. She did believe the man who looked at her from sad eyes, even if the pain his words caused almost tore her heart apart.

"I am sorry," he said again and Catelyn believed him. She looked at him for a long time, looked into his sad eyes. "Stannis will demand a decision from you, my lady."

"And what would you have me do, Ser?"

"At least not to bend the knee to Stannis, my lady. Rhaegar and Viserys may both be just as mad as the late Aerys, but that still makes Stannis a traitor."

"He showed me a letter saying Viserys is the last of the Targayens. Once he is dead, he has that claim."

"I know that letter as well. Lord Arryn showed it to me to convince me to defect. It only claims Viserys to be the last male Targaryen. So even if that's true, there is still Princess Rhaenys. And I, for one, would rather rot away in this stinking piss hole of a dungeon than betray my princess. No doubt your husband felt the same way."

"What makes you say that, Ser? I understand you barely knew him."

"That's right, my lady. I only had the pleasure of meeting your husband briefly. But no doubt if your husband had thought otherwise, he would have bent the knee to Stannis. He did not though."

"And how would you know that?"

"Well," he said with a straight face, "because Stannis wouldn't have left him to die in the dungeons under the Red Keep otherwise when he went to see him, would he?"

Notes:

So, that was it. Cat now knows that Stannis left Ned in the dungeon "to die" even though he had the chance to save him. What do you think? How did you like it? As always, feel free to let me know in the comments.

See you next time. :-)

Chapter 35: Rhaenys 4

Notes:

Hi everyone,

I am back with the next chapter. Rhaenys and the others are one their way to Sunspear now and arrive in Yronwood and the end of this chapter. The chapter is not that long, but I hope you still like it.

Arya sat next to her in the carriage, restless and unhappy. Opposite of her sat her grandmother and a blissfully smiling Sansa, her little foster wolf. She did not wear a crown, did not even own one yet, but her radiance could not have been more royal. From the very first day she had shown the attitude and behavior of a perfect lady, but by now she had become even more – politically and personally. Rhaenys wondered if maybe it was all just her imagination or if Sansa had indeed changed that much. She could not tell, but she knew that she was happy about how far her friend had come and proud that she herself must have had at least a small part in it.

She's not my friend anymore, Rhaenys thought. She is my sister now. And my queen.

She noticed how Arya became fidgety again next to her. The younger Stark daughter had made a big fuss when they had departed from Wyl because she had desperately wanted to ride a horse of her own instead of being locked up with the three of them in the carriage. But since they had not had enough horses left – Aegon had taken almost all the horses with him when he had marched north to meet with the ten thousand Dornish spears guarding the Boneway – she had been doomed to the terrible fate of enduring their journey in here with them.

"I can't stand it in here anymore," Arya whined.

"It's only a few more days until Yronwood," her grandmother said in an understanding tone. Rhaenys wondered how she still managed to stay so kind, almost loving, even after days of the same complaints from Arya's mouth. The prospect of finally arriving in Yronwood however, would not calm Arya down too much either, as Rhaenys knew by now. They would board ships there to continue their journeys and it appeared that on a ship Arya felt almost as uncomfortable as in a carriage.

"When do we take a break?"

"Soon, young lady. It has to be almost noon."

"Arya, don't behave like a little child," Sansa now admonished her sister, but all she got in return was a pouty look.

"I've heard wolves can have five, six or even seven pups in one litter," Rhaneys then said, returning to their paused conversation from this morning.

"Some even have up to ten," Arya threw in, apparently still clueless what Rhaenys was really talking about. Certainly not about wolves.

"So, will you finally tell me about it?" Rhaenys asked Sansa with a conspiratorial grin. "For as long as Aegon and you have-"

"Rhaenys!" her grandmother warned her. "A lady does not speak of such things, and a princess even less so."

"Oh, grandmother, we both know that that's not true."

"Excuse me?"

Her grandmother's indignation was badly played. She knew very well that Rhaenys, when she had still been a girl, had overheard several times how her mother Elia had talked with her ladies-in-waiting about Rhaegar in great detail and also that some of the conversations between herself and her grandmother, when Rhaenys had reached the age where men had started to take an interest in her, had been rather… direct and anything but adequate for a princess and the Queen Mother.

"All I am saying is that after this wedding night a very neat litter must come out of it."

Sansa's cheeks and ears turned fiery red at her words, but she continued to look stubbornly out of the window pretending not to have heard Rhaenys' words, while her grandmother's indignation seemed to gradually become more honest.

"My dear granddaughter, I'm going to tell you this one last time. I don't want you to talk like that. Friends or not, family or not, this is not the way to talk. Especially not with your queen," she said in a serious tone and Rhaenys knew that she really meant it this time. Then her grandmother turned to Sansa. "Dear, please remember that you are our queen now. So if Rhaenys' impossible behavior gets on your nerves, you now have the power to silence her. Say just one word, and she will be thrown into the darkest dungeon."

"Grandmother!" Rhaenys protested, but only received two scornful grins from Rhaella and Sansa.

"It's all right, Rhaella," Sansa finally said in her sweetest voice, her perfect white teeth still bared in a wolfish grin. "I have decided that by my exceedingly generous grace she may remain in freedom. For now. After all, I simply do not have to answer her impertinence."

"A true queen, isn't she?" her grandmother said, beaming with pride.

"Ah, now I get it! Pups in one litter. Haha," Arya suddenly called into the round, grinning broadly towards her older sister.

It took them another hour before they finally heard the orders of the vanguard to stop and set up camp, as this was the best place to rest for several miles. It did indeed feel good to finally stretch the legs and breathe some more fresh air again. The fires were lit quickly and it took only a short time for the few servants who accompanied them to bring small kettles of tea and soup to simmer over the fireplaces.

Sansa, Rhaella and Rhaenys went for a small walk while waiting for their meal, constantly guarded by their white shadow, Ser Arthur Dayne. She knew that the white knight had asked Aegon more than once to be allowed to accompany him on his march north, but Aegon had refused and ordered him to protect his grandmother and his queen. After all, two members of the royal family could not go anywhere without the protection of a knight of the Kingsguard and since Jaime would soon accompany Rhaenys on her way to Casterly Rock and Ser Barristan was ordered to stay close to Aegon and Daeron, only Ser Arthur was left to guard their grandmother and the new queen. It had been clear that Ser Arthur had not been entirely happy with this, but he had of course obeyed the order of his king.

Rhaenys knew that Aegon had most likely had another ulterior motive, however. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was one of the most fabled knights of the Seven Kingdoms and, despite his no longer youthful age, one of the deadliest swordsmen on the continent, probably even in the entire world. But Aegon – just as every single person in King's Landing and beyond – knew very well how absurdly loyal Ser Arthur had always been towards their father, King Rhaegar. It had not been like with Jon Connington, who had sometimes acted towards their father like a little infatuated girl, but still his loyalty had been unconditional and unquestionable.

Aegon had been sure that Ser Arthur would do his duty and protect their grandmother and Sansa with his life should that be necessary. He did not trust him enough though to have him by his side in the battles to come, should protecting Aegon or Daeron somehow come into conflict with his loyalty to Rhaegar.

"Who can tell if his loyalty to our father is not strong enough to choose Viserys over Daeron and I should he ever have to choose?" Aegon had asked and – even if she had not wanted to admit it – he had been right with it. Ser Arthur's loyalty and even friendship to their father was almost as legendary as the man himself.

She felt sorry for the knight. He was without doubt one of the greatest men of their time, a legendary knight and the dream of countless girls and women. Probably even of some men. He had always fulfilled his duty, faithfully and honorably, had been the closest friend and confidant of his crown prince and later king. But now this king was dead and the new king did not have enough trust in him to want him by his side anymore. She had wondered for a moment why Aegon had entrusted Ser Arthur with the lives of his grandmother, his sister and especially his wife but not his own. She had come to the conclusion however, that he had indeed done the right thing. Someone had had to accompany them to Dorne and should Ser Arthur indeed suffer from competing loyalties – which she personally refused to believe – there would be far fewer opportunities in Dorne to put those loyalties to the test than in and around King's Landing.

After a while they sat down at one of the fireplaces on the small chairs that had been provided for them. It was pleasantly warm in the midday sun, and a fresh breeze blew over to them from the nearby sea, bringing the smell of braised meat and roasted fish, strong soup and hot tea. Lord Stark came to them and on a nod from her grandmother he sat down with them. Sansa, as the new queen, was still busy greeting the local people – mostly peasants but also fathers and mothers and sons and daughters of some local landed knights who had marched north with Aegon – and presenting herself as their new queen. Arya was jumping around somewhere like a young dog.

"She is doing great," Rhaella said without looking over to Sansa.

"Yes, she is," Lord Stark said with a proud smile on his face.

"As if she was born for it. The people will love their new queen. How's your leg, Ned?"

"It's fine, thank you," he said and Rhaenys knew it was a lie.

Lord Stark had bravely held himself on the back of his horse for the last few days since leaving Wyl, but with each day and night that had passed, it had become clearer how much worse he was doing. Most of the time his face was as pale as goat milk and he had become so weak again that today – so much she had seen from the small window of their carriage – he had almost fallen off his horse once. Whenever he was walking on foot now, he was limping so badly as if his leg had just freshly been broken and each morning when he left his tent, he was bathed in cold sweat.

Her grandmother had tried to persuade him to turn back and seek the care of a maester at Wyl, but he had refused so that he would not have to leave his daughters. A sweet if unwise thought. It was a miracle that he had so far been able to hide his condition so well from his daughters. Of course, both of them had noticed that he was getting worse and worse by the day, but his constant assurances that everything was fine with him had apparently comforted them enough not to break out in tears every time they had seen him.

That's what you get for being known for never lying, she thought, looking at the man who could hardly find a position in his chair where he did not have to distort his face in pain.

"And how is your leg actually doing?" her grandmother then asked, obviously done with his little slapstick. Lord Stark, however, did not answer, but only gave her a tortured smile. "That's what I thought. You're going to ride in our carriage from now on. Arya wants to ride herself anyway."

"What? No, Rhaella, that's not possible. I cannot-"

"Oh, shut up now, Ned. Will you stop arguing with me? I remember very well how long it took after the last rebellion until you finally stopped constantly arguing back to me when I wanted to do you some good. And I do not intend to play the whole game all over again. So shut up and get in the carriage as soon as you have eaten something. Or do I have to fetch Sansa and tell her how you are truly doing? You know she can order you to get in the carriage. She's your Queen now, Ned, so you better not oppose her."

"And you need not worry about Arya, my lord," Rhaenys said from the side. "As far as I know she is quite a good rider and the Dornish sand steeds are swift but docile creatures. She'll be all right."

"Exactly," her grandmother agreed with her. "Besides, Bonifer is also there. He knows how precious your daughter is to me so he would never risk anything happening to her, Ned."

Mentioning the old knight didn't seem to reassure Lord Stark too much and Rhaenys had an idea why. Arya Stark was a tomboy, as untamed as if she had grown up among wild animals in the deepest forest. Or at least in Flea Bottom, but certainly not as the daughter of one of the most powerful lords of the Seven Kingdoms. She had already seen the girl escape from several younger guards – not to mention the stunt of sneaking around the Red Keep for weeks without being caught by the local guards – and an old man like Ser Bonifer, no matter how hard he tried for her grandmother's sake, would certainly not be able to keep her under control. Especially since Arya seemed to be anything but pleased with his constant talk about the Gods and the grace of the Seven.

I can't even blame her for that. If Ser Bonifer was constantly in my ears with this, I would have thrown myself off the next cliff long ago.

So to further comfort him, her grandmother sent for her cousin Quentyn Martell and asked him to also keep an eye on Arya. The young Stark girl had developed a special fascination for all things Dornish, which was probably due to the fact that she had learned that ladies in Dorne were allowed to carry weapons, and so her grandmother hoped that she probably wouldn't try to escape a guard like Quentyn that quickly. Rhaenys could only hope that this way true. She did not know Quentyn very well since he had been fostered at Yronwood from a very young age and had therefore almost never been in Sunspear when she herself had been there with her mother. She could not tell whether Arya would like to be observed by him, but it looked like he was their best chance. Oberyn would have been better for this – a fabled warrior with daughters of his own who were all allowed to wield weapons in whose presence Arya would certainly have liked to be to listen to his stories – but her uncle had of course accompanied Aegon and Daeron north. So Quentyn would have to suffice.

An hour later, they sat in their carriage and were on their way to Yronwood again. Arya had almost burst with joy at finally being allowed to ride a horse of her own, but only after her father had made her swear that she would not do anything stupid and not stray too far from their retinue. Rhaenys had had a bad feeling that Lord Stark and his daughter would most certainly understand something completely different by the term 'too far' but had said nothing.

Now that Lord Stark sat in their carriage with them, his injured leg high up on the seat on the opposite side between Rhaenys and Rhaella and again his face bathed in cold sweat, his assurances that he was fine were no longer enough to calm Sansa down. She dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth constantly, forced him to drink tea and water and spiced wine, and ordered the maester accompanying their retinue to give him Milk of the Poppy to ease his pain. For the first time since the end of her wedding night – strictly speaking, a day and a half and a full two nights – the sweet smile was gone from her face and a worried expression had taken its place.

As much as Lord stark tried to reject his daughter's treatment at first, it was clear that it did him good. The cold sweat on his face lessened, he slept for hours during the days in their carriage and in his waking moments his face seemed less distorted by pain. Rhaenys was not sure if he was actually better or if the Milk of the Poppy simply made it easier for him to endure his condition, however.

It took them three more days before the castle of Yronwood finally came into sight and now that they could already see it in the distance, it would take them another half day to actually reach it. The road was meandering and led in serpentines and wide curves through the dense forests that had begun just behind the high meadows at the foot of the Red Mountains. The air was fresh and clear and smelled wonderfully sweet, very different from King's Landing or Dragonstone or Sunspear and yet it reminded Rhaenys of home somehow, brought back wonderful memories of her childhood when her mother had taken her to Dorne to visit her Uncle Doran and her cousin Arianne.

The road led them along the fortified port. Rhaenys could already make out the ship that was anchored there for them. They would all board the Nymeria's Wrath, a fast dromone with double rows of oars, completely painted in bright yellow and red with the banner of House Martell prominently displayed on each and every sail of the ship. The ship was only lightly armed, with very few soldiers and two dozen archers, but after all she had been told, it was one of the fastest ships in all of Westeros and would take her and Ser Jaime around the Broken Arm of Dorne, through the Summer Sea and past the Arbor without anyone being able to stop them. Since the loyalties of the lords in the Reach were still unknown to them, they would sail under Dornish flag to avoid being harassed. Nobody knew whether it would help, however. But once they would have passed the Shield Islands and Crakehall a bit further north, they could set a direct course for Lannisport and would be safe. Even if the banner of House Martell would not protect them and they would have to make an escape from a hostile fleet, none of the lords of the Reach, not even Mace Tyrell himself, would dare to pursue them into the waters of the Westerlands and incur the anger of Tywin Lannister.

The others would leave the ship during a short stop in Sunspear before she and Ser Jaime would continue their journey to Caterly Rock. Rhaenys regretted that she would not be able to stay in Sunspear for at least a few days to see Uncle Doran and Cousin Arianne and the Sandsnakes and maybe even her mother if she had already arrived. They had received word that she had made it safely to Starfall, weakened but healthy, and would travel the rest of the journey by ship. She might already be there. But there was no time to lose. The war would not wait and Aegon needed allies. They all needed allies if they were not soon to bend the knee to either King Viserys, a new Mad King on the throne and no doubt the end of their family, or to King Stannis, a man so unloving and ruthless that there was little chance that any of their family would make it out of this mess alive.

Rhaenys wondered how much her mother already knew about the events at King's Landing. She had left the capitol before everything had escalated completely. Did she already know that he had disavowed their marriage, trying to declare his trueborn children mere bastards in order to put Viserys on the throne? Did she already know that he had tried to burn her and grandmother and Lord Stark alive in order to sacrifice them to his hideous foreign god? Did she already know that there was a war?

The sun was already glowing red when their carriage finally entered the massive gates of Castle Yronwood. They drove through the front courtyard, then through another gate, equally massive and heavily guarded, and finally came to a halt in the rear courtyard, where an honor guard of fifty soldiers in Yronwood colors and a large part of the household was already waiting for them.

They got out then. Lord Stark first, helped by two soldiers of their retinue. Rhaenys followed, then her grandmother and finally, as the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa stepped out. Lord Anders Yronwood immediately dropped to one knee when he saw Sansa gracefully getting out of the carriage. Lady Gwyneth, his second daughter, stood to his right and followed his example, as did the knights and squires and soldiers and servants and handmaids all around.

"Your Grace," Lord Anders said, "Yronwood is yours."

"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said with a regally firm, but as usual lovely voice. "You may rise."

He did so and pointed to the two women who stood next to him stiff as boards, both tall and blonde with bright blue eyes.

"Your Grace, may I present my wife, Lady Eleanah, and my second daughter, Gwyneth. My first daughter Ynys would certainly have loved to be here as well to greet Your Grace, but she could not leave Godsgrace as she is in labor again."

"Then let me thank you for the welcome and congratulate you on the imminent birth of your grandson or granddaughter," Sansa beamed at him.

Lord Anders nodded a short thank but said nothing beyond that. The Warden of the Stone Way had a problem with strong women, as Arianne had told her years ago already. She knew that Lord Yronwood had been whispering in her cousin Quentyn's ear for years that he and not Arianne should rule over Dorne after their father, just as it was done in the rest of the realm. No doubt the old ox had found it difficult to get down on one knee before his young queen, without the accompanying king also being present. After that, he gave a short signal to one of his men. Orders were barked and faster than Rhaenys could react, servants and pages and maids began to load their belongings from the carts and to show them the way to their rooms for the night.

Sansa was personally guided through the castle by Lady Gwyneth, while her grandmother, assisted by some soldiers, a maester and Ser Bonifer, brought Lord Stark to his chambers where he could rest for the night and the maester would be able to take better care of him. Rhaenys stood in the courtyard of the famous, formidable castle for a moment and looked around. The lands of Yronwood were fertile and rich, with deposits of iron, tin and silver and it seemed that Lord Yronwood had no problem letting everyone see how prosperous he was. Banners not of wool or linen but of the finest silk with the coats of arms of the Yronwoods and the Targaryens waved in the wind on poles with figures of shining silver sitting on their tips. Splendid shields, undoubtedly crafted by master painters from Myr, were displayed on the walls and the lifelike scenes depicted on the magnificent tapestries in the Great Hall of castle Yronwood were known far beyond the borders of Dorne.

"My princess, is something wrong?" she heard Ser Jaime ask beside her.

"No, Ser, all is well," she lied.

She looked around for a moment more, but she was not surprised that nowhere the banner of Lord Yronwood's liege, the Prince of Dorne, was visible. Sun and spear of House Martell were traditionally hard to be found in Yronwood. Thankfully they would spend only one night here and would then board their ship in the first light of the morning to continue their journey. As beautiful as the castle was, Rhaenys somehow felt unwelcome and was certainly not sorry for having to leave so quickly again.

At the southern end of the courtyard, she caught a glimpse of Lord Anders walking through a wide door with Quentyn in his arm. She knew that Lord Yronwood and her cousin Quentyn had built up a close, almost familial relationship during his foster years here at the castle. She was still a little surprised to see how warmly and intimately the two of them truly treated each other.

Almost like father and son. Knowing that Quentyn and his father, her uncle Doran, had never had such a close relationship left a strange feeling in her belly. Perhaps, she thought, this connection could be a step towards finally ending the traditional rivalry between Yronwood and Sunspear.

A marriage between Quentyn and Lady Gwyneth could undoubtedly help, and since she knew that Lady Gwyneth already had a romantic interest in her cousin, such a connection could even be easily arranged. Quentyn was anything but handsome, as she unfortunately had to say. He was stocky, with a plain face and a high forehead, a broad nose and a square jaw. Not exactly what the dreams of young maidens were made of. Every ounce of beauty that had been given to Arianne by whatever cruel god had been withheld from Quentyn. Had she not known better, she would have never taken the two for siblings, the lush, seductive Flower of Dorne and her plain, blank brother who almost never smiled. So one would think that he would be happy to be given a young and beautiful maiden who already liked him and who would not have to learn to like him only after giving birth to his children.

Then again, she had heard and seen how uncomfortable Quentyn could be around girls and ladies if they were too good looking. He had been unable to say more than three words in her presence and whenever Sansa had been near, a married woman and his queen, he had been so quiet as if he had swallowed his own tongue. However, she knew that one did not have to be a crank to feel intimidated by a truly beautiful woman like Sansa or herself.

Additionally, bringing the Yronwoods even closer to the throne of Dorne with Lord Anders constantly whispering into Quentyn's ear that he should be the next ruling Prince of Dorne instead of his older sister, was certainly nothing that could ease the fears of her cousin Arianne that Quentyn might indeed one day oppose her rule to claim it for himself. Having a younger brother unwilling to accept her right to inherit their father's seat, who would then have the rich and mighty Yronwoods on their side, was certainly something that would have given her cousin some sleepless nights. So maybe it was a good thing that Quentyn was not interested in Lady Gwyneth but instead seemed to have taken a liking to Lady Arya. Even if she doubted that these budding feelings were truly mutual.

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think? Please feel free to let me know in the comments what you think. :-)

Chapter 36: Eddard 7

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. This is again not a very long chapter, only about 4,5 thousand words long, but I hope you still enjoy it.

"It does not look good. Not at all, my lord."

"And what does that mean?"

"That you should stay in bed until your leg is completely healed."

"That's impossible," said Ned, who was getting tired of hearing the same thing from the maester every day. He had already spent five days in bed in Yronwood. It was only because of him that Sansa had decided to postpone their onward journey to Sunspear. He should have sent them away. Not that he would have been able to give his queen any orders, daughter or no daughter. But his request to wait for him, since he did not want to send his girls to Sunspear alone, had been idiotic. Now they were stuck here, in Yronwood. Just because of him.

"I feel better already, Maester Orland. I do."

"But it does not look like it. If Her Grace were to allow me a bloodletting-"

"No, definitely not," Sansa snapped from the side. After Prince Aegon... King Aegon had almost died from the bloodlettings of the maester on Tarth, as Sansa was convinced, she had been strictly refusing to allow such a thing to happen to him now. Even his requests to allow the maester to do so, since the maester knew for sure what was best, had not changed her mind in the slightest. She had forbidden it and so it was not to be done.

"As you wish, Your Grace. If your lord father says that he feels better, I can only rely on his word, even if all indications suggest otherwise."

"So when will we be able to continue the journey?" his daughter asked.

"If it were up to me, in a month at the earliest."

"As I said, that's impossible," Ned said. "I feel better already. Really, Your Grace."

Sansa thanked the maester for his services and then, with a nod, bid him to leave them alone.

"Father, you don't have to call me that."

"Yes, I do, because that's what you are now. You are my queen," Ned said. She indeed was his queen now and so he owed her the respect she deserved. Yet he smiled at her, letting her know that apart from that nothing had changed between them. She was his daughter and always would be. "As soon as the ships from Sunspear arrive, we can continue our journey. I'll be fine by then, I promise."

His daughter then gave him a kiss on the forehead and said her goodbyes after she had taken his promise to stay in bed and drink a lot, as the maester had recommended. She turned around and left the room with a loving but sad smile. He looked after her, even after the door had been closed already, and still could hardly believe that his daughter, his Sansa, was really his queen now. What Rhaella had said was true, however. Sansa had been born for this. There was no doubt about it. The knights and quires, the girls and ladies all loved Sansa almost immediately when she talked to them. She was as sweet and charming as she had always been, but now she also possessed the radiance of a true queen, the aura of true grandeur. She was truly born a queen. Yet the thought still felt unreal.

The Nymeria's Wrath, a light but fast Dornish carrack, had left the very next morning after their arrival in Yronwood with Princess Rhaenys, Ser Jaime Lannister and three dozen soldiers on board. They had been supposed to board the ship as well. The ship would then have made a stop at Sunspear to drop them off, but instead would now pass Sunspear without stopping, cruise around the Broken Arm of Dorne and set a direct course for Lannisport. One could only hope and pray that they could pass the Arbor unhindered. Once in Lannisport, Princess Rhaenys would negotiate with Lord Tywin to win his support in the war.

Ned did not like the idea of depending on Lord Tywin Lannister. The man was as genial as he was cruel and what he possessed in strength and riches, he missed in honor. During the rebellion two decades ago, when he himself had fought not for but against the Targaryens at the side of Jon Arryn and his childhood friend Robert, they had unsuccessfully tried to get the Old Lion to their side. Lord Tywin had instead waited in Casterly Rock with his entire force and only when the war had already been decided after the Battle of Trident had he raised the dragon banner to side with the victor, mercilessly crushing the last remains of the fleeing defeated armies in the name of the new king Rhaegar Targaryen. The new king however had not been as thankful for Lord Tywin's late support as he probably had hoped, had resented him for not supporting him earlier and had therefore not granted him his wish to free Ser Jaime from his Kingsguard vows. Now, that was exactly what Lord Tywin would be offered by the princess to bring him to their side. Hopefully that would be enough. Still Ned would have wished not to be dependent on the help of this man, a man without honor. Yet they were.

So instead of accompanying the princess on the first part of her journey to Casterly Rock, they were now stuck here, merely able to send word to Sunspear that they would need another ship to pick them up. All because of him, all because he did not leave the side of his daughters. Of course, they could have made it to Sunspear by horse and carriage but that would not only have taken weeks along the Dornish coast, they would also have been even more vulnerable to attacks and raids from the sea. So if word had gotten out about their journey over land and some daring pirate or captain under the flag of Stannis Baratheon had come up with the idea that a quick attack on the Dornish mainland would have been worth the risk in order to get his hands on King Aegon's queen, his daughter, they would hardly have been able to escape or fend off such an attack. So they waited for another ship.

Four days later, a raven had arrived announcing that eight ships of different sizes would come to Yronwood for them. Despite its long coastline, Dorne, much like the North, possessed hardly any fleet worth mentioning, so that these ships, together with the Nymeria's Wrath, probably accounted for almost half of all real warships Prince Doran was able to bring up. The ships to come were five massive war galleys, way slower than the Nymeria's Wrath, but much more heavily armed, and three smaller galleys built in Braavos only some years ago. He was grateful that Prince Doran would send such a strong fleet to them, because it was always better to be safe than sorry. Especially since they still had no idea which of the fleets of Westeros really were on their side and which were not.

King Aegon had sent ravens to the Arbor in the hope of gaining control over the mighty Redwyne fleet, consisting of more than two hundred large war ships and five times as many merchant carracks, wine cogs, trading galleys, and whalers that could be used for quick strikes on the coast of Westeros as well. Rhaella had sent word to Hightower in King Aegon's name. Although House Hightower did not command a massive fleet, they made up a major part of the Reach's land forces and with their flagship Honor of Oldtown, a four-deck war galley, owned one of the largest and strongest ships of all Seven Kingdoms. Having such a ship sail under the dragon banner would undoubtedly make an impression to everyone on sea with unsure loyalties. Ravens had also been sent to Dragonstone, where most of the ships of the Velaryon fleet anchored, which traditionally made up almost the entire royal fleet. Fifty ships of the royal fleet lay in the port of King's Landing – or at least they had done so the night they fled the city – while one hundred and sixty more, eighty of them full war galleys, lay off Dragonstone. The ships in King's Landing were surely under the control of Prince Viserys and were therefore lost for them, but they could still hope to win the Velaryon ships off Dragonstone.

The Iron Islands also possessed one hundred warships of about the strength of a smaller war galley and three hundred to four hundred longships. Nobody knew the exact numbers. Those were hardly suitable for real naval battles however, but only for quick attacks on the coast with equally quick retreats. After the unmistakable message that Euron Greyjoy had sent to King's Landing when Ned himself had still been sitting on the small council – the cut off heads of his nephews and his niece – it was impossible to win the Iron Islands for King Aegon, though.

The next five days, Ned did indeed stay in his bed. Sansa came visiting him whenever her new duties as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms allowed her to do so. The rest of the days, he was either visited by Arya, who excitedly told him about how Prince Quentyn had offered to teach her how to use the spear, or by Rhaella, with whom he talked about the gods and the world, about Sansa and Aegon, about Winterfell and his family and how she would love to visit the North once this whole nightmare was over. The time when he had no visitors and could not sleep without the help of wine of Milk of the Poppy, he used to write letters to Riverrun and Winterfell and White Harbour, hoping that at least one of his messages would reach Cat and Robb. He also wrote to Gulltown and Runestone, Heart's Home and Longbow Hall, Strong Song and Redfort, to all the lords and ladies of the Vale he knew from his childhood days and whom he hopefully could persuade to disobey the command of their liege lord and declare themselves for King Aegon. With the permission of Sansa, who in King Aegon's absence and advised by Rhaella now ruled, he had also written to Lady Waynwood of Ironoaks. He had submitted her the royal offer to name her ward and nephew, Ser Harrold Hardyng, the new Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East after the end of the war, should she and Ser Harold openly declare their loyalty to King Aegon.

He had already written a dozen letters before Maester Orland had ultimately informed him that there were no ravens in Yronwood that knew the way further north than Rosby or Stoney Sept and so he would have to take the letters with him and send them off from Sunspear. In his frustration, he would have liked to tear all the hair from his head when he heard that. He had yelled at the maester and even thrown his cup of spiced tea at him, fortunately without actually hitting him.

Thankfully, the ships arrived on the morning of the next day. They were loaded with a few new supplies for their short trip and in the evening of the same day, they were already on their way to Sunspear. Maester Orland had only reluctantly given his approval for the journey. For the last few days, after Sansa had again forbidden him to do a bloodletting and Ned had become – according to the maester's words – more and more cranky, Maester Orland had only brought him his medicine, strong tea with herbs and some Milk of the Poppy, and had briefly asked Ned about his well-being, but had not bothered to really examine his leg anymore.

The journey at sea would only take three or at most four days. The maester had told him and Sansa that as much fresh air and sun light as possible would do him good, so he spent all his days sitting on deck, wrapped in blankets and furs and with his leg up. He was thankful that the wind also made sure that the cold sweat on his forehead disappeared quickly enough, so that Rhaella and Sansa often seemed not to notice it at all. The only thing Rhaella would mention from time to time was his pale skin color, but whenever he then forced himself to eat something, she would stop talking about it. Rhaella was with him most of the time, drinking wine with him and talking to him to distract him from the pain in his leg.

His leg burned like the hottest fire of the seven hells whenever he moved it only slightly, but by now, with enough strong wine and Milk of the Poppy, he was able to suppress the pain to such an extent that he no longer had to distort his face in pain half a day and Sansa, Arya and Rhaella no longer had to worry about it too much. Sitting on deck, he finished some of the letters he had been writing at Yronwood together with Rhaella. In the strong wind it was not easy to keep a grip on the pages and the quill, and some of the letters afterwards looked more as if they had been drawn by a small child rather than written by a high lord, but they would surely suffice.

Especially his letters to Riverrun or to the North had to arrive. They simply had to! Cat and Robb were certainly deeply worried about him and the girls. They just had to know that they were fine, that they were alive and well and among friends. And they also had to know of course that the next time they saw Sansa, they had to drop to one knee in front of her.

Ned had just finished his letter to Lord Corbray as Arya was again jumping around on deck together with Prince Quentyn Martell, who had agreed to teach her a little more about how to use a spear, the traditional weapon of choice in Dorne. Ned knew that Arya would actually still have preferred to learn more about swordplay, but Ser Arthur had not been willing to neglect his duty to protect Sansa and Rhaella – not that there was any danger on this ship he had to protect them from – while Lady Brienne did not want to train with Arya at all anymore for reasons unknown to Ned and Ser Bonifer had made it very clear that he did not approve of a young lady learning how to wield a sword.

Prince Quentyn however had been more than happy to show her one or two things and now, after Ned had given his consent, the two of them were on deck most of the day, whirling around with long staffs, which were without exception too long for Arya to handle properly. But what she lacked in height, she made up for in enthusiasm, as Prince Quentyn had already noticed after their first exercises. Ned was happy to see how good the young man took care of his daughter.

"Yes, that's it. A little more from the hip," he heard Prince Quentyn say to Arya. "That's it. Very Good."

"Arya, not too wild. Be careful here on deck," he called to her and saw how she rolled her eyes while turning around.

"Don't worry, my lord. I'll look after your daughter. I will be careful," said the prince.

"But I won't!" he heard his daughter roar as she immediately started to attack again and rushed towards her teacher.

Prince Quentyn, however, did not let himself be caught off guard and fended off Arya's wild attack with a quick swipe of his staff, always staying calm and keeping control. He took a step back, swerved to the side and let his staff shoot forward in a fast and, for his stature, astonishingly elegant movement. The staff hit Arya's hand and with a short scream of surprise she let go of it and her staff clattered onto the deck.

"The fight with the spear is about control. You have to control the distance to your opponent, the pace of the fight and of course you have to control yourself," he said to her as Arya rubbed her aching hand and picked up her staff again. "If you lose control of one of these three things, you give the opponent the upper hand."

"Oh, self-control is Arya's greatest strength," he heard Sansa whispering to Rhaella, who also watched attentively. Both laughed at that but thankfully Arya did not notice it.

Arya wanted to continue straight away, but Prince Quentyn insisted that she should take it easy on her hand and eat it a little first to avoid getting too weak. With, in Ned's opinion, a surprisingly weak protest, Arya actually sat down next to Cletus Yronwood, who still bravely held his staff in his hands although he hadn't had a chance to practice with Prince Quentyn all morning and ate some of the soup one of the servants brought her shortly after.

Sansa and Rhaella were still sitting next to him when Arya and Prince Quentyn started their exercises on deck for the third time that day after the short supper. Arya apparently learned quickly and mastered some of the parades with the much too long staff quite well by now. He watched her practicing a bit more, saw with how much enthusiasm Arya trained and how she shone with pride whenever she managed to break through the defense of Prince Quentyn with the tip of her staff. It was clear that she knew that the prince had let her hit him here and there and was not using all his skills. But the prince obviously knew quite well how to cleverly improve his fighting without letting Arya win too easily on the one hand or simply defeating her all the time on the other.

Ned looked over at Sansa then. His daughter smiled as she watched Arya do her exercises, even though he didn't believe she was smiling because of Arya's progress – at least not entirely. Apart from the moments when she had sat alone or with the maester at his side, worrying about his leg, Sansa had not stopped smiling wonderfully since Rhaella had decided on her marriage to King Aegon. After she and her newlywed husband had left their rooms again after the unusually long wedding night, she had begun to smile even wider all the time. Of course, Ned was glad that she seemed so absolutely and completely happy, even though as a father he would rather not think about why exactly her wedding night had made her so happy.

He loved Sansa more than anything, as he loved all his children, and had taken King Aegon into his heart long before the wedding already. He was grateful that his sweet, gentle Sansa had become the wife and lady of such a good man – a man who cared for her, respected and protected her, a man who was brave and gentle and strong – but still there were things a father would not want to think about regarding his daughters. And her wedding night certainly was one of those things. He had tried to talk to her about King Aegon back in Yronwood, two nights before their departure, but all she had told him over and over again was how much she already missed him and that she could hardly wait until this war was over so that he could hold her in his arms again. He had not asked for further details, even though he knew that Sansa, the perfect lady she was, would not have told him anything else anyway.

On the evening of their second day at sea, Ned tried to go for a short walk without the help of a soldier or a servant but immediately regretted it. His leg gave way after only a few steps and, completely stripped of his dignity, he had to be pulled back into his chair by Rhaella and Ser Arthur.

"Ned, don't do such nonsense," Rhaella scolded him. "You should rest and not run around. If your leg is so bad, we should have stayed longer at Yronwood. Why didn't you say anything?"

"No, we must go to Sunspear. It's important that we can finally send word north and to the rest of the realm."

"Still, you have to take better care of yourself. How's your leg? And tell me the truth," she said in a seriously worried tone.

"Father," he now heard Sansa call, who came running towards him completely unroyally and with eyes wide open in fear after she had seen him drop to the ground. She had been standing with the captain at the bow of the ship and now came rushing back to him, frightened. "How are you? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I am fine. I feel much better. Just a little weak on my legs. Probably drank too much Milk of the Poppy to sleep last night. But otherwise I'm fine," he lied.

"Fetch some servants," she commanded Ser Arthur, who stood just behind her. "They shall bring my lord father to bed at once and prepare him something to eat. He is very weak."

"Sansa, that's not necessary. Really, I'm already feeling-"

"I will not take no for an answer," she said in a tone that made it clear that it was no longer his daughter but his queen who was now speaking to him. "I almost lost my Aegon and now I will not lose you."

Shortly thereafter, Ser Arthur appeared again with two servants behind him, who helped Ned up on his feet and led him down to his cabin under the worried looks of Sansa, Arya and Rhaella. The steep stairs to the lower deck – more of a sloping ladder than real stairs – were a little problematic as always, but once they had overcome this obstacle, the rest of the way was no longer a big challenge. Ned noticed that he was swaying back and forth, almost pushing one of the servants against the wall of the narrow corridor when he could barely keep himself straight.

This is normal, he told himself. I am at sea. Sometimes you lose the ground under your feet when the ship is rocking.

I was not rocking though.

The servants helped him inside his cabin and placed him on the bed.

"Thank you, you may go now," he said when they were just about to help him undress. "Bring me something to eat and a jug of watered wine. The rest, I can manage myself."

"Yes, my lord," said one of the servants, a short lad with a pockmarked face and raven-black hair.

Ned was not hungry. Not at all. But Sansa was right, though in this case he was reluctant to admit it. He was weak and needed strength. Besides, it would comfort the ladies to know that he had voluntarily eaten something before he went to sleep. It took only some moments until the servant came back to him, placing a bowl of hot soup, a piece of dark bread and a jug of watered Dornish Red on the small table in his room and then left with a bow. Ned sat on the edge of his bed for a while, looking around and trying to suppress the constant dizziness.

He poured some of the wine into a cup and took a small sip. Then he took a deep breath and began to undress. He took off his doublet, then the shirt he was wearing underneath. It was soaked with sweat and almost clapped on the floor like a mop. Then he opened the straps on his first boot and pulled it off his foot. It was difficult and he had to try more than once before he finally made it. He placed it next to his bed, took another sip of wine and another few breaths and then opened the straps on his second boot.

His injured leg burned like fire again as he tried to bring it closer and pull the boot over his foot. The dizziness returned immediately and cold sweat was on his face again as the waves of pain swept through his entire body, taking his breath away for a moment. He suppressed a cry of pain and put his foot back on the floor. He took another sip of wine, then another.

I should have just asked for wine, not watered wine.

He looked at the small table, briefly searching among the cups and small pots that had accumulated there since they had boarded the ship and after a short moment he finally found what he had been looking for. In the small blue vial was a tiny rest of Milk of the Poppy left, which he immediately swallowed greedily. It only took a moment for him to feel the effect and the pain in his leg and foot gradually faded. Even the dizziness seemed to become less. Again, Ned started to pull the boot off his foot. Still a hellish pain shot through his whole body. It had obviously been too little Milk of the Poppy to completely numb it, but this was a pain he could bear. He pulled on his boot further and further, ignoring the burning in his leg and foot. Eventually the boot slipped off and fell to the floor, stomping and crashing.

Ned put his foot down again and took a deep breath. His heart was beating wildly while his thoughts were so slow that he wasn't sure if he wasn't falling asleep already. Then he looked down at his aching foot and examined the discolorations. Before they had left, it had only been two toes, but by now all the toes and almost half the foot had turned blue and black, motionless and smelled sweetish.

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think? Ned really did not want to leave his daughters' sides. Not a good idea though, was it? As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think.

See you all next time. :-)

Chapter 37: Daeron 7

Notes:

Hi everyone,

sorry for the long wait for the next chapter. I have finally moved to another city and, for whatever reason, my provider was not able to give me a working internet connection in my new apartment. So apart from all the work and trouble that comes with moving across the country, I also did not have a stable access to the internet. I finally finished the next chapter now and went to a public library to upload it.

Hope you enjoy it. :-)

"At this speed I'll die of old age before we reach King's Landing," his brother growled.

"Well, at least you won't fall in battle," Daeron said with a broad grin. "Rhaenys, grandmother and most of all your wife would never forgive me for that."

"And then what will I be remembered as? Aegon the Slow? Or Aegon the Wanderer? No thanks."

They were making poor progress indeed. In order not to run into troops loyal to Stannis, they had to stay away from the Boneway after leaving Dornish ground and instead had to march most of the way across the open field. Oberyn did his best to push their men, but the terrain was difficult. In the Stormlands, rain had started again a few days earlier, making the ground deep and soggy and turning the few roads they dared to use into little more than tracks of knee-deep mud.

Still, Aegon was in the best mood he had been in since they had marched off from Wyl. It had been hard for him to part with Sansa, and Daeron could understand his brother well. He had hardly felt any different when he had had to let Jeyne go, with the exception that Aegon would get Sansa back as soon as the war was over. He would not see Jeyne again.

Stop fooling around, he scolded himself. You'll get a wife soon. Then you mustn't think about your old flame anymore. That's not fair to her, whoever she might be.

He just hoped that she would be pretty and kind and neither too old nor too young. In political marriages there was often no opportunity to consider mutual affection and appeal, even less so in times of war, when there often were only few alternatives and quick decisions had to be made for or against an alliance. His wife could be an old widow, with children older than himself. Or a small child who was just learning to speak and walk, maybe not even be born yet. He did not want to imagine it at all. When they had been little boys, Aegon had liked to tease him that their father would no doubt give him some old woman to marry, one of the older ladies who regularly auditioned at court with their almost ancient husbands. Sansa's aunt Lysa Tully was probably the best example of how bad things could get in a political marriage in times of war.

"Look, this one could become your wife once her husband is dead," Aegon had always said with a broad grin, pointing to the oldest and fattest woman he could find. But now they were no longer children and Aegon would not do this to him unless it was absolutely necessary. Of course, he would marry whoever necessary to secure Aegon's throne. If he was willing to die for his brother, it should also be possible for him to share a bed with a woman he was not attracted to for his brother. Daeron decided not to think about it any further in order not to spoil his good mood.

The message they had received two days earlier by a messenger from Blackhaven had lifted Aegon's spirits. And his own as well. Lord Monford Velaryon had declared himself for Aegon and had sworn fealty to him – though for the time being only in a letter and not personally. That was good enough for now, though. The royal fleet was at their disposal.

Well, that part of the royal fleet that was anchored at Dragonstone. The fifty or so warships in the port of King's Landing, including their massive flagship Pride of Valyria, were undoubtedly under Viserys' control and were not accessible to them. Nevertheless, they had a fleet! Aegon had immediately written back to him, giving him orders and, as a reward for his loyalty, promising him the position of Master of Ships in his Small Council, which he knew the man wanted so badly.

Oberyn had proposed to reward him with the position of the Hand of the King, but Aegon had refused. There was hardly anyone in the entire Seven Kingdoms who knew more about ships and naval warfare than Monford Velaryon. He was a man of the sea, with salt water in his veins, and anything but the position of Master of Ships he would certainly have accepted, but never really wanted. Even if his ambitions had been enough to become Hand of the King, someone else would have had to become Master of Ships and any man other than a Velaryon in that position would have been an insult to his family.

The mood among them fell again when, barely a week later and three days' marches away from Grassfield Keep, they were attacked by a small host under the banner of the traitor Stannis Baratheon. Judging by the size of the army, they had hardly been sent out to attack them, but had stumbled upon them rather accidentally, probably on their way to join Lord Stannis in Storm's End. Nevertheless, the little skirmish was anything but pleasant. The stormlanders were only about one and a half thousand strong, less than a third of them on horseback. Their defeat was never really up for debate, but still they nearly lost a thousand men in that battle when the cavalry of the stormlanders, in almost suicidal boldness, stormed up the hill where the large Targaryen Banner blew in the wind.

Apparently, Ser Donnel Swann, who had led the attack, had believed Aegon and Daeron to be near the large waving banner and so had seen a chance to end this war in Stannis' favor with one quick and bold strike. But all they had found there were the iron tips of lances, arrows and crossbow bolts. They were slain all and sundry before Daeron then led their own cavalry out behind a small wooded hill at Aegon's side to take out the stormlanders' archers and their left flank of foot soldiers. The remaining foot soldiers were easy prey for some of their particularly bloodthirsty Dornishmen then.

"I would have preferred to have a few prisoners," Aegon said after the battle, when it was clear that none of the stormlanders had survived except for a few wounded foot soldiers. "If not Lord Gulian himself, then at least his son Ser Donnel or one or two of his household knights."

"They were traitors and deserved to die," Oberyn said, shrugging his shoulders, before cutting the throat of one of the wounded soldiers, ending his suffering. "You should rather feel sorry for those poor bastards," he then said, pointing with the bloody tip of his sword at the man whose life he had just taken. "Each of these armored scumbags has chosen to go to war against you and does not deserve any mercy. But these soldiers did not. This guy here was probably standing on his field two weeks ago, reaping the harvest. Now he's lying here with his throat cut."

His time in Essos had changed Oberyn. He had fought as a mercenary at the side of knights and lords and princes, of peasants and slaves, and had thereby gained a different view of life and death, of the value of a human life. A view that Daeron decided to embrace and that he hoped Aegon would embrace as well. Most Lords looked down on the lives of their subjects, measuring the attention they paid to them by the taxes they would be able to pay and the work they would be able to do in their lives. Oberyn did not though. He did not hesitate to kill any man or woman if need be, but still he valued every life evenly, be it that of a slave or a peasant or a lord.

They decided to march some miles away from the battlefield before they set up camp. Aegon argued that the men surely did not want to sleep next to the bodies of their slain and down-ridden enemies, and he was probably right about that. In the next days they made headway until they reached Grassy Vale only two and a half days later. The town was practically undefended and surrendered at the first sign that an army under Targaryen banner was approaching. Apparently, they had still tried to burn down the two small wooden bridges that crossed the Blueburn river to prevent them from reaching the northern shore. The rain had made the wood so wet, however, that the flames had done no real damage to either of them.

The nearby fortress Grassfield Keep, over which the banner of House Meadows flew beside the stag of House Baratheon, did not surrender. The fortress was seriously undermanned, however, and fell within a day and a night. They lost thirty men and killed equally as many before the castle finally surrendered. The battle would undoubtedly have lasted longer and would have been harder if the young lord of the fortress had retreated to his central keep before the battle began, which they no doubt would have found difficult to capture, instead of settling in the stables, drunk as a pig with a naked maid in his arms. He had not however and so, after Daeron had been the first to climb and secure the eastern outer wall, it had been only a short but fierce fight before they had dragged Lord Meadows out of the stable in chains and his remaining men had laid down their arms and knelt.

The next morning, Aegon, Oberyn and Daeron were standing inside the Great Hall of Grassfield Keep, side by side next to the great fireplace in the middle of the hall, watching the flames consume the great Baratheon banners.

"Are you going to do the same to me?" barked Lord Elwood Meadows from his chair to which he was tied. "Do you intend to burn me, as your wretched grandfather so loved to do? Then get it over with, dragon spawn."

"Not at all," Aegon replied in a calm tone after a moment of silence. "But if you don't hold your tongue, I wouldn't mind letting you rot in your own dungeon, where I no longer have to listen to your clamor."

"We should just cut his tongue out. Then we do not have to listen to it as well anymore. And maybe blind him, too. I don't like the way he looks at me," Oberyn said in an equally calm tone, his almost bored look directed at the young Lord of Grassfield Keep.

Daeron could hardly suppress a smirk when he saw from the corner of his eye how Lord Elwood immediately turned pale as milk. Oberyn had earned himself a certain reputation in the Seven Kingdoms over the years; a reputation that apparently let the young lord not doubt the seriousness of his words even for a heartbeat. For Oberyn, every lord's life counted as much as the life of a slave... or as little. That was well known even far beyond the borders or Dorne.

By noon all the gold and silver of House Maedows – as little as it was – was in Aegon's hands, the Targaryen Banner blew over the highest tower and half a dozen of their own soldiers were dangling from their necks over the main gate of the fortress for having been caught in the night trying to rape two of the kitchen maids. All in all, it was a good day, even if both Aegon and Daeron could have done without the executions. However, it had to be made clear that they could not and would not accept such behavior from their men. Aegon was the king, and so it was his duty to protect those girls, even from his own men. Two of the men had pleaded to be sent to the Wall instead, but Aegon had decided against it.

As it turned out from the letters, which the local maester had seemingly forgotten to burn before they had taken the castle, House Maedows had sent almost all their knights and soldiers to Stannis to support him in his attempt to overthrow House Targaryen. Lord Meadows had apparently been one of his first supporters, although neither Aegon nor Daeron could say where the Lord of Grassfield Keep's aversion to the royal family came from. These knights and soldiers had belonged to Stannis' army, with which he had hoped to take King's Landing in one quick strike. He had failed, though. They had not been able to find out the exact circumstances from those letters and the stories Oberyn and their soldiers had picked up in the taverns and whore houses did not give a meaningful picture either.

Some said that they had been consumed by wildfire, others that flaming dragons had risen above the city to protect the rightful king from the insidious attack. Still others swore on the graves of their fathers that they had seen how Viserys had ridden out of the city on a flaming horse at the head of an equally flaming army and had defeated Stannis in the field, while a bard from the Riverlands by the name Garen the Green even sang a song about how the old gods of Valyria had appeared and had personally destroyed Stannis' forces in unholy flames, honestly claiming his made-up nonsense to be nothing but the plain truth. One story was more stupid than the next. The only thing certain was that Stannis had attacked King's Landing and had failed miserably, losing almost his entire host.

Aegon decided that they would spend another night here to allow their men to sleep with a real roof over their heads and replenish their supplies before continuing their march. Just before sunset, a rider arrived at the fortress and was immediately led to the Great Hall, where Aegon and Daeron sat together and drank the best Arbor Gold from the cellars. Oberyn was nowhere to be seen, probably spending some of his coin in a local brothel or a tavern.

The man rushed to them and immediately fell on one knee before Aegon. He was dressed in plain, colorless clothes, unarmed and completely out of breath. Daeron would not have taken him for more than a peasant or a merchant, had he not presented a parchment identifying him as a messenger.

"Your Grace, I bring you a message."

Aegon rose, placing his cup on the massive table.

"You may rise," his brother said. Immediately the man stood up but did not dare to look Aegon in the eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the tips of his boots. "Hand me the message then."

"It is not written, Your Grace. My liege wanted to make sure it could not be intercepted, so I had to memorize it."

"And who is your liege?"

"Lord Paxter Redwyne, Your Grace."

At once Aegon turned and looked at Daeron with big eyes. A messenger from Lord Redwyne, who – no doubt on the instructions of his lord – addressed him with Your Grace, could only be good news. A broad smile spread across his face.

"Speak then, what is the message?" Aegon now said to the man.

"My liege Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor and Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill request the honor of meeting with you, Your Grace. Should you agree to meet, I would ride back to them today, tell them where you are and they would arrive in less than a week, Your Grace. If you wish a different place to meet, I will be happy to let the lords know."

"I will welcome them here. My soldiers will provide you with food and drink and a fresh horse before you leave again."

"Very well, Your Grace."

A short moment later the man was gone, escorted by two Dornish soldiers and Aegon and Daeron were alone in the Great Hall. Aegon reached for his cup and drank it in one gulp, his wide smile somewhat lessening. Without waiting for a word, Daeron reached for the carafe and poured in another for his brother and king.

"At least they haven't bent the knee to Stannis yet," Aegon said and took another big sip from his cup. "But neither have they to me."

"The messenger addressed you with Your Grace. It's a good start, isn't it?" said Daeron, who apparently had the same concerns as his brother, though.

"Yes, a good start. But not more. Redwyne and Tarly know that I would never have met with them if their messenger had addresses me as anything else. Still... they've not sworn allegiance to me yet but want to meet."

"They want to bargain for the price."

"Exactly."

Two hours later, two more carafes were emptied and they both went to sleep. Before their ways parted to their chambers, Aegon had suggested that Daeron should go to the town and have some laughs with the soldiers, but he declined. He appreciated the gesture that his brother wanted to cheer him up and distract him from Jeyne. The inevitable glances that Daeron had thrown at his brother and Sansa from time to time after their wedding while they had been on their way to Wyl had obviously not remained hidden from him.

He wished his brother all the happiness in the world, but of course it hurt to see him happy with his new wife while his Jeyne was on her way to marry another. But to numb himself with wine and liquor and to have light pleasure with some whores would hardly fill the feeling of emptiness in him. So he decided that a good night of sleep would serve him better and went to his chambers.

The next days, after they had informed Oberyn that they would stay in Greenfield Keep for about a week, they began planning their next moves. The Small Hall of the castle, hardly more than a larger study, just without books or shelves, was turned into their tactical room. A large table had been set in the middle and maps of the Stormlands, the Crownlands, the Reach and the Riverlands had been spread out on it.

"Stannis' plan was actually not that bad," Oberyn said on the morning of the third day. "A quick strike against the capital to cut the snake's head off. Or the dragon's, in this case. If it had worked and you had still been in the city, he would have hanged you all, proclaimed himself king and presented the realm with a fait accompli."

"Yes, but it did not work, and we still don't know exactly why," Aegon said.

"That is true. But whatever trick Rhaegar or your uncle has magicked before, wildfire or dragons or even the gods of old Valyria, I doubt they will be able to repeat it. The best tricks only work once."

"So we should do the same as Stannis? March against King's Landing with all we've got and hope for the best?" Daeron asked.

"No, not exactly," Oberyn said. "From all the credible information I have received, as little as there was, Stannis had hidden an army composed of stormlanders and soldiers from the Vale somewhere near King's Landing and then attacked by land. Only the gods know how the man had managed to sneak not one but two armies from opposite directions to a hideout so close to the capitol without anyone noticing it early enough. Apparently, he didn't have enough ships at his disposal to get his own men and the soldiers from the Vale quickly up the Blackwater to attack from the sea."

"But we have the royal fleet," Aegon said.

"Exactly. We march this way," he said, tracing a path on the map of the Crownlands with his finger. "That way, we won't run right into Stannis' army, should he already have a new one and try to intercept us. Here we continue north until just before Stoney Sept and then head to the east to march along the southern banks of the God's Eye. That way we're far enough away from King's Landing so Rhaegar and Viserys can't surprise us with a relieving force should they find out where we're going."

"And then what? I mean apart from sitting our asses off in the northern Crownlands."

"Then we head for the coast," Daeron said. "We'll call the royal fleet there, get our soldiers on the ships and sail directly to King's Landing. The fleet is strong enough to take us directly to the capital's harbor, even if Viserys should send those fifty warships against us."

"Assuming they survived Stannis' attack on the capital in the first place," Aegon said, thoughtfully rubbing the back of his nose. It was the same gesture their father had always made when he thought hard about something. Yet Daeron decided to keep this detail to himself as it would certainly not amuse his brother to be reminded of his resemblance to their father. "If not, King's Landing is essentially unprotected from the sea side. We could land right in the harbor, get past the River Gate in one quick strike and then we would already be in the city. The Gold Cloaks could never fend off the attack if we only hit them hard enough."

"And where shall we board?" Daeron asked. "The harbor must be large enough for the royal fleet, but not too large to be a target for Viserys or Stannis. The last thing we need is to be caught with our pants down while we are boarding the ships."

"Here," Aegon said, pointing to a spot on the map after a moment's thought.

"You serious?"

"Yes, absolutely. The harbor is perfect. Large enough but not too large. And before you ask, I'm well aware of the irony."

Oberyn stepped closer, grinning broadly as he looked at the point Aegon was still pointing to. The three looked at each other for a moment, then all nodded in agreement, even though Daeron did not really like the idea. Did it really have to be this town? Apparently yes.

Duskendale of all places, he thought. The last time its name appeared in the history books, it almost sparked the downfall of our House, driving grandfather mad. Maybe this time it can save it.

The plan stood. They would march to Duskendale, giving the Stormlands and King's Landing a wide berth so as not to run into Stannis or Viserys and then board the ships of the royal fleet with their Dornish spears and all loyal troops they could gather on their way. With a swift and decisive strike against the capitol, they would hopefully remove Viserys from the throne and unite all Targaryen loyalists under their banner instead of fighting each other. After that they would be able to strike a quick and hard blow against Stannis and – after the man had either fallen in battle or been beheaded as a traitor – then take care of Jon Arryn, should he still want to fight after Stannis' death, that was.

They had already heard that fights had broken out in the Vale of Arryn between loyalists and rebels. The port of Gulltown, in which most of the ships under Jon Arryn's command were anchored, had been closed and was defended by loyalists under the command of Lord Grafton, just as his father had done in the beginning of the last rebellion. So Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon could not hope for new knights and soldiers, supplies and support to come to their aid by sea in the near future. They could of course send ravens to the Vale ordering the other rebel lords to take the Bloody Gate and march along the high road through the Mountains of the Moon into the Riverlands. But that would take every army at least two months and would have them march through lands – at least in the southern Riverlands – full with lords and knights fiercely loyal to House Targaryen. So even if they would make it through the mountains, the Riverlands and down into the Crownlands in time, they would certainly have to fight so many battles for every league to march, that only a fraction of that army could hope to arrive in the Crownlands or even the Stormlands to support Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon in their war.

Also, marching this army throught the Riverlands would bring them dangerously close to the North. He hoped and prayed that Robb would support their cause. Daeron was sure that Robb would never go to war against him, although that of course did not mean that he would fight for them, possibly attacking a host from the Vale. They had no ravens to send to Winterfell, Riverrun or Harrenhal or any other of the major castles in the North and the Riverlands and had not found any in the rookery of Grassfield Keep either. They either had never existed at all or the local maester had released them before the fall of the castle. It was no secret that the often praised neutrality of the maesters in many cases was no more than a hollow phrase with which they adorned and hoped to protect themselves in case of captivity. And who could blame them? Anyone who spent his entire life in the service of one and the same family inevitably had to develop a form of loyalty at some point. Anything else would have been unnatural and would have only made these men even more suspicious in Daeron's eyes.

So no ravens could be sent north. Of course, they could send mounted messengers, but those would take weeks to reach the castles – if at all – end equally long back. By then, the war would most certainly already be over. Aegon had therefore decided to spare the riders and instead follow their plan and march north after their meeting with the lords Redwyne and Tarly themselves. Along the way, they would either capture ravens with which they could get in contact with Robb, or get so close to the northern Riverlands, the lands of the Tullys and the Whents, that they might even be able to meet Robb in person.

It took another five days before a small force – fortunately hardly more than an honor guard of about two hundred mounted men – under the banners of the houses Redwyne and Tarly came into view. In the evening of the fifth day they finally reached Grassfield Keep and were taken to their rooms after being welcomed by Aegon himself.

Lord Redwne was a small man, thin and with only a few orange tufts of hair remaining on his otherwise balding head. He had a fatherly smile on his face and Daeron could not help but think that he would have made a fine septon had he not been one of the most rich and powerful lords of the realm. He was clad in fine garments in dark blue and shining purple with a lustrous golden chain hanging around his neck. The other man, Lord Randyll Tarly, seemed to be the exact opposite of Lord Redwyne. He was lean and his head was also balding, with a short, bristly grey beard around his strong chin. There was not even the slightest hint of a smile on his face, however. Lord Randyll had an expression in his face as stern and serious as Daeron had never even seen it on his uncle Eddard's face. He wore simple clothes of dark green wool and boiled leather and a breastplate of simple grey steel, although there was no battlefield anywhere near. He was a warrior and he wanted everybody to see it.

They spoke only briefly. Daeron noticed that the two lords addressed his brother with Your Grace all the time, but did not kneel and avoided every word that could be misinterpreted as a vow of fealty, intentionally or unintentionally. They were here to join Aegon and swear allegiance to him, but this allegiance would come at a price.

On the morning the next day, he, Aegon and Oberyn were on their way to their meeting with the lords Redwyne and Tarly. He could see it in Aegon's face that he had not slept well last night and he could not blame him for it. This meeting could be crucial to the course of the war, possibly a moment for the history books, a moment that could decide over victory or defeat of their cause. Getting the support of the Redwynes and – combined with the force of the royal fleet – by doing so basically ruling all the seas around Westeros was already half the battle.

And then there was Lord Tarly, of course. Even if the man did not command one of the larger armies of the Reach, he was widely considered to be one of the Reach's finest soldiers. He was a hard man, valuing strength and bravery and openly despising weakness and cowardice, a genial tactician who could certainly make the difference between victory and defeat in the field. It was an open secret that during the last rebellion, it had not been Lord Mace Tyrell who had defeated Robert Baratheon in the Battle of Ashford, but Randyll Tarly, wrestling down the superior rebel forces in a battle lasting almost an entire day while Mace Tyrell had still been straying through the Reach with his army in search of the battlefield.

They needed both of those men on their side if they wanted to succeed. Losing one of Westeros' best soldiers or one of the largest war fleets of the realm now would mean they would have to face at least one, possibly both of them later in the war as enemies. Those two men belonged to the few forces that could decide this war for one or the other side and they could not risk losing either of them to their enemies, be it Viserys or Stannis Baratheon.

They reached the Small Hall, which had been chosen as the best place for their meeting and as the presence of the guards at the door made clear, both lords were already present and waiting. Aegon was just about to enter, when Oberyn reached for his arm and pulled him back, whispering into his ear, loud enough so that Daeron could hear it but low enough so that the guards could not.

"Remember, nephew, you are a king, you are the king. So act like a king, not like a beggar."

Aegon seemed to think about that for a moment and then simply nodded before turning around again and stepping through the door that the soldiers quickly opened for him. The lords Redwyne and Tarly were seated at the large table in the middle of the room, opposite of the door. Both men immediately rose from their seats and bowed to Aegon as they all three entered the room. Aegon took the seat at the head of the table, Daeron took the seat to his right and Oberyn the seat to his left. A servant came running around the table, serving silver cups with sweet and heavy wine and then left like a mouse on the run from a hunting cat.

"My lords, it's a pleasure to have you here."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lord Redwyne replied. "We are honored that you have taken the time to receive us under these troublesome circumstances."

"Of course, though I must say I was somewhat surprised by the word you sent me."

"Surprised, Your Grace?"

"Yes, surprised. When your messenger told me he had a message for me from the Lords Redwyne and Tarly, I assumed I would be receiving a vow of fealty and not having to invite you for tea and pastries."

"It's not like that at all, Your Grace, we just-"

"And now that you are here," Aegon interrupted him, "I have still not received a vow from you either. So I assume you want something in return before you bend the knee to me."

"Isn't it customary for loyal bannermen to be rewarded by their liege lord?" Lord Tarly asked now, still looking as grumpy as he did yesterday when he was welcomed.

"Yes, but usually only after the war has been won and not before as the price for their loyalty," Aegon hissed at him.

"We would never price our loyalty, Your Grace," Lord Redwyne said in a calm, almost apologizing voice. "But we are taking a great risk just by talking to you. Just to speak to you could already be considered treason."

"It would be treason," Aegon said in a low voice, slowly becoming angry, "not to follow my call, my lords, as I am the rightful king."

"So say the others as well," Lord Tarly yelped back.

"Rhaegar has given up his crown," Oberyn now said from the side, "and this is Rhaegar's son and heir. He is the rightful king, or do you want to doubt his paternity?"

"Of course not, but he is his heir only if one does not follow King Rhaegar's final decree before his abdication," Lord Redwyne returned. "As you surely know, King Rhaegar decided to annul his marriages with Princess Elia and Lady Lyanna, which would make all his children bastards."

Daeron looked over at Aegon and noticed his gaze darkening. It was clear that these two Lords would not accept their father's last decree to annul his marriages. Otherwise they would not have come here in the first place. So what was the point of this game?

They try to weaken Aegon's position in order to raise the price of their loyalty, Daeron thought. He was relieved when he heard his brother continue to speak in a calm tone instead of exploding towards the two men. He could hardly have blamed him.

"Even the king does not have the authority to annul a marriage that has been sealed in the eyes of gods and men."

"And yet that is exactly what he did, Your Grace. So if you want us to-"

"If you have come here only to remind me of the madness of my father, then I can assure you that you have made the journey in vain," Aegon thundered to them. Immediately, the soft smile disappeared from Lord Redwyne's face and Lord Tarly looked even more grim than before. "I am absolutely aware of my father's… mental condition. And should you take his feeble-minded drivel seriously, I am no more than a bastard in your eyes anyway, and surely not the man you will bend the knee to. So if that is what you have come for, you best get back on your horses quickly and ride further this was," he said, pointing north. "You will find the Roseroad there. It can lead you to both, my uncle Viserys and Lord Stannis, if you will. And thankfully, you will have a long enough ride ahead of you to decide which of those two has parents with a marital status more to your liking."

With that he jumped up, turned around and stormed out of the chamber without another word. Oberyn and Daeron followed wordlessly. That had undoubtedly not gone as expected, but Oberyn still seemed satisfied, judging by the confident grin on his face. Daeron had to think over what had just happened for a moment but then he could understand why Oberyn was so happy. The two men had not bent the knee to Aegon, had not sworn fealty to Aegon, had not even put their demands on the table, but had only disrespected his brother. Aegon however had made it clear that he would not throw himself at their feet to be supported by them, and that he would certainly not let them make a fool of him and insult him. He was the rightful king and if they wanted something from him, they better started to treat him like the king. Both lords had tried to raise the price for their loyalty and Aegon had just pushed the price back down.

Aegon let them wait for one and a half days before he agreed to meet with them again. It was not as if they themselves had time to lose, but if a day's wait meant putting both lords back in their places, it was worth it. His brother met with the two lords alone then, after breaking the fast with Daeron and Oberyn. His uncle was sure it would make a better impression if he faced them alone, not needing the two of them to constantly hold his hand. Apparently, this time both men behaved better towards Aegon as he was leaving the chamber with a satisfied smile on his face when they paused their conversation for a small meal.

Aegon did not talk much during their meal, chicken stew with green peppers, pearl onions and honey, but seemed to have good hope of reaching an agreement soon. It took his brother almost the rest of the day until he finally left the chamber again, followed by the lords Redwyne and Tarly, all three red faced from the wine and smiling broadly. All of them seemed to be happy with the outcome.

"Tomorrow they will bend the knee to me before witnesses and swear their fealty to me," Aegon told him in good humor after they had met in his chambers for a last cup of Arbor Gold before ending the day and going to sleep.

"And what did you have to promise them in return?" Daeron asked.

"Lord Paxter wanted to become Hand of the King. But I refused, because I would like to keep the position open for now. That was the most difficult point. But I was able to offer him something else instead."

"And what?" Oberyn now wanted to know.

"Highgarden, of course. Once the war is over, Paxter Redwyne will be the new Lord Paramount of the Reach."

"Hmm, that makes sense. They have an old claim on Highgarden, one of the best in the Reach. But honestly, I'm surprised they came to you in the first place. After all, Mace Tyrell's mother is a Redwyne. Lady Olenna."

"Indeed," Aegon said, "and his own wife is Macel's sister Mina Tyrell. But grandmother was right. Family or not, there is very little love between the Arbor and Highgarden, and Lord Tyrell is anything but a popular man, not even with parts of his own family. He is a fat fool and a boaster from an upjumped family. Not many lords of the Reach seem to enjoy owing allegiance to such a man. And apparently, even fewer like to be drawn into a rebellion against the crown by him just because he wants to win a crown for his daughter."

"What will become of the Tyrells?" Daeron asked.

"I have left that to Lord Redwyne's judgment. He doesn't like them, but they are family. So it's unlikely that he will gut them alive. I suggested that one of his sons… Hobber or Horas, I can't remember which one is the older one… should marry Margaery Tyrell and the other one should marry one of the daughters of Mathis Rowan to secure their claim. Maybe he will do it, maybe he won't. But that's not my concern."

Daeron took a deep breath. He had thought for a moment that Lord Redwyne would demand a marriage with the royal family, that perhaps he would have to take his daughter Desmera to wife. It would not have been the worst choice. He had seen Desmera only once when she had been visiting the royal court. They had been mere children at that time but he remembered her pretty freckles and that she had been a nicely-dowered girl. She had speaken with a voice soft as silk and had been quite shrewd for her age. A circumstance that especially their grandmother had enjoyed a lot.

"And what of Lord Tarly?" he heard Oberyn ask. "No doubt he also demanded something, or is it enough for him to know that the Fat Flower will soon no longer be his liege lord?"

"No, it is not enough for him, I'm afraid," Aegon said. "I offered him the position of Master-at-arms of the Red Keep and Master of Laws in my Small Council for him and his son after him, but he declined."

"What did he want then?" Daeron asked.

"Well… I think we can congratulate you."

"Me?" he asked confused. "Why me? What do I..." And then the realization struck him like a blow. "What's her name?"

"Talla."

Notes:

So, that was it. How did you like it? What do you think? As always, feel free to let me kow in the comments what you think and feel. :-)

I have no idea how long it will take for me to write and upload the next chapter from now, because my new job is starting and that will be REALLY stressy, but I promise that I will do my best. Hope you stay tuned.

Chapter 38: Catelyn 3

Notes:

Hi everyone,

I'm really sorry for how long it took me to write this chapter, but as I said last time, I am in the middle of my training and orientation for my new job (in a new city) so my life is incredibly stressy at the moment. I hope you can forgive me ;-)

At first, I wanted to split this in two separate chapters but since both would have been pretty short, I decided against it. I hope you guys enjoy it. Have fun. :-)

"He is a traitor. That is all you need to know, my lady," Jon Arryn had assured her with a weak, toothless smile.

That was all he had wanted to tell her, even after she had asked him two more times. The man who had been dragged across the castle courtyard in the middle of the night to the dungeons of Storm's End a few days earlier had screamed and bellowed so loudly that she had woken up in her chambers from it. She had not recognized his voice, but she had immediately heard from his way of speaking, shouting and swearing that he was a nobleman. Also the unmistakable patois of the Riverlands had immediately gone into her ear. A lord from the Riverlands now sat in the dungeon of Storm's End and neither Jon Arryn nor Lord Stannis would tell her who it was.

She knew it was neither her brother nor her uncle Brynden. She would have recognized their voices everywhere. But then who was it? He had to be high-born enough so that not only was it worthwhile to imprison him instead of executing him right away if they thought him a traitor, but also to keep his name secret from her. Either way, a lord of the Riverlands imprisoned in Storm's End was not good news for Catelyn. It meant that at least parts of the Riverlands had already decided against joining Stannis and thus sided with the Targaryens. Had he been a bannerman of her son, neither Jon Arryn nor Stannis Baratheon would have dared to lay a hand on him, as they still hoped for the support of the North and the rest of the Riverlands in their war against the crown. Or was that perhaps the very reason why they hid his name from her?

Catelyn did not know. All she knew was that she could no longer stay here. The negotiations with Lord Jon – if those short daily talks could still be called that at all – had been going in circles for quite some time already and it was clear that no agreement would be reached. The Lords Arryn and Baratheon demanded nothing less from Catelyn than a binding pledge of fealty in the name of her son, granting them the full political, economic, and of course military support of the North and the Riverlands. Something that Catelyn neither could nor would agree to.

And so, five days ago, she had informed Lord Jon that she was planning to leave Storm's End for Riverrun as soon as possible to inform Robb about everything and consult with him about what to do next. Jon Arryn had remained friendly, but had urged her several times in the days that had followed to stay a little longer in order not to end the supposedly fruitful talks too soon, when they were certainly close to an agreement. She had refused each time.

On the first day she had not been allowed to leave Storm's End because the winds in Shipbreaker Bay had been too violent to ensure her safe departure. Or so Lord Stannis had said. It had been something she had hardly been able argue against given that she knew nearly nothing about the oftentimes sudden and dangerous winds in Shipbreaker Bay, although – standing on the top of the outer wall of Storm's End, her hair flying open in the light wind – she had been certain that a few experienced oarsmen would have been quite capable of safely reaching her ship, which was still anchored in the bay. On the second day numerous ships had allegedly been sighted under foreign sails somewhere between Tarth and Rain House that had been believed to be pirates, and the next morning there had again been some reason why Catelyn had not been allowed to go back on her ship and sail to back Riverrun to see Robb. This time Lord Jon hadn't even bothered to make up a lie anymore, but had simply forbidden her to leave with feigned regret. Catelyn had not asked him again.

At least her personal guards were still allowed around her. Not that seven men could do all too much should Lord Stannis decide that it would be better to imprison her in the next moment. But she felt safer with men from the North around her, something Lord Jon most probably wanted to achieve in order to keep her calm. Her decision had already been made, however. She would leave this place, flee and return to Robb.

The air in her small chamber was so cold that she could see her breath like little clouds in front of her face when she sat up in her bed in the middle of the night. It seemed almost unbelievable how fast the weather had changed in the past weeks. The tip of her nose was numb from the icy air and her hands shivered when she put on her dress and swung her dark blue cloak around her shoulders. She was glad that her thick woolen cloak with the fur trimmed collar was held in such a dark color. It would hopefully do her good service during this night. She looked out of the window before leaving her room. There were almost no clouds in the sky, so the moon was big in the sky and shone almost as bright as a second sun. Far too bright for her taste. Still, there was no going back. It had to happen tonight. Tonight she would flee Storm's End.

The men waited outside her room, fully dressed and armored, with swords on their belts and dark hoods over their heads. It would of course be better if they would not have to use their weapons, but the men still carried them in case anything went wrong. She had wanted to forbid it, but Harold, the captain of her little guard, had insisted that it was better to be safe than sorry. Something she had not been able to argue against.

"My lady, we must hurry," the old soldier said. "In less than an hour the guards will change. The men on duty are tired and sleepy now, but if we don't make it out in time, we'll be dealing with well-rested men with sharp eyes."

He had tried to whisper his words but failed miserably due to how coarse his voice was. The years of drinking strong spirits in the Smoking Log and yelling and shouting at the young men under his command had taken their toll.

"Then let us not waste any time. Lead the way, Harold" she said in a soft tone, pointing along the dark corridor with a quick nod.

Harold led the group through the almost pitch black corridors of the castle with an almost sleepwalking certainty, their only light being the fire of a small tallow candle in his big, scarred hands. After she had informed him of their situation – being prisoners in Storm's End, just without chains – he had not slept in three days and instead begun to study the nightly routes of Storm's End's guards as secretly as possible. Yesterday in the evening, before Catelyn had retreated to her chambers for the night, he had informed her that he had come up with a route through the castle on which they were most likely not to encounter any guards. They passed uncountable doors, all of them closed, but only very few windows. Behind some doors the noises of either snoring or whoring could be heard, but for the most part the castle was as silent as a crypt. She had wanted to take a route with more windows so that she could see where they were and where they were going, but Harold had advised against it.

"If you can look out the window, someone on the outside can see you just as well, my lady," Harold had growled and had been right with that.

They walked with quick steps along dark corridors, around corners and up and down stairs. During the night, the castle was even more of a maze than during the days and Catelyn was thankful that Harold knew the way so well. On her own, she would have lost her orientation completely long ago. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor and Catelyn was sure that half of the fortress must have awakened from this already. But they met no one but a hissing cat and heard no one but some barking dogs somewhere in the distance. They stepped out onto a small courtyard and crossed it as fast as they could. She had the feeling that the bright moonlight almost made her shine like a torch. Whoever happened to be walking on a nearby wall or looking out of a window could not help but scry them. But again nobody seemed to notice them.

Harold led them further through the deepest guts of the castle, passing the now cold and empty kitchens and the quite servants quarters. They stopped in front of a small door for which Harold pulled a key from his sleeve and creakingly opened it.

"Cost me a silver stag," the old man said, answering Catelyn's questioning look as to where he got the key from. "Lord Stannis does not exactly shower his men with riches, my lady. And in times of war, it can be quite expensive for a man to get some distraction."

"Distraction? You mean whores."

"Aye, my lady."

He opened the door for her and bid her in with a nod. Catelyn stepped in and immediately the door was closed behind her again. For a heartbeat, she was surprised, then shocked, then afraid. Had her men betrayed her? Was she now a captive of Lord Stannis? No, that was not possible. She did not know all the men that had come with her to Storm's End, but she knew Harold well enough and the old grump would never betray her, for no whores or drinks or riches in the world. It took her a moment to realize what she was supposed to do in this room. On a small bench in the corner of the room, next to some burning candles, there was a small pile of clothes. She immediately recognized the parts of an armor, almost as small as if they were for a child, a pair of simple trousers and a thick doublet in the colors of House Stark of Winterfell, grey and white. Next to the pile of clothes, there were some leather gloves, a hood of rusty chain mail and a small kettle hat waiting for her.

She hesitated one more heartbeat before taking the clothes off the bench. She had not expected that she would have to redress, although she had to admit that this idea – most probably Harold's – was a good one. They were about to sneak out of a heavily guarded castle, secretly board their ship in the dark of the night and sail back north as fast as they could. It was something that was already difficult enough for a group of soldiers, but certainly almost impossible for a lady that was supposed to be held captive, even if neither Lord Stannis nor Lord on had ever openly declared her hostage. Looking at the old helmet, she would have wished for a helmet that would have covered her face, but any sort of closed great helmet would have only looked even more ridiculous on her, a relatively small person compared to the soldiers surrounding her, and would most certainly only have drawn more unwanted attention to her.

So she took the clothes and examined them closely. It were the same clothes that her guards wore, only quickly changed in some places to fit her smaller physique. So the silver deer had not only been for the key to this room – after all, she could have changed elsewhere – but for some kitchen maid secretly changing these clothes to better fit her. Not that this miserable work was worth a silver stag. Probably not even a copper penny, if one was honest. The seams were horribly done and she was sure that in broad daylight, wearing these clothes she would look either like a beggar or a court jester. But for the moment, they would suffice.

Hopefully.

She quickly took off her dress and tried to put on the new clothes with stiff and shaky fingers. The clothes smelled… unpleasant to say the least, as if they had already been worn for at least some days. That was probably even the case. So even if her appearance was not too convincing, she would at least smell like a man. It would not be easy for her to pass as a soldier with her very female form, only sparsely hidden under these loosely hanging clothes, the few parts of armor and the old, dented helmet that did little to cover her face. The small hood of chain mail at least hid her full, red hair well enough. Still she would have to keep her gaze down as not to draw any attention to her face and keep it hidden in the little shadow the helmet would be able to offer as good as possible. As long as no one looked too closely or spoke to her directly, she would not be discovered with a quick glance.

Hopefully.

Finally, she slipped into the heavy leather boots, which were clearly too big for her, but she was able to stuff them with some cloth and straw so that they would not fall off her feet again immediately. Catelyn then stepped out of the room again, looking in the face of an anything but satisfied Harold. Clearly he had imagined her to look more convincing. At least he did not say anything that would have only unsettled her even more. Without a single word, they continued their way through the castle.

"How will we get to our ship?" she asked in a moment when she was sure that there was no one within earshot.

"Through the tunnel that brought us in."

Catelyn was confused.

"The tunnel that is heavily guarded by dozens of men, with the many heavy doors and manholes?"

"Yes," he only said, obviously wanting to end their little conversation, but Catelyn's questioning gaze made him go on. "It’s heavily guarded, almost impassable. But only from one side. Coming from within the castle, the tunnel cannot be blocked or defended."

They walked further through the castle with fast steps. The crossed the courtyard again and Catelyn thought that now, wearing these unfitting clothes and the no less unfitting armor, she must have looked even more eye-catching, shining far and bright like the fire of a light house for everyone to see. But again nobody saw them walking across the open courtyard or in case somebody did actually see them, he did not pay special attention to them. They entered a small building through an open door, crossed two smaller rooms and walked along another dark and windowless corridor, probably leading right through the massive defense wall that had stood high behind the small building, completely surrounding the courtyard. They passed smaller rooms, turned left and right around some corners and stepped stairs up and down again.

It amazed Catelyn how well Harold knew his way around this huge fortress. The man had indeed made good use of these last three days without sleep. Once they were back in the Riverlands, she would make sure to grant him a reward for this, a title of some sort maybe. He was a lowborn man from the North, so he would not care about being knighted like a man from the rest of the realm would do. But he truly deserved a reward and Catelyn decided that he would definitely get one.

She shivered from the icy winds that blew through Storm's End, piercing through her worn, holey clothes and biting into her skin.

As icy as its lord's eyes, she thought and seemed to get even colder from thinking back to Lord Stannis' always loveless stare.

She clenched her fists and toes again and again while walking to try to get some feeling back in her hands and feet again, but that did not really help. Every other night she would have loved to just crawl back into her bed, rolling herself in under countless blankets and thick furs and wait for the cold to go away. But that was not possible now. She had to leave this place, had to get away and to get back to her family.

At least what is left of it, she though bitterly.

She thought of Ned, of how she would have loved to snuggle up to her beloved now and feel his warmth, in their bed in Winterfell, a crackling fire burning in hearth nearby. He would have held her in his arms, would have kissed her and would have told her that everything would be fine again, that all this madness would be over soon and that she would of course get her girls back, alive and well. But that would not happen. Not here, not now and not in the future. Her loving Ned was gone, her wonderful, sweet girls were gone. She felt tears rising to her eyes, felt another, stronger shiver run through her body, a shiver that did not come from the cold. She felt the sobs coming, felt how all her strength threatened to leave her.

Catelyn pulled herself together with all the strength and willpower she had left, blinked the tears away and forced her body not to shiver anymore. If somebody would now see her crying and sobbing, sneaking around the castle dressed like a soldier, everything would be lost and she had no doubt that she would end up in the dungeons like this unnamed lord from the Riverlands as well before the night would be over. No matter where she was born, she was a lady of the North now, the lady of Winterfell and the lady of Winterfell had to be strong. Ned would have wanted her to be strong, her girls would have wanted her to be strong and even if not for those she had lost, she would be strong for Robb and Bran and Rickon. She would not let her family down, whatever little may be left of it.

After what felt like almost the entire night, they finally stepped out into another courtyard again. Catelyn almost could not believe her eyes when she finally saw that massive, wooden door that lead down into the tunnels merely twenty or so steps in front of them. Through this door, she had entered Storm's End in good hopes to achieve something, anything that would help her family in these horrible times. Through this door, she would now leave Storm's End again, the knowledge of the loss of her beloved husband and their sweet daughters being her only achievement.

"Try not to look suspicious. Don't slow down, don't speed up. Just keep walking," Harold whispered and for a heartbeat, Catelyn was not sure if this was meant for her or for himself.

The door was getting closer and closer, was getting larger and larger with every step. Her heart beat faster and she was sure that halfway to the door, is was hammering so loud in her chest that everybody around her must have heard it. There were only five or six steps left when she heard a voice behind her.

"Hey, what are you doing here? Stop right there!" The group followed the soldier's order and stopped on the spot as if rooted to the ground. Catelyn felt as if her heart had stopped beating and immediately the shivers came back. "I said what are you doing here? You're not supposed to sneak around here, wildling fuckers." Quickly, Harold stepped forward, trying to block the stormlanders' view of her. Too late. "And what's that? Running around with a little boy in the middle of the night? You buggers are up for a little fun?" the soldier asked with a wicked laugh, clearly pointing to Catelyn. She held her head down, hoping and praying that the shadow of the helmet's brim would hide her face.

"One of our new men. He is young, needs a little exercise. So we got him out of bed in the night. Supposed to make a real man out of him."

"Strolling through the castle in the middle of the night won't make a man out of that little shit. That much is certain. Now turn around and fuck off. You're not supposed to be here. Don't want to see you again around here or-"

The man's words went down in a short gurgling. Before Catelyn fully understood what had just happened, Harold pushed her forward and they ran towards the massive door again. Harold tore it open and immediately three of the men rushed through in front of her. She heard the unmistakable sounds of swords being drawn and dead bodies falling to the ground. She looked around for a moment before Harold pushed her inside, too. In the middle of the courtyard, where they had just been standing, the Baratheon soldier was now lying on the ground. The hilt of a small knife stuck out of his throat and blood flowed through his fingers in thick gushes. He lay on the ground, trembling all over his body, looking after her with eyes wide open in shock. Then she was already in the next room and the dying soldier was gone from her sight.

"You killed that man," she said to Harold, not sure herself whether it should be a simple statement or an accusation. She had known that they might not get out of Storm's End without killing. But watching the man die had been different than she had imagined.

"Either that or we had to turn around," Harold grumbled back. His tone was not aggressive, but it was clear to Catelyn that the man had no intention of apologizing for what he had done.

She looked around in the room and saw more Baratheon soldiers lying on the ground. Two were dead for sure, swords driven right through their hearts from behind, while one only seemed to be unconscious from a violent blow to the head. Harold had been right. As impassable as this tunnel may have been coming from the sea side below them, coming from within the castle, it was practically indefensible. The soldiers in this room had not seen them coming, had not expected to be attacked from behind and had fallen quickly and silently.

"Harold," she said. "I don't want to leave a trail of dead bodies behind. Do not kill unless you absolutely must. So far, Lord Stannis is not our enemy and I would like to keep it that way."

"Aye, my lady. But every man we let live can still shoot us a crossbow bolt in the back. So if things get dicey, I don't give a shit about the lives of these bastards if I can get you to safety in return, my lady. Now please come, we must hurry. It won't be long before someone sees the dying arsehole out in the yard. The door to the yard is locked, but that won't last long. We may have a few more moments before the seven hells break loose here. And then we'd better be deep down in that damn tunnel."

As if to proof his point, Catelyn immediately heard excited shouting and screaming from outside and the frantic ringing of a bell signaling alert to seemingly the entire castle. Everyone who had not yet done so immediately drew his sword. Catelyn immediately drew hers, too, and held it protectively in front of her, as if she had to fend off an invisible enemy. She froze in fright when she saw that her weapon was nothing more than a wooden practice sword. Before she could say anything, Harold took it out of her hand, threw it into the corner and pressed a sharp, shiny dagger into her hand.

"We feared that a real sword might be too heavy for you to use it in a fight, my lady," he said hastily and then turned around wordlessly. The men obviously knew exactly what to do now, even without Harold giving them orders. At once they lined up in front of the next door with herself in the middle of the group. Her heart was beating up to her neck as the screams could now be heard just outside the big door and men started hammering against the thick wood.

"Open up!" she heard from outside. "Open up now!"

"Shit, these bastards are quicker than I thought," Harold bellowed.

Three of her men turned to face the exit door, which had already begun to crack under the violent beating and pounding. One nodded in the direction of Harold, who immediately turned to the first gate leading into the tunnel, ripped it open and rushed in. Catelyn was pulled along as if by the current of a wild river, leaving the three men behind. They hurried along a narrow passage and down the first steep staircase. She almost tripped, but the strong grip of one of the men on her arm held her upright and pulled her further, step by step. The stairs turned into the deep, only dimly lit by the trembling light of some torches, hanging in niches carved into the massive rock.

Further and further down the stairs led them. Catelyn recalled her ascent through this same tunnel a while ago only vaguely, but she knew that they would soon have to reach a room with defenders who secured the tunnel downstairs with man-long spears and crossbows. Step followed step and again she almost slipped. Suddenly she heard a crash in front of her, the splintering of wood and the screams of men. She was dragged through the brightly lit room, but in the rushing by she could hardly recognize anything more than bleeding bodies lying on the floor in one corner and a cut-off head in the other.

She felt queasy inside, but was immediately pulled out of the room into the darkness of the tunnel and away from the horrible sight before it could get any worse. The staircase that followed was long and straight as a die, but so steep that it almost seemed like a ladder to her. Catelyn remembered very well how her thighs had burned as she had climbed it a while ago. Now she slipped and stumbled over the wet stone, holding to either Harold's shoulders in front of her or the arm of the soldier next to her.

Corrin or Collin or something.

They ran further, along a small straight part of the tunnel, around a corner and through an open portcullis. When they were all through, Harold called back "Now!" from the depth of his lungs. The portcullis thundered down, followed immediately by the chain it had been hanging from, now broken and useless. Only now did Catelyn notice that another one of her men was missing. Another one had stayed behind to allow her to escape. Another one had given is life or was about to do just that. Again she felt tears rising into her eyes, tears for the men that so willingly gave their lives for her, without her even knowing all their names.

Once again she heard the splintering of wood, the clinking of clashing swords and the screaming of wounded and dying men. But this time not ahead, but behind them. The first door must have been broken through finally.

Harold grabbed her and pulled her further, breathing heavily. She felt how warm and sweaty his hand was, and that it was hard for him to grab her with it. They rushed down more steps, passed a small niche where a soldier was waiting and looking towards them. Blinded by the light of the torches behind him, he realized too late who was coming towards him.

"What is going on up there? What is-"

With a strong thrust, Harold's sword pierced first his left eye, then the rest of his head, ending both his question and his life. They ran on and on. Everything blurred before her eyes. The horror of what just happened was covered by a curtain of deafness. She saw nothing more, heard nothing more, perceived nothing more, except the stamping of their boots on the wet stone of the stairs. More men died, falling to the ground in front of her and beside her and behind her as she was pulled past them.

A splash of icy cold water directly into her face and heavy winds that pulled on her clothes brought her out of her twilight state. Only now did she look around consciously again, realizing that they had actually made it down into the caverns beneath Storm's End. Two men were still with her, Harold and a redhead with a rustling beard who had come from Karhold to join Robb's army. That much she still knew. He drew his sword straight from the belly of a dying man, the last Baratheon soldier down here, which he then threw backwards into the surging waters with a violent kick. Then he reached out for Catelyn and put her in the small, wobbly rowboat that was tied to the jetty in front of them, with the same ease with which a child would have done it with his toy.

"Quick, quick," she heard Harold say, who was already in the boat and had grabbed one of the oars. The redhead joined in, cut the last rope with a hearty stroke of his sword and immediately grabbed the second oar. They were ten, maybe twelve steps away from the jetty when Catelyn heard excited voices in the tunnel. Their pursuers were close. Twenty steps and she could see torchlight flickering through the small door. Twenty-five and a bunch of Baratheon men stepped out with swords drawn. Thirty and they had left the caverns, making Catelyn feel exposed in the bright moonlight again. Thirty-five, and now archers came running out of the tunnel, taking positions at the jetty.

The men rowed as hard as they could, pushing the little boat over the waves. She heard the hissing of arrows that flew past them and clapped into the water before and behind them. Plop. An arrow had hit the little bot. Plop. A second one. Plop, plop. Then again hissing and clapping.

"Just a little more and we'll be safe," Harold groaned between two powerful strokes of the oar.

"But we are still so close," Catelyn yelled against the wind.

"The ceiling of the cave is too low," he said. "The arrows cannot fly a high arc. Just a little more and we'll be through!"

Both men rowed and rowed. Still Catelyn heard a hissing now and then, then a clapping when an arrow had not found its mark. The longer the men rowed, the rarer the sounds became, until at some point they could no longer be heard. In some distance she could see the dark shape of her ship in the moonlight, getting closer and closer, bigger and bigger. Never in her life had Catelyn been so happy to see a ship.

When Catelyn awoke the next morning, she did not remember much of how she had gotten onto the ship, let alone into her cabin and her bed after their escape. All she remembered was that she had sunk to the deck and remained sitting there in exhaustion, while Harold, with his last ounce of strength and gasping for air, had shouted at some poor soldier to wake the captain, since they had to leave Shipbreaker Bay immediately before the Baratheon ships could pursue them. Lord Stannis did not have many ships at his disposal, but even against the few he had, they would not have been able to defend themselves alone. She looked at herself and realized that she was still almost fully dressed in the dirty and unfitting clothes of a soldier. She got up, washed her face in the small bowl next to her bed and put on a fresh dress as befits a lady. Thankfully she had not taken all her dressed with her to Storm's End and had instead let them on board. Then she left the cabin, going on deck immediately. The captain was there, discussing something with his steersman, but as soon as he saw her coming towards him, he approached her and bowed deeply.

"My lady, it's good to have you back on board."

"Thank you, my lord. I must have been so exhausted, I can't remember everything. Were there any more problems last night?"

"None, my lady. Two ships flying the Baratheon banner left shortly after us, but the sky had closed up and hidden the moon, so they could not track us in the darkness for long. The old and new gods must have been on our side, my lady."

"It would seem so. Tell me, is Harold still asleep? I want to thank him for his heroism."

"The redhead with the beard?"

"No, the other one."

The captain's gaze became uncertain and he hesitated a moment with the answer.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but the man did not survive. He had a deep wound in his arm through which he lost much blood. Too much. He died during the night."

For a moment, Catelyn was stunned. He couldn't possibly be dead. She had known that Harold would have died for her without hesitation, but that he was now really supposed to be dead struck her like a hammer blow.

Then there was no sweat on his hand. It was his blood. And he said nothing.

Catelyn decided that she would ensure that Harold would still receive a reward. His family had to be taken care of. Maybe she would even see to it that he would be knighted. She was sure that, as most Northeners, Harold himself would hardly have cared much about a Ser in front of his name, but the rest of the realm would and this way his heroism would be known not only in the North, but in the entire realm. But that was not enough. She thought back at the other men that had come with her, men had so willingly sacrificed their lives for her. She did not even know their names. She decided that she would learn their names and make sure that their families were also taken care of. Somebody would know who they were. She would learn their names and never forget them for the rest of her life. If nothing else, that was the least she could do for those brave men.

The following days at sea were rather uneventful. Catelyn spent much time in her cabin or stood on deck and watched the passing coast of Westeros in the distance. On the fourth day they passed Dragonstone, but at such a large distance that the ancient fortress was hardly visible. The captain, a slender man by the name of Edgarth Wendwater, did not want to come within the reach of the royal fleet he suspected to anchor there, as long as the relations between House Stark and House Targaryen were not fully settled. Still they were lucky with the wind and currents, so that they entered the Bay of Crabs only two more days later.

On the evening of the seventh day, their ship had entered the mouth of the Red Fork river and had thereafter been able to sail upstream for almost a third of the distance to Riverrun before the river had become too shallow for the ship. Shortly behind Harroway, Catelyn took a smaller riverboat for the rest of the way together with some soldiers as new personal guard. The small boat needed four more days until Riverrun finally came into sight.

Catelyn felt strange to finally see her old home again and the closer she got, the more intense the queasy feeling in her stomach became. The banner of House Tully flew proud in the wind on all towers and walls with only one giant direwolf banner flying higher on the top of the largest tower. She had not been here in years. Riverrun, the old ancestral home of her family, was a proud and beautiful castle, but so much smaller than she remembered it to be. When she had left Riverrun so many years ago to become the new lady of Winterfell, she had thought Riverrun to be large, giant even, surely one of the most impressive fortresses in the realm. Now that she was back and had seen more of the world, she knew it better. Still she was happy to be here again for the first time in years. She was happy to be able to see her old father again, her brother Edmure and all the knights and servants from her childhood days. At least those who were still alive.

The sun was already setting and bathed the land in a beautiful red light as the soldiers tied their boat to the small jetty. A fresh wind was blowing and Catelyn was glad to have found a thick cape with fur collar among her clothes. Her dress, all in light gray and bright blue with red adornments, the colors of the Starks and the Tullys, was appropriate, but she wore it for the third in a row day already. She only hoped that nobody would notice. With somewhat shaky steps she left the boat and grabbed the hand of the first man who offered it to her to stand safely again.

"Thank you, ser," she said without looking at the man. Only then did she realize that this was Ser Desmond Grell, her father's master-at-arms. For a moment, Catelyn was startled at the sight of him. The years had not been merciful to him, neither with his face pervaded by deep wrinkles, nor with his dwindling hair, nor with his big belly, of which she had thought even as a young girl that it could hardly get any bigger. Still, it was good to see his smiling face, as unsightly as it might have been. What really caught her eye though was the massive host that had set up camp south of the fortress.

"It's a pleasure, my lady. It's good to see you again."

"Thank you, Ser. It's good to be back."

"Would you like to see your father, my lady? I believe the maester has given him his sleeping draught already, but if you hurry he may not yet be asleep."

"Then I'll better see my father tomorrow. First I must see my son. Please take me to him immediately."

"Very well, my lady."

Ser Desmond offered her his arm, as elegantly as his bodily form allowed it, and led her through the camp. The ground was soggy and soft and here and there she sank into the mud almost to her ankle, which Ser Desmond did not seem to notice. She was thankful that the old bear seemed not to think he had to talk to her. She remembered her childhood and youth in Riverrun still well and the bawdy jokes he had always made at her expense. It hadn't been until she had married Ned and had become the new Lady of Winterfell that he had apologized to her, at the end of her wedding feast of all places. No doubt he would not dare to make such offensive remarks today, not near her and certainly not about her, but she was still glad not to have to talk to him. She looked around as they walked between the numerous tents and fireplaces, looked at the soldiers cleaning their stuff, eating or drinking and singing or practicing the use of weapons, and was happy to be alone with her thoughts.

She saw waving banners with the direwolf of House Stark, the silver trout of House Tully and the two blue towers of House Frey flying in the wind everywhere. She saw banners of almost all the major and minor houses from the North any many from the Riverlands as well, but even combined nowhere near as many as wolf, trout and towers.

So old Walder Frey had indeed not only allowed Robb to cross his bridge with his army but had also joined forces with him. That was good. Whatever reputation Lord Frey may have had, the Freys were indeed one of the most powerful houses of the Riverlands with a strong army, larger even than the army of their liege, her own father. But although she had never met Lord Walder Frey in person, she knew enough about the old man to know that his support no doubt came at a price. Catelyn wondered what Lord Frey had possibly demanded. Not money or titles. The man was rich, especially for a lord of his rank and standing, and held enough fiefs and titles that, apart from becoming the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands himself, more titles would bring him nothing of worth. But that, dethroning his own grandfather, was something that certainly not even Walder Frey would have demanded from Robb. So surely the price had been a betrothal. Robb himself was already married, so that could not have been it. Her own brother Edmure however was still unmarried and was the heir to Riverrun. She had no doubt that her father would even have agreed to such a union to secure the Frey forces for his grandson Robb. But perhaps the Lord of the Crossing had wanted the promise that Robb's first son, once born and of age, marry a daughter from House Frey, making a Frey the future lady of Winterfell. That would no doubt have been a very good match for his house. But no. Lord Frey was old. Very old even and Catelyn knew that the man would only accept a promise that he would see fulfilled during his lifetime. A betrothal that would only lead to a marriage long after his own death was not something that such a man would accept as a payment for his men and swords and horses.

It was far more likely that Lord Frey would want a marriage with one of her other children, possibly Bran. He was not the heir to Winterfell but still close enough. Second in line, at least until Robb would have a son. Should anything happen to Robb during the coming weeks or months though and should Wynafryd then only give birth to a daughter, Bran would indeed become the next Lord of Winterfell.

Or maybe old Lord Walder doesn't just want blood ties to House Stark, but wants to raise the worth of his own family's blood, maybe get his own claim to Winterfell, weak as that would be, she thought. That was definitely possible was well. Maybe he wants a marriage with Sansa or Arya for one of his sons or grandsons. Oh, my sweet girls...

She quickly tore herself away from the thought. She would finally see Robb again, she would inform him about everything she had experienced and learned, everything she had heard and overheard. As much as she missed them, she could not allow the thought of her girls to distract her. Not now. She had to pull herself together. She didn't know what Robb might have learned already, what he might have decided already. All she knew was that the next few days and weeks could be crucial for the future of House Stark, the entire North and the Riverlands. A decision had to be made, an ally had to be chosen. Whoever would win this war for the Iron Throne, the North – even with the support of parts of the Riverlands – could not hope to stand against the winner in the following war, should it not have sided with the winner early enough. And this constant talk of independence surely did not help either. Whoever would sit on the Iron Throne in the end would certainly not accept that the North would secede from the realm. So the North had to think carefully about who it would ally itself with, and there was no room for errors.

Lord Stannis may have been weak at the moment and his self-appointed claim to the throne even weaker, but that could change quickly depending on how many more troops he could actually raise in the Stormlands and possibly obtain from the Vale and the Reach. If things went well for him, especially with the support from the Reach, he could soon have the largest army of the realm gathered at his disposal. Moreover, House Targaryen was in a far from strong position itself. Prince Viserys, after the death of his brother and his nephews now probably King Viserys, may hold the capital and sit on the Iron Throne, but the number of powerful royalists, strong enough to make a real difference, was quite limited at best.

Apparently, a few smaller houses from the Riverlands such as Mooton and Ryger and a few from the Stormlands such as Cafferen and Grandison had joined King Viserys, along with most of the Crownlands, but they could hardly raise a large force. She had not heard of larger and more powerful houses like Darry however. The great houses of the Reach seemed at least reluctant to join their liege, Mace Tyrell, in following Stannis, but that didn't mean that they jumped to King Viserys' side either. King Viserys' only hope seemed to be Dorne but who could say if the Dornish were not already perusing their own agenda. In the end, it was Princess Rheanys – given that she was still alive – who was bound to Dorne by blood, not Viserys and even if the realm did not share the Dornish tradition of letting older daughters inherit titles before younger or uncles, who was to say that Dorn would not at least try to put Rhaenys on the Iron Throne in place of Viserys.

The Westerlands seem to have stayed out of the conflict completely so far. Tywin Lannister was undoubtedly rich and powerful enough to decide the war for one side or the other, no matter which side the lords of the Reach might choose in particular. But as far as she knew, the old lion had declared himself for no one so far. After the last rebellion, King Rhaegar had denied him to free his son from his vows of the Kingsguard, as he had not forgiven him for only taking his side at the very last moment, after the decisive battle that had already been won. No doubt King Viserys would now offer him exactly that, the freedom of his son and the return of his heir. The question was whether the old lion would accept it. His resentment against House Targaryen was well known and had been well cultivated over the years by the old man if the stories and rumors were to be believed. It was more likely that he would wait until the war was over, King Viserys was dead and Stannis sat on the Iron Throne and then simply take his son back to Casterly Rock. A few good men and some horses could do that in the dark of the night. Lord Stannis, then King Stannis, would of course never agree to free Ser Jaime from his vows, but if Lord Tywin simply stole him away, Stannis would – weakened by the war – certainly not start another war because of it.

Whatever her son would decide, it had to be a wise decision. Her son had to choose a side, either Baratheon or Targaryen, and had to end this annoying talk of independence once and for all. Because being on the wrong side in a war – or even worse, being on no side – could quickly mean the end for an entire house, even for such an ancient and seemingly everlasting house as House Stark. She finally arrived at Robb's tent. At first she found it strange that her son would not reside in Riverrun, after all the castle of his grandfather, but then it made sense. He wanted to be near his men, his vassals, his soldiers, the men who would fight and – if needed – die for him. She had no doubt that Ned would have stayed in the camp as well.

She said goodbye to Ser Desmond, thanked him for escorting her and then walked the last steps towards the tent on her own. Two soldiers stood guard to the right and left of the entrance and looked at her somewhat skeptically at first before recognizing her and bowing their heads before her.

"I must speak to your lord. Is my son in there?"

"Aye, your son's in the tent," the one on the left said, apparently the older of the two men. "But there's no lord in there, my lady, only the King in the North."

Notes:

So, that was it. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and the little surprise at the end that awaited Cat ;-)

Let me know what you think. And a promise to all you crazy kids who have commented on my last chapter(s): I promise that I will go back to answering you. Sorry for not having done that lately.

Chapter 39: Arya 4

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is finally here. As I said last time, I don't really have time to write anymore because of my new job and the really exhausting job training. But I still do my best :-)

So here is the next Arya-chapter. It's not too long but i hope you still enjoy it. Have fun :-)

The worst thing was the smell. After their arrival in Sunspear, she had thought that the heat in Dorne was the worst thing about this place. No matter where they were, inside or outside, sitting in the shadows or bathing in a pool in one of the gardens of the Old Palace, it was always so hot that she had the feeling of being sticky as if she had covered herself with honey from head to toe. And here, sitting in their father's room, it was even worse. The room only cooled down a bit during the nights which were almost as cold as the nights and days in Winterfell. The only good thing about this place. But worse than the heat in her father's room was the smell.

Sunspear's maester, a bald and ridiculously small man by the name of Caleotte, so old that he seemed almost ancient but at the same time so fat that his face was as smooth as the cheeks of a child, had done his best to cover up the smell with flowers and herbs and open vials of Myrish water spread all over the room, but nothing had really worked. Their father was lying in his bed the entire time since the very day of their arrival, restlessly sleeping and wet-faced from cold sweat. His eyes fluttered, but never opened. Now and then he moaned softly or seemed to whisper a word, but never woke up. When their ship had arrived in the harbor of Sunspear, Sansa had been the first to leave the ship, as it was befitting for the new queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She had been wearing a noble dress of fine, dark black cloth, which Queen Rhaella had somehow arranged for her back in Yronwood already, and which she had held back especially for the arrival in Sunspear. Sansa had not been wearing a crown, but had still looked so perfectly regal. Arya usually didn't care much about such things, but even she had had to admit that Sansa had looked like a queen from the stories, downright floating off the ship like an apparition. Queen Rhaella had been next to leave the ship, helped and accompanied by Ser Arthur Dayne. She herself and the others had followed in a somewhat random order with father leaving the ship almost as the last of the nobles.

He had been swaying, barely holding himself on his two feet, and by that time he had already been completely covered in sweat. She herself had blamed this on the unfamiliar sea voyage and the almost unbearable heat in Dorne, until their father had suddenly fallen lifeless to the ground from the plank between the jetty and the ship.

Now he was lying here in a broad bed in this much too warm room, covered under blankets despite the cold sweat he was covered in from head to toe, with his pale face and one of his feet being the only parts of him visible. His foot, his horrible foot, completely black as a crow's feather and the source of the ghastly smell.

Half a dozen times a day Sansa was there, sitting next to his bed and either talking to father or to Maester Caleotte. The man had tried to treat their father and his leg with strong herbal teas, stinking ointments and lotions, poultices of hot wine and vinegar and even some therapies he supposedly had learned during his time in Essos but so far nothing had helped even a bit. Arya came to their father just as often as Sansa, but never stayed very long. The sight and the smell of his black foot was simply too much for her to bear. She had wondered more than once how Sansa, her delicate and sensitive sister, could pull herself together so well all the time. Only now and then she saw her crying when she entered the room without knocking, but most of the time she seemed to be able to somehow just ignore the sight and the smell as if it was nothing to her.

Noon was long gone when Arya rose from her chair and left their father's room again for the third time that day. Sansa remained seated, but she knew that her sister, as queen, would have some obligations later and therefore could not stay much longer. She would have to let herself be seen at the Dornish court, would receive nobles from Dorne, all those already too old or still too young to have been going to war for Aegon, and would have to smile and talk and smile and talk. She did not envy her for that. Sansa stroked her briefly over the arms when she went out past her, but said nothing.

She walked around in the Old Palace for a while, through numerous small gardens with wonderfully smelling lemon and orange trees and along the richly decorated colonnades, trying not to think of anything. She passed by busy kitchens, which smelled of exotic herbs, fish and the sweetness of fresh fruits. The food always smelled outlandish and yet wonderful in Dorne, but Arya could hardly eat any of it, because every little bit, from bread to soups and pies to sweet cakes was so spicy in Dorne that it drove tears into Arya's eyes. She had even been offered spicy hot tea here. The only things that did not always set her mouth on fire were water and the almost undrinkable sour Dornish wine.

She sat down on a small stone bench in the middle of one of the smaller courtyards in the shadow of a large, slanted tree. A weird thing on which dark brown bristles were growing all over its slim trunk that only had long leaves at its tip. Prince Quentyn had told her that those were called palm trees and that their ancestors had brought them with them to Westeros when they left their homeland on the banks of the river Rhoyne in Essos, fleeing from the dragonlords of old Valyria.

"They are ugly," she had said. "Couldn't your ancestors have brought something more pretty with them?" After a brief look of shock, Prince Quentyn had burst into laughter.

"Yes, they are. They are ugly. But we still love them. They remind us of our old homeland and we love them for that," he had replied, holding his stomach in laughter, wiping away his tears.

The Dornish love these trees even though they are ugly. Father has always loved me too, even though I am ugly, she had thought then, trying to smother the sadness that came to her mind with the thought of her father.

She sat there on the small bench for a while, again trying not to think of anything, because she was afraid that she would not be able to think of anything else but her father's black foot. A voice tore her from the forced emptiness of her mind.

"Lady Arya, it's a pleasure to see you," Prince Quentyn said.

"Prince Quentyn," was the only greeting she returned with a short nod.

"I had hoped to meet you."

"Well, then you have met me now," Arya said in a bored tone. She bit her lip when she saw the disappointed look on his round face. Prince Quentyn had been nice and friendly to her from the first moment on and had spent a lot of time teaching her how to use a Dornish spear. Her mood was not his fault. "How may I be of service?" she then said, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

Immediately a shy smile returned to his face.

"I wanted to inquire about your father's condition."

"He is sleeping and has a high fever. Your maester has not been able to help him as yet."

"I am sorry to hear that. But be assured that Maester Caleotte will not rest until he has found a way to help Lord Eddard. My own father suffers heavily from the gout as you surely have seen already, so he is very skilled in the treatment of arms and legs."

For a moment they remained silent. Arya looked around and tried to avoid the prince's gaze, unsure what he expected of her.

"Will you not sit with me?" she finally asked. He did not answer, however, but hesitated and looked so baffled as if she had just offered him to take her maidenhead here and now. It took quite a while before he finally began to speak again.

"I actually wanted to offer you to practice a little more with the spear. Maybe tomorrow after breaking the feast, my lady. To distract you a bit, but of course I understand if you do not-"

"Yes, I'd like that very much," she interrupted him, now a broad smile on his face.

"Wonderful," he said and smiled just as broadly.

After that they practically stopped speaking, she sitting on the bench and looking in the distance, he standing next to her, cramping his hands in his doublet and apparently barely able to breath. Prince Quentyn picked an orange from a nearby tree then, sat down on the bench next to Arya and skillfully sliced the fruit for them with a small knife, handing her small pieces every now and then. It was sweet as sin and so juicy that her whole face was sticky after she had greedily eaten her half. The prince threw the peels into a nearby bush and then sat beside her in silence for a while. She was thankful that the prince seemed not to think he had to talk to her the entire time. The better part of an hour passed before the prince rose again, bowed before her and said goodbye to her as gallantly as he seemed able.

Arya stayed a while longer, mainly because now that she was alone again, she could finally try to wipe her sticky fingers clean on her dress without being seen. Then she got up and continued her walk. She briefly considered going back to her father, but decided against it. Her father was sleeping and did not notice if she was with him again or not anyway, and she herself would only end up in a bad mood again. Instead, she decided to walk around without a clear goal to get her head clear.

Apart from a few soldiers and servants, who completely ignored her, she met no one and was grateful for it. She reached a larger garden divided by an artificial river with small wooden bridges and some paved paths that led between fruit trees and almost surreal shining green bushes. She had been told that she had only seen the splendor of Dorne once she had been to the Watergardens. Yet already the numerous large and small gardens in Sunspear, which appeared so unreal under the merciless sun of Dorne, captivated her completely. She walked through the garden and looked at the fruits, wondering whether they were all edible and whether she was allowed to do so at all, until she heard voices in some distance. One of them was Sansa, as she recognized immediately. She walked towards them and actually found her sister sitting in a wide chair at a table in what must have been the middle of the garden with Queen Elia and the ruling Prince of Dorne, Doran Martell, sitting there too.

As usual, Prince Doran sat in his strange chair with the wheels on the sides, despite the heat almost completely hidden under thick blankets like a child in winter. Behind Prince Doran, his bodyguard and captain of his household guard, Areo Hotah was standing. The Norvosi was a broad-shouldered man with long, white hair, dressed from head to toe in copper scales, which were mostly hidden under yellow sand silk. He wore a Norvoshi half helmet on his head with a crest of sharpened tips, wrapped in orange silk. In his hand he held the shaft of his more than six foot high long axe, larger even than the man himself. Arya's gaze, however, immediately turned towards the man towering over her sister, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The man, dark of hair and purple of eye, all clad in shining white, was standing as still as if he was hewn from stone. Only his eyes flew left and right, guarding his new queen as observant as a falcon on the hunt for prey.

The two queens and Prince Doran were sitting together and apparently drinking tea when Arya approached. How one could drink hot tea in this weather was a mystery to Arya. She had been told that the sweet and strong herbal tea served in Dorne from dawn till dusk next to the sour Dornish wine should be pleasant and refreshing, but she had not tried it so far. When all her clothes were wet from her sweat the entire day, the last thing she needed to drink was hot tea.

When she came closer, she was greeted by the queens and Prince Doran. They offered her a seat and immediately a servant scurried up from somewhere in the shadows and placed a cup of hot tea on the table in front of her, too quickly for her to refuse it. As cheerful as the round at the table might have looked at first from a distance, the conversation turned out to be anything but cheerful. Apart from the short smile of greeting, all those present seemed rather sparing of words and downhearted. Not even her sister could bring herself to put on her regally noble smile.

"We could try again to send messages to the north," Prince Doran said after an uncomfortably long silence.

"You mean by ravens? They probably wouldn't get there any more than the last. And with mounted messengers, we would have to wait months until we received an answer," Queen Elia said. "If at all. We have not even received word from Lord Darry. We must assume he is either dead or has been taken prisoner."

"Perhaps he has turned against us," Prince Doran returned, but Queen Elia waved away.

"No way. House Darry is loyal to House Targaryen, has always been and will always be. Besides, no one in his right mind would rather have Viserys or Stannis, the old sourpuss, as king. No, either our messages to our loyal friends or the answers to us have been intercepted along the way."

"But there must be something we can do. We can't just sit here and drink tea," Sansa now said in an almost pleading tone.

"I'm afraid that's exactly what we have to do right now, dear," Queen Elia said. "Sometimes you have no choice but to sit, drink tea and wait. That is the heaviest burden of a queen."

"Queen Rhaella of House Targaryen," a servant announced from somewhere behind them. At the same moment Queen Rhaella approached the table, the same royal smile on her tired face as Sansa had been wearing all the time lately. They greeted each other with light kisses on the cheeks and a servant brought another chair and hot tea for the now third queen in the bunch. Ser Bonifer Hasty, dressed in white and purple from head to toe, trailed into the garden behind Queen Rhaella like a trusty dog. For him no chair was brought in though and so he took position behind his beloved queen, trying to imitating to protective stance of Ser Arthur and Areo Hotah but failing miserably. It looked almost cute how the old man positioned himself behind the queen mother – or was she the queen grandmother now? – as if he could measure himself with a legendary Kingsguard knight like Ser Arthur Dayne.

Dornish pastries were served then, which looked delicious. But Arya did not dare to try any of them. Like everything here in Dorne, even the pastry was so spicy that it burned your tongue as she had just recently learned the hard way.

Not for the first time, she reflected on what a strange people these Dornish were.

"We have received news from the north," Queen Rhaella finally said. For a moment, Arya thought that those news surely must have come from their mother or brother, but then remembered that north could mean practically anything here, since from Dorne, the entire rest of the realm lay to the north.

"From Aegon and Daeron?" Sansa asked, sounding as excited as a little girl. "Or from Robb?"

"Neither, I'm afraid, my dear," said Queen Rhaella, placing her hand on Sansa's arm when she saw her disappointed look. "We bought the news from a merchant from Lys. He tried to sail to King's Landing, but had to turn back shortly before. Too dangerous waters, apparently, whatever that means. He did, however, reach some smaller ports in the northern Stormlands and from there he brought us... disturbing news, to say the least."

"Can we trust this… merchant?" Queen Elia asked. "We do not know him. All he told you might be nothing but lies and fairy tales."

"That's true. But why should he? He was paid well for the information and now he is already on his way back to Lys. Lying to us would do him no good."

"So what's this news?" Sansa asked, visibly getting more and more impatient.

Queen Rhaella grabbed her cup of tea and took a hearty sip before continuing.

"You are dead."

"Excuse me? I am what?" Sansa asked unbelievingly after a moment of silence.

"You are dead. We all are, apparently. At least, a large part of the realm seems to think that. I don't know if Stannis or Viserys or perhaps both have spread these lies, but it is said that Aegon, Sansa, Daeron, Rhaenys, Lord Eddard, Lady Arya and I myself are dead. At least that's what you hear most of the time. In some stories, Aegon and Daeron have fled across the Narrow Sea and are now serving as mercenaries in Essos, sometimes without, sometimes with you and your sister, sometimes as wives, sometimes as mistresses, sometimes to sell you both into slavery. Rhaenys is mostly either also dead, married to Viserys or has retreated to Dragonstone to hatch dragon eggs with some sort of ancient Valyrian blood magic. I myself am dead in every version of the tale that is told. At least the realm is sure of that, thank the gods."

"But that is not true," Sansa protested. "It's not true. We have to tell that to the realm. They will surely join Aegon if they only learn that he is alive. Please, we must do something."

"I don't know what we could do," Queen Elia said. "We're running out of ravens. Ships, even if we had enough to spare, might not get through either, and with mounted messengers it would take months to know if we succeeded or not."

"But Queen Elia, please, we must do something. Anything."

Tears welled up in her sister's eyes.

"And we will do something," Queen Rhaella said, her hand still on Sansa's arm. "But we have to think carefully what exactly we are going to do. If we act rashly, we could only create more confusion, only cause more damage to our cause, to Aegon's cause."

The next morning when she was breaking her fast, it was Arya who had tears in her eyes. She had topped roasted bread with Dornish cheese and spread it with a generous layer of stewed fruits. Who could have guessed that besides the bread and cheese, even their stewed fruits were so hot that they burned your tongue? Only a few large sips of the sour Dornish wine, for her of course diluted with plenty of water because everyone thought her to be too young for pure wine, could extinguish the flames in her throat.

Funny how I am supposed to think about marrying soon but drinking wine is apparently too much.

Her mood was not improved by Princess Arianne, who had sat down at the table next to Sansa with some of her friends – bastard cousins of her as she had learned – only a few arm's lengths away from her and who chattered incessantly. The princess was even smaller than Arya, but heavy with child. It would be her second. After her daughter Allyria, the future heiress of Dorne, she was now hoping for a son, as she repeatedly told them, who would one day be able to follow his father as heir to House Qorgyle of Sandstone. In Dorne, daughters could of course inherit their fathers' seats, but given that her husband also had a younger brother, she thought it would be easier to convince her good-father Lord Quentyn Qorgyle to grant Sandstone to her second child rather than his own second son.

"Actually, I planned to take his younger brother Arron as my husband. He is more comely and it was easier to laugh and have fun with him when we first met, his smile came easier to him than his brother's as well, but I found that Gulian has other... qualities that finally convinced me. Arron and I… experimented a bit when we first met some years ago and he always... got excited way too early," said the princess with an almost wolfish grin on her beautiful face. "A problem that Gulian certainly does not have, I can assure you."

Sansa's face became as red as the sliced blood orange in front of her on the table, but Princess Arianne seemed to just ignore it as she just kept babbling on.

"My Uncle Oberyn has travelled far and wide and he told me that snow at a wedding is considered an omen for a cold marriage in the North. Is that true, Your Grace?"

"Yes, it is true," said Sansa, who had to swallow hard to find her voice again.

"Makes you wonder what it would mean for your marriage to Aegon to have married under the hot sun of Dorne," said the Princess, winking in the round and grinning even broader. "Stories about your wedding night have made their way all the way to Sunspear already. Many kings and queens are known for all sorts of things, but you two would certainly be the first royal couple to go down in history for your extensive wedding night."

"So since no one has heard anything about your wedding night so far, it probably wasn't very special?" Arya asked so loud that the whole table had to hear it. Immediately the gaggling laughter of the princess' friends fell silent. She looked at Sansa and although she seemed startled for a moment, Arya was sure to find a shy smile on her face.

"It was... satisfying enough. But Gulian is getting better and better by the day. Or rather by the night. That much I can say. Otherwise I would hardly be with child for the second time already," Princess Arianne said, caressing the roundness of her belly. "Just wait and see, Your Grace. No doubt it will not be long before you have a child too. Twins, I suppose, from all that has been heard about your wedding night. Anyway... It's time for me to leave."

"And will you speak with your father and Queen Elia?" Sansa asked.

"Of course I will. I promised, did I not?"

Then she got up and walked out of the small hall as elegantly as she could with her huge belly, her ladies following her like ducklings behind a mother duck.

"What was the meaning of that?" Arya asked after the duck family was finally out of earshot.

"Oh, nothing. I had only asked the princess to convey a personal request from me to Prince Doran and Queen Elia."

"But you are the queen. You don't have to ask for anything. If you want something, just command it. It's what I would do."

"There are some things even a queen cannot simply command. Not when it comes to family."

"I don't understand."

"You will, once you are married and have gained a new family yourself."

"I'm not going to get married."

"Of course you will. Father will find a good match for you, you'll see. When you're old enough."

Sansa's eyes became glassy and for a brief moment, it seemed she was startled by her own words.

"What is it?" Arya asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"We... we forgot your name day," Sansa stammered almost in a whisper. "And mine, too. Happy fourteenth name day, little sister."

Sansa leaned over to her, hugging her and caressing her back just as their mother always did.

"Happy seventeenth name day to you too, big sister. I'm still not going to get married. Yuck," Arya spat out. At that, Sansa simply smiled softly.

Shortly thereafter, Arya found herself in the middle of a small training ground in one of the numerous courtyards of the Old Palace with Prince Quentyn. He had picked her up from the hall she had been breaking her fast in and had led her here without speaking a single word during their walk. In one of the corners, a somewhat shorter Dornish spear and a dark brown leather armor in her size had been waiting for her. She had jumped with joy, clasping her arms around the prince's neck.

"Thank you, thank you so much!" she had shouted before grabbing the leather armor and running around the next corner to put it on. She didn't really care if someone was watching her redress, but she was still glad to see that Prince Quentyn had waited politely and mannerly in the middle of the training ground until she was done without trying to peek around the corner. She walked over to him again and took her new spear out of his hands, trying to ignore the way he looked at from top to bottom, with a wry smile on his face and his ears shining in a bright red.

Some of the straps seemed not yet to be properly fastened, so he stepped behind her and closed them tightly and correctly with a short "Let me help you with that, my lady", without waiting for an answer though. Then he walked around her and examined her from head to toe again, his ears still shining as bright red as a setting sun. Perhaps even more so.

Arya didn't give him a chance to say anything more, but immediately took the first defensive position he had taught her on the ship to Sunspear. Prince Quentyn went into attack position, circled his own spear a few times and attacked. The blow came fast and hard, directed against her right knee. She blocked it and made a leap back, just as he had shown her. Two more blows followed, one against her left shoulder, the last again against her right knee. With solid ground and no longer just a rocking ship's deck under her feet, it was easier for her to keep her balance, to move forward, backward, right and left quickly. Unfortunately, Prince Quentyn apparently found it easier as well. His blows came faster than on the ship, the strokes more precise and whenever she tried to hit him herself, she did not even get close.

He doesn't just let me win, she thought. Good.

Once again, with one quick movement, she dodged a thrust from the prince, scurried to the left and swung her spear in a wide arc, trying to hit him in the back of his knee. The prince, however, quickly lowered his spear behind him, thundered it down onto the wood of her staff and drove the tip into the ground next to him. He jumped forward, pulled his staff up again and smashed against her chest.

Immediately the air was pressed out of her lungs, she stumbled and fell backwards onto her backside.

"My lady, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? We just might-"

"I am fine," she said defiantly. She wouldn't let such a small hit and a little dust on her butt keep her down. She was a Stark after all.

For one more moment she gasped for air before the prince offered her his hand and pulled her back on her feet. The moment Arya was standing again, the prince made himself ready again, this time he himself taking the defensive position, waiting for her to attack. She attacked him with three, four, five quicks strokes against his middle, feet and face. He parried all of them with ease but still smiled at how much better she had gotten in such a short amount of time.

"You are fast, my lady. Almost Dornish," he said, grinning widely.

They sparred for almost an hour, taking turns in attacking and defending the entire time. He began teaching her how to fight off a man swinging an axe and how to disarm am man wielding a sword with her spear. She had the feeling to really have learned a lot, it was a true pleasure to spend her time with the prince but still… something was off. One of the first things the prince had told her about fighting with a spear was that you could more easily control the distance to your opponent than when wielding a shorter weapon like a sword.

"He who controls the distance to the opponent controls the fight. And whoever controls the fight wins," he had told her. However, the prince seemed unable to remember his own lessons. Whenever he went on the attack, he would jump at her like a wildling and whenever he parried one of her more powerful blows, he would twist his defense into her swing so that each time she almost landed in his arms.

After their sparring, Prince Quentyn again was almost as close-lipped as if he were a mute. But since he did not stop smiling afterwards, she just assumed that he had enjoyed their sparring as much as she had. She thanked the prince for his time and went back to her chambers then, took off her new armor, placed it carefully on the stand in the corner next to her bed – it was supposed to hold precious dresses and ball gowns, but it would certainly do well holding her beloved new armor – and began washing the sweat off of her entire body. She then put on one of her new dresses, made of silk and thin linen that Queen Elia and Prince Doran had gifted Sansa and her upon their arrival in Sunspear.

She thought about whether she should perhaps visit father later and since Sansa would be there, it would be better to be dressed properly. Her sister certainly would not appreciate her, being the sister of the queen and a daughter of Winterfell, running around like a robber chief from one of the stories of their childhood. Not long ago Arya would have loved to make her sister livid with rage about her inappropriate appearance but now… now she was queen. Now she had to be strong and courtly all the time and could not simply go running to their mother whenever something was not right. Now she had to smile regally the entire day whenever some lord or knight was around her although Arya knew full well that right now Sansa wanted nothing more than to lock herself up in her room, lay on her bed and cry her eyes out, waiting for all these horrors to be over like a nightmare when the sun rises.

The dress she wore was light and airy but still appropriately modest, in grey and orange colors. She thought it fitting to wear the grey of House Stark together with the orange of House Martell, their hosts and – through marriage – somehow now also part of their family. She wondered what her mother would now think, seeing her voluntarily wearing that dress. She felt the tears rise into her eyes and quickly blinked them away when she thought about their mother.

She missed her mother so much. Had her mother been here now, she would have cared for their father, would have been here to comfort them and to tell her and Sansa that everything would be fine again. She missed her brothers too. She imagined how much Rickon, the little wild wolf, surely would have thrived here in Dorne, where a certain wildness of the heart was not only accepted but apparently even appreciated. She thought about how much Bran would have loved to explore the Shadow City with her and how he would have tried to climb atop the Tower of the Sun or maybe even the Spear Tower all day. She thought about how Robb would have admonished him for it, for making mother's heart stop from fear. She missed Robb, the eldest of her siblings and the leader of their little pack. She would have given anything to have him here with them now.

At least he would not have been afraid to even visit father. He is so dutiful, he would not only have visited father, but would probably have laid down next to him, she thought, and the thought made her smile. She pulled herself together at that, left her room in her new dress and headed straight to his chamber.

Sansa was indeed there, sitting next to their father on a small chair, talking softly to him about what Arya did not know. She had already seen Ser Arthur Dayne standing guard next to the door so her sister's presence was no surprise. Arya had expected her to be here much anyway. Sansa stopped talking the moment Arya entered the room, looking at her with red, watery eyes. Sansa looked at her and forced a weak smile onto her face.

"Any news yet?" Arya asked carefully. She sensed, however, that it was not so. Her father still lay motionless in his bed, mostly hidden under blankets, with an ashen face and flattering eyelids. The smell had become even worse.

Sansa just shook her head, letting her full red curls swing left and right, reached under the blanket and pulled out their father's hand to hold it. For a while they sat there in silence.

"You can talk to him if you like," Sansa said shakily. "Maester Caleotte says it is possible that he can hear us even if he cannot answer."

"I don't know what to tell him," Arya lied. She had a lot to tell him. About her exploration of the markets in the Shadow City at the foot of the Old Palace, about her first time she had eaten a blood orange directly from the tree, about how she now wore dresses more and more often voluntarily and how much she still hated it, about her exercises with Prince Quentyn and how much better she had become with the spear. She had a lot to tell. But she knew that she would not be able to hold back the tears if she now talked to him, waiting for an answer that might never come.

"Everything will be all right. I'm sure."

"So am I," Arya lied again.

"You spend a lot of time with Prince Quentyn lately," Sansa said after a while, changing the subject.

"Yeah, so what? He's teaching me how to use the spear."

"And what else is he teaching you?" asked her sister and for the first time in a long while she saw an honest smile on her face. A grin that she had always had when she had teased Arya about being in love with Mycah, the butcher's son.

"Nothing else. What else is he supposed to teach me?"

"All I am saying is, that he is very attentive towards you. And when a young man spends so much time with a young lady, he might want to-"

"What?" Arya said shocked, jumping up from her chair. "No way. He's just teaching me how to use a spear. That's all."

"If you say so."

"So it is," Arya said determinedly.

"All I want to say-"

"Don't say it."

"All I want to say," Sansa began again, "is that sooner or later you will have to marry, Arya. You may not want to, but it will happen. You'll soon be old enough for it, so you'd better start thinking about possible matches. And a man, a prince even, who not only accepts but even supports that you will never be a real lady would certainly not be the worst choice."

She desperately hoped that their father could not hear what was being said around him.

For more than an hour, they sat there next to their father, talking about this and that nothingness, until Maester Caleotte entered the room. Sansa stood and the sight of the old man, who immediately bowed to his queen.

"Your Grace," he said, his face still turned to the ground.

"Maester, have you found something? Please tell me."

"I'm afraid I have not, Your Grace. I searched all the books, writings and parchments I could find, but I found no other treatment."

"No other?" Arya asked. "So there is a treatment?"

Neither Sansa nor the maester seemed to notice her, but Arya saw tears rising in Sansa's eyes again. She began to sob.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace. There is no other way."

"No other way but what?" Arya asked aloud.

"And it must be done immediately, or all help will come too late. The decay in his foot is already very advanced. When the rotten blood reaches his heart, there is nothing more I can do for him, Your Grace."

"What are you going to do?" Arya said, almost crying. Only now did Sansa and the maester look at her. The old man had a pitiful look on his face, while Sansa probably could hardly see her through her tear-stained eyes, shaken by sobs.

"My lady," said the maester reluctantly, "I'm afraid... I'm afraid there is no other way but-"

"He will remove father's foot," Sansa cut him off.

Notes:

So, that was it. Quentyn has found an interest in Arya, although she doesn't want to hear anything about it, and Ned's foot has to be removed in order to save his life. No real action in this chapter, but I hope you still liked it.

As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think. See you next time (hopefully). :-)

Chapter 40: Sansa 6

Notes:

Hi everyone,

so here is the next chapter. Sansa is in Sunspear, worrying about Ned, thinking about Arya and avoiding Arianne. ;-) Hope you have fun reading.

 

ABOUT THE RHAEGAR-RESURRECTION-QUESTION:
------------------------------------------
First of all thank you all very much for your comments! They were really help- and insightful.

In the end, the result was pretty much 50:50, so anything but unambiguous. But since this is not a democracy anyway, I decided to follow my gut and bring him back to life. :-D
I have thus made some minor changes to some chapters (31 Catelyn 2, 32 Aegon 6, 34 Catelyn 3, 35 Rhaenys 4 and 37 Daeron 7) wherever someone talked or thought about Rhaegar's death, but storywise nothing has changed. The only chapter where I had to change some more parts was 27 Viserys 2, but even there I merely added some smaller paragraphs to let Rhaegar appear in the chapter and of course removed the small sentence about his burned corpse.

Some of you commented that I should no bring Rhaegar back because he did not deserve some kind of spectacular death and having him die off-screen was exactly what he deserved. And while I think that this is true, I still thought that I could make better use of his death. Rest assured that Rhaegar being alive will not have any impact of the story so far or the rest of the story to come and that he will not have some kind of spectacular death anyway. I really only plan to "use" him for the one special-scene I have been talking about. Once the scene is there (pretty much at the end though), you will hopefully see why I really want(ed) to include it.

She sat in front of the large mirror in her chambers while one of her Dornish handmaidens, a young girl called Lylia Sand, was braiding her hair into a simple but elegant enough Dornish style after having helped her to put on her dress for today. Light silk in the blue of Riverrun and the yellow of the Dornish sand dunes. Sansa would have preferred to have her hair braided in a Northern or at least a Riverlandish style, like her lady mother would have done it for her, but she had learnt quickly that those styles were mostly unknown so far in the south. At first, she had thought about teaching her handmaiden some of those styles, but she was just too tired to do so. She had slept too little these last nights, had rolled over again and again in her bed almost the entire nights and had hardly slept at all. At least that was how she felt. Again and again Arya's words had haunted her in her dreams and torn her from her weak sleep.

"No. No, no, no," her sister had cried after she had learned what the master would have to do to try to save their lord father's life. "He must not do this. No! Sansa, tell him he must not do this. No! You are the queen! Order him not to do this!"

It had been hard for her to even keep her eyes open when Maester Caleotte had entered her room earlier this morning to quickly inform her about the condition of her lord father. She thanked her handmaiden and sent her away as well shortly after the maester had left again. She would need some more moments alone before she could really begin her day. She was already looking forward to the strong, Dornish spiced tea, which was served early in the morning. She liked the taste. It tasted almost a bit flowery on the back of her tongue, but most of all it helped her to open her eyes and keep them open all day long.

Sansa hoped that she would see Arya in the hall later when breaking her fast. She had hardly seen her sister in the last days since Maester Caleotte had... treated their lord father. Arya had hardly spoken more than three or four words with her, had almost completely avoided her, and had spent her time either alone in the gardens of the Old Palace or with Prince Quentyn in the training yard.

When she left her chambers, Ser Arthur was as always standing guard next to her door. He greeted her with a short "Good morning, Your Grace" and a slight bow of his head.

"Good morning, Ser Arthur. How are you today?"

"Very well, my queen. Thank you."

"Tell me, Ser Arthur, you guarded my door when I retired yesterday, you were still standing guard just now and you will be escorting me all day. Don't you need to sleep sometime?" she asked in a sweet as possible tone.

"Not if I have to guard my queen, Your Grace. The honor and duty of the Kingsguard trumps such dispensable personal comforts."

That made her smile. To call sleep merely a dispensable personal comfort, as if it was something optional that one could simply decide for or against, really could only come from a man like Ser Arthur. She was glad to have him with her, even if she felt sorry for him. His king was fighting a war for his throne and crown and even his life and Ser Arthur was here in the deep south and had to guard a door every night. No matter who was sleeping behind this door, it could only be depressing for such a legendary fighter and knight. To know that his king, to whom he had sworn his honor, his sword and his life, did not trust him enough to want him near him on the battlefield surely had to eat this man up from the inside.

They met some servants and soldiers who, as they passed by, curtsied or bowed to her and all greeted her with a whispered "Good morning, Your Grace". They reached the small hall quickly. Sansa was happy to actually discover that Arya was there as well. She sat on one of the chairs on the small dais which was normally reserved for the members of the Martell family, held a cup of steaming tea in her hand and inspected the pastries on the table in front of her. Sansa sat down on a chair opposite her sister. Immediately, servants rushed over and placed a cup of hot tea and a plate of pastry, roasted fish and a splash of oatmeal with honey and cinnamon, imported from somewhere in the east of Essos, on the table in front of her. Ser Arthur took position behind her as usual. Only when she gave him a sign, he finally sat down next to her at the table, visibly disconcerted.

"Even if you refuse to sleep, Ser, you must eat. You will hardly be able to protect me if you cannot stand on your feet from hunger and exhaustion," she said with a smile.

Once again the servants scurried up and placed tea and something to eat on the table, this time in front of her white knight.

"Good morning, Arya," she then said.

"Good morning," her sister returned, but without looking at Sansa.

They sat there and ate in silence for a while. Arya dared to eat one of the pastries again, as she did every morning, but regretted it immediately and tried to fight the spices in her mouth with an entire cup of watered wine. While Sansa ate her fish, Arya was listlessly poking around in her oatmeal, the only thing on the table without hot spices. Right after their first meal in Dorne, Sansa had asked to be served her food with less hot spices and so it was done. She had asked Rhaella about why Arya was still served the way too hot meals, why her sister did not also get to eat food with less spices.

"Your sister is a woman grown now. If she doesn't like the food or it's too spicy for her, she just has to say something. After all, you managed to do that, although your, if I may say so, much better manners probably didn't make it easy for you," she then said with a smirk.

When they were done with their small meal, the servants carried away their plates and brought them new tea and another cup of watered Dornish wine for each of them. Sansa looked up at Arya, tried to find her gaze. But her sister now seemed to inspect the new cup of hot tea as if she suspected to find a hidden treasure in it somehow.

"Maester Caleotte visited me again this morning," she finally said. At these words Arya froze as if a knife was held to her throat. "He said... he said that father is getting better. He's not out of the woods yet, but if he can make it through the next night or two without the fever going up again, then he will make it."

"Is he awake?"

"Not yet."

"But he'll make it?"

"Yes, most likely. The maester was very confident. He will make it."

Sansa felt the tears rising into her eyes again. At first, she wanted to blink them away. It was not appropriate for a queen to cry, even with joy and relief. But when Arya finally looked at her and she saw the tears in her sister's eyes as well, she just let them come. Without a word, both of them stood up from their chairs, walked around the table and took each other into a tight embrace, crying and silently sobbing into each other’s shoulders. She did not know how long they had been standing there when they separated again. They looked at each other and for the first time in a long time she saw an honest smile on Arya's face.

"Shall we go to him together?" she asked, wiping the tears from Arya's face. Arya only nodded and together, they made their way to their father's chambers.

They did not speak when they sat next to his bed shortly thereafter. They only sat there in silence, watching their father sleep and breath. It was a strange thought, but Sansa could not help but think that for the first time since their arrival in Dorne, their father looked… content, peaceful, happy almost. His face was not covered in sweat anymore, his eyelids did not flutter anymore and his breathing was as calm and steady as it had not been since their arrival. The only thing that reminded her of what had happened, was the one the leg under his blankets that ended shortly under his knee. It would be hard for him, she knew, from being the strong and respected man and lord paramount to a cripple who could no longer really walk, let alone fight. But Prince Doran was also a sort of a cripple and still one of the most respected men in the realm. And his family was still there for him and would always be there. They would bring him back to Winterfell, back home where he belonged and where his lady wife and his children would be waiting for him, helping him and caring for him.

Everyone will be there for him. Everyone but me, she thought and for a moment, that thought made her sad again. She would not be there, she would stay in King's Landing as the queen at Aegon's side. She thought about going back North after the war. Only for a year of so, but that of course was a silly thought. She was the queen now and as queen, she had a duty to fulfill. A duty to the realm and the crown and most of all to her husband, her beloved. Being separated from Aegon for longer than she absolutely had to almost made her heart break in her chest. No, she would be in King's Landing. But her lord father would live, he would go back home, back to his family and that was all that mattered.

After about an hour, she had to leave to fulfill her queenly duties for the day. She had to meet with some local nobles from Dorne, smile and listen to their banter. She welcomed the nobles in the Tower of the Sun, in the old throne room of Dorne, a large round room with thick windows of many colored glass. In the throne room, there were two thrones on a dais, near twins to one another, the only difference being that one was inlaid with the Martell spear on its back and the other with the blazing Rhoynish sun. Prince Doran, as the ruling Prince of Dorne, was seated on the spear seat while she, as the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, used the sun seat. At first, he had suggested that only she sat on one of the thrones during her stay in Dorne, because he did not want to appear as if he was trying to be on a par with her, his queen. She had insisted, however, that he sit beside her while she held court, to express the newly formed bond between them.

The hours passed for her as if she was half asleep, but this was less due to her tiredness than to the fact that she was hardly interested in anything that was happening around her. All day long, her thoughts jumped back and forth. Her thoughts were with her lord father, who was still asleep and it was still not clear whether he would ever wake up again. Even if things looked relatively good, nothing was certain yet. Despite all the delight about the good course of the treatment, Maester Caleotte had reminded her of this fact several times. Her thoughts were with Arya, who spent her time with Prince Quentyn and the spear exercises, which was not at all appropriate for a lady, and especially so for the queen's sister. But Sansa had decided to let her have her way. They had all gone through too much already to take away this little joy from her. Her thoughts were with Aegon... Her Aegon, her king, her husband, her beloved, who was now fighting a war somewhere in the north. She wished for nothing more than to finally have him by her side again, to be able to hug and kiss him and to feel save in his arms.

Rhaella's words finally tore her from her thoughts just as an elderly lord with white hair and leathery brown skin took his leave of her with a deep bow. She had already forgotten his name when he was merely five steps away from her.

"I think that's enough for today," said Rhaella. "You look so tired as if you hadn't slept for a week, dear child. Come with me. We'll go to Doran's lemon garden and have a little meal there. Doran, you don't mind, I suppose?"

"Of course not," he said with a tired smile. The day had been exhausting for him, too.

And so they went to the little garden together, followed by the ever silent Ser Arthur. Rhaella had obviously already planned this little trip, because when they arrived, there were already plates of food on the large stone table in the middle of the garden waiting for them. She immediately recognized the trout in bread as it was served in the Riverlands, the baked chestnuts in honey, a bowl with roasted mushrooms in wine, and another bowl of small steamed pieces of dark meat that smelled of deer and floated in a thick and heavy, almost black sauce. On silver skewers there were grilled dragon peppers with plums and for each of them there were lemon cakes on a separate plate. Sansa had to pull herself together not to rejoice with happiness.

"I have always hated these duties," Rhaella said as they had sat down and had begun to eat. "To greet all those lickspittles who always want something from you, to smile all the time and pretend you never heard their boring stories before. I was almost grateful when Aerys had gone so crazy that at some point he no longer trusted me enough to greet the lords and ladies of the realm without him being there. If nothing else, at least that was the one good thing that came out of his madness."

"It is not that I do not like these duties. I do, it's just... Father and Aegon and the war."

"I know, my sweeting. But things are going to be fine. Believe me, it will be fine. Your father will recover and Aegon and Daeron will win this war."

"I pray for it every day."

"So then how is your father? The old maester wouldn't tell me anything when I asked him. Impudent fool. As if I was not queen too. Hardly two kings later and no one respects you anymore."

"My lord father is getting better," Sansa said, laughing at Rhaella's exaggerated complaints. She knew, of course, that her little rant was not meant seriously, but her expression was so dead serious that someone who did not know her would have thought it was real. She just had to laugh. "He hasn't woken up yet, but the maester said that if nothing bad happens the next few days, he will survive."

"That's good to hear," said Rhaella. "Did I ever tell you how I met your father? Back then, after the rebellion? After the last one, that is. Who would have thought that an old hag like me would have to endure another rebellion?"

"Yes, you told me that. After the Battle of Trident, when Robert Baratheon was dead and the rebellion had ended, my lord father was brought to King's Landing. That's where you met."

"That's right. I remember it like it was yesterday. I still often think about the rebellion. Just imagine if we had lost the war. Robert Baratheon, after us Targaryens the next in line for the throne, would probably have become king. An absurd thought. I knew him when he was a young man, you know. He was charming, one had to grant him that, but oafish and painfully ignorant. To get this man to voluntarily pick up a book, you would have had to illustrate it with naked women, and even then he would have just stared at the pictures. Well, never mind. I wanted to tell you how I met your father. The evening after Rhaegar had returned victorious to King's Landing , there was a great feast with wine in abundance, and I danced for the first time in ages."

"It must have been a wonderful feast."

"It was. After all, we had to celebrate the victory at Trident and the end of a war. Your father was there, of course. After all, he was an honored guest of my family."

"A hostage."

"Details, details," Rhaella waved off. "An honored guest he was. Let's just leave it at that. When he had been brought to the capitol, he had no clothes apart from his armor, dirty and full of blood, so I got him a doublet to wear, green and red with the coat of arms of some minor House from the Stormlands, I think. I don't even remember what House it was. It didn't fit at all and in those colors he looked like a fool, but of course he had no say in the matter. All evening he stood on the edge of the hall, his head down like a beaten dog, and did neither talk to anyone nor did he ask me to dance even once. Well, he had just lost a war and was probably afraid he would lose his head in the next few days too. Now that I think about it, that must have put a bit of a damper on his mood."

"Yes, that's probably true," said Sansa, smiling about the ease with which Rhaella talked about those terrible times, as if talking about the weather or the price of grain in Pentos.

"When the evening was almost over, I couldn't watch this tragedy that was your father anymore. I went over to him and gave him the royal command to ask me to dance."

Sansa had to laugh out loud at the thought of the face her lord father, the quiet wolf of Winterfell, must have made after such an order.

"So then you two danced."

"Oh no, not at all," Rhaella said. "Your father pushed around like a little boy and then came up with some made up excuse why he couldn't dance with me right now. I don't even remember what he said, just that it was outrageously silly. So instead, I made him promise that he owes me a dance that I can demand whenever I want to. And now he is a cripple and I can no longer ask him to keep his promise. No doubt the greatest tragedy about his condition."

Although what had happened to her lord father was a tragedy indeed, Sansa could not help but laugh out loud again together with Rhaella after she had noticed her impish grin after these words.

"But fear not, sweetling. We are family now and since I am a generous monarch, I am inclined to relieve your father from his debt."

For the rest of the afternoon, they laughed together about little silly things, like the weird clothes of some of the Essosi merchants and the ridiculous hairstyle of that one Dornish lady who had payed their respects to her this morning. They talked a lot about this and that and laughed even more, both avoiding to talking about the war, Aegon and Daeron or anything outside of Dorne in general. Sansa felt better and more relieved than she had felt in a long time. After they had eaten and drunk some chilled wine, Sansa retired to her chambers. She knew Princess Arianne had wanted to spend some more time with her today, but Sansa preferred to be alone for the rest of the day.

Arianne was friendly and kind but tiring to bear when you had to spend hours with her. Sansa was now a married woman herself, no longer an unknowing maiden, and knew from her own wonderful experience with Aegon what happened between husband and wife in bed. The very loose mouth of the Dornish Princess, however, still always made her blush with shame. She would have enough to do with Arianne in the future. After all, she was a part of Aegon's family. And she would have even more to do with Dorne in general and Arianne in particular should Arya and Prince Quentyn... But that was nothing she wanted to worry about now.

Over this, father can get headaches as soon as he wakes up again, not me, she thought, grinning to herself.

When entering her chambers, she had ordered Ser Arthur to send some Dornish soldiers to guard her door during the night. At his confused look, she had given him the express order to eat and drink and above all to sleep at least some hours and not to show his face again until he was really fully rested. Hesitantly but with a wry smile, he had carried out her order. Now, a group of Dornish soldiers was standing guard in front of her chambers' door. She had smiled again when she had seen that Ser Arthur had deemed it necessary to send a total of eight soldiers to replace him for a single night. He was a good man, honorable and honest and devoted, and she swore to herself that she would see to it that Aegon would take him back into confidence once they were all back in King's Landing together. Her white knight deserved it.

She sat at her desk for a little while, writing letters. At first, she wrote some letters she was obliged to, addressed to some of the lords and ladies and knights of Dorne, who had already paid her their respects and had sworn allegiance to her as Aegon's representative here in Sunspear. She wrote only a few before she could no longer find it in herself to thank men and women for their loyalty to the crown and to tell them how wonderful it had been to meet them, although she could hardly remember their faces. So she decided to write some letters to her family instead, to her mother and Robb and her uncles Edmure in Riverrun and Benjen at the Wall. Even if they would never receive these letters and would never be able to read them, it helped her to order her thoughts.

Shortly after she was done writing, there was a soft knock at the door. Maester Caleotte entered her chambers after she had bid him in. There were no news about her lord father yet, unfortunately. His wound healed well enough so far, but he was still asleep, suffering from a light fever. That was about it though.

"It would have been better to have removed his foot earlier, Your Grace." Alas, you forbade me, he left unspoken although Sansa could see the words standing in his gaze.

She knew that well enough. Maester Caleotte had already told her after the very first examination of her lord father's foot that it would have been better to remove the foot directly. But she had forbidden it and demanded that he first look for another treatment, a treatment that would allow him to keep his foot. In the end, he had found no other and the foot had to be removed after all. She prayed that her father would survive. She had not wanted him to be crippled and thus had only put his life in unnecessary danger. Sansa knew that whatever fate would befall her lord father now, she was partly to blame and the thought almost tore her apart.

"Please do not worry too much, Your Grace. So far everything looks good. Your father is strong and apart from his leg he healthy for his age. We'll know more in the coming days. Your father's life is now in the hands of the gods."

"Thank you, maester. I pray for his recovery every day."

Whether this comforted her or not, she couldn't really say. The gods could be just as generous as they could be cruel, after all. There were plenty of examples in history of this. Maester Caleotte then shared his other findings with her as well. Nothing was set in stone yet, of course, but the maester was confident that he could confirm her suspicions. Soon she would know more.

When the maester had left, she took one more glass of the watered Dornish wine waiting for her on the little table next to her bed, undressed – without the help of her handmaiden as she did not want to wait for her now – and lay down in her bed, filled with a calmness as complete as never before in her life. She was naked as on the day of her birth and since the nights in Dorne could be just as cold as the nights in the North, she quickly slipped under layers of soft blankets.

Sleep came easy to her this night. She dreamed of Aegon, her golden prince, her golden king… her wonderful, beautiful husband. She dreamed that the war was over, that they all came back to King's Landing to celebrate the end of the war with a big feast. She dreamed that her lady mother was there with Robb and Bran and Rickon. Her father danced with Rhaella somehow, Arya danced with Prince Quentyn and really seemed to enjoy it. Rhaenys was there, smiling and joking and laughing with Robb and Ser Jaime. Sansa danced with Aegon of course, just as they had danced in Winterfell for the very first time, once dance after the other. She missed him so much. She missed the tone of his voice, how he said her name and told her that he loved her, she missed his smile and his laugh, missed his hands on her body and his lips on hers, missed the strength of his body, its warmth and its smell. In her dream, they smiled at each other, shone like two suns circling around each other. She dreamed of his laugh, his wonderful laugh that made her heart jump with joy. They danced and danced and danced. He kissed her then, tenderly clasping her face in his hands, caressing her cheekbones with his thumbs, kissing her again and again and with every kiss, less and less people were standing around them until they were finally alone. He embraced her, pulled her towards him so tight that she could hear the beating of his heart and then they merged in the deepest of kisses again. One heart, one flesh, one soul. The Grand Hall suddenly became a small chamber somewhere in the Red Keep.

Aegon's bedchamber, our bedchamber now, she realized. She had never been there but she just knew where she was, where they belonged. Aegon picked her up with his strong arms and carried her over to the large bed, kissing her on the lips again. His lips were as soft as fresh petals, wonderful warm and sweet like honey. In the blink of an eye, her dress was gone, as were his clothes. She dreamed how they laid in bed together, enjoying each other, feeling and tasting each other. She dreamed of Aegon's wonderful body, how he moved over her and under her and… inside of her. Suddenly they were no longer in the Red Keep. She looked around, clinging to his shoulders while he pushed into her with hard strokes. They were in Winterfell now, in her old chamber. The room was bigger now though and the small bed of her childhood was replaced with their marriage bed, the bed they had shared in the Red Mountains of Dorne not so long ago. He pushed into her, deep and hard, and just as she was being shaken by a wave of ecstasy, as she felt the trembling in her abdomen and legs, tightly snapping around her lover to let him enter even deeper, the surroundings changed again.

They were in Riverrun, she knew, standing on the little balcony of the large guest chamber she been assigned to whenever she had been to Riverrun as a child. They were still naked, his arms slung around her body and his hands kneading her breasts while he was passionately kissing her neck. He held her tightly while he drove into her again with firm thrusts, this time from behind. It did not take long for her to feel the ecstasy again, the trembling in her legs and her entire body. She would have fallen to the ground, had he not held her up. Her entire body felt aflame, exploding in want and lust and passion as one of his hands finally let go of her breast and found its way down between her thighs.

She awoke, even though she could not say exactly what had awakened her. It took her a moment to realize where she was and… in which state, her own hand between her thighs, wet as the autumn in the Riverlands from her dreams about Aegon and her. Shock and shame went through her. She jumped up and left her bed, quickly threw on a light morning gown and washed her hands in the small bowl of water next to the window, embarrassed by herself. She was thankful that she was alone in her chambers and nobody could see her like this.

Aegon would have loved to find me like this in the morning, she thought with a soft smile, but then immediately her face became as red as her hair again, in shame at her own lecherous thoughts.

On a brief call, her handmaiden Lylia appeared in her room shortly afterwards and helped her to get dressed for the day. The girl offered to bring her tea and something to eat, bread and cheese and some fresh fruits maybe, but Sansa declined. She did not feel well and was afraid she would not be able to keep the food with her. The last cup of wine before going to bed had perhaps been too much although she had been far from being drunk of course.

She briefly considered going to the ancient Sept in the Old Palace and asking forgiveness for her… situation after waking up. But then she changed her mind. Although it was hardly ladylike what she had unknowingly done during the night, inspired by the dream of her and her Aegon, she decided that she should not feel shame for it. Enough shame never to speak of it of course, but certainly not enough so that she had to ask the gods for forgiveness. She missed her husband, her beloved, deeply and dearly, with every beat of her heart and every inch of her body, and that was nothing to apologize for. She would go to the sept later in the day to pray for her lord father though. That was all the time and attention the gods would get from her today. If they wanted more, they first had to let her lord father wake up.

She told seven of the eight soldiers in front of her door to follow her as she stepped out, and ordered the eighth to wait there for Ser Arthur, who would no doubt appear here again soon, to tell him where to find her. Then she went, with the seven armed men following her, to her father's chamber. A maid was sitting next to his bed and had just begun to feed him strong tea and honey water when she entered.

"Your Grace," said the maid, curtseying before her.

Sansa thanked the girl, then sent her away. She sat down on the small chair next to her father's bed, took the tiny silver tray with the tea, the warm honey water and the small spoon, and began to carefully feed her lord father herself. Since he still was asleep, he could not chew and could therefore only be fed carefully with liquids without choking to death. Small amounts of tea and honey water, sometimes fresh juices, worked though and so she took her time to feed him with the tiny spoon until both the tea and the honey water were almost empty. Sansa then sat a while next to her lord father, looking at his face and softly stroking his hair and his beard. Both had grown way too long by now and once he awoke, he would undoubtedly look like a wildling from one of the mountain clans. She thought about cutting his hair and beard herself, but since she had no experience in this and it was a difficult task while he was in bed anyway, he would probably end up looking even worse, and she didn't want to do that to her lord father.

After a small meal in the grand hall of the Old Palace, together with Queen Elia and Princess Arianne, she had some more queenly duties to fulfill. She was thankful that Queen Elia had been there with her during the meal because her presence seemed to really have helped Princess Arianne control her tongue better and to avoid at least some of her usual obscenities whenever she had again begun to unsolicitedly talk about the matrimonial qualities of her husband or had tried to ask some very inappropriate questions about her and Aegon. Shortly before the meal had ended, Ser Arthur had returned to her side, sending the Dornish soldiers away immediately to leave no doubt as to who was the true protector of his queen. Against all her expectations, he had apparently taken her orders and probably not least her concern for him to heart and had had a good and long night of sleep.

After about an hour of greeting, smiling and talking to even more Dornish lords and ladies – not for the first time Sansa wondered where so many nobles in Dorne actually came from, since the country was hardly more densely populated than the North and much smaller at that – she excused herself, telling everyone that she felt a bit unwell. That was a lie of course, but as Rhaella had taught her early on that the first quality of a good queen was to be good liar.

"You hopefully never have to lie to your husband, sweetling. But as queen, you will have to lie to almost everybody else, especially to the bootlickers at court, regularly and through your teeth. So you better get used to it. I promise you, it will make your life so much easier," she had told her during her wedding feast in the Dornish mountains after some cups of wine. Back then, Sansa had laughed about it and had taken it as a joke, but now she understood.

Followed by Ser Arthur, she strolled to some of the smaller gardens of the Old Palace where she hoped not to encounter anybody. She enjoyed the peace and quietness of the gardens, the beautiful greenery and cooling shadows, the splashing water in the small springs and flower framed ponds. In one of the larger gardens there even was an artificial river with a small wooden bridge, decorated with beautiful carvings of flowers and wild animals, she knew, although she was not sure which garden it was in. The Old Palace itself was already a wonderful sight to behold, a peculiar but nevertheless intriguing union of exotic Rhoynish and old Dornish styles. At that moment she could hardly imagine ever having to leave this wonderful place again.

After what must have been almost an hour, she finally heard a familiar voice somewhere in the distance. It took her a moment to realize that the small training yard where Arya always spent her time with Prince Quentyn was right around the next two corners. As she passed by, she picked a date from one of the trees and then made her way towards Arya's voice. Ser Arthur offered to remove the stone from the date for her with one of his knives, which she gratefully accepted. She had heard enough stories of broken off teeth whenever someone had bitten too greedily into his date without removing the stone first from Princess Arianne. The prospect of how Aegon would look at her if she suddenly stood before him toothless like an old crone made her smile, but not enough to really want to risk it.

She and Ser Arthur entered the small yard just as Arya received a heavy blow to the hip from Prince Quentyn's spear and went down with a loud "Ouch". The prince didn't waste a single heartbeat before he stood next to Arya and offered her his hand to pull her back on her feet. Sansa couldn't help but grin when she saw how excited the prince was, smiling broadly all over his face, when Arya indeed grabbed his hand and how hard her little sister tried not to notice that.

"Not bad, but you should still work on the young lady's footwork, my prince," Ser Arthur said from behind her. "With a more secure stand, she might have stayed on her feet at that hit."

Immediately, the two of them rushed around, looking in their direction with such a shock on their faces as if they had just been caught doing something unseemly. Well, strictly speaking, the handling of weapons was unseemly for a lady, but the expressions on their faces were more like they had just been caught stealing kisses from one another.

Prince Quentyn thanked the Sword of the Morning for his advice and then quickly wanted to take his leave, apparently feeling horribly embarrassed, but not without first bowing to Sansa and then promising Arya to continue the exercises tomorrow, kissing her hand.

Does he really still think that he can court Arya like any other lady? He should know better by now. But maybe Arya will like it after all, even if she would never admit it. Maybe Prince Quentyn will be able to find the middle ground with my stubborn little sister.

"Please stay, Prince Quentyn. We didn't want to disturb you during your practices," Sansa said, winking at Arya with a slight grin and then immediately leaving the yard again before her sister could retort something outraged.

The sun had already set when she entered Queen Elia's chambers a few hours later at her invitation. She and Rhaella were already sitting at a table by one of the large windows with a fantastic view over the vast sand dunes west of Sunspear. Both stood up and greeted Sansa first with a curtsy and then with tender kisses on her cheeks. A light dinner was waiting for them on the table. Steaming fish soup with dragon peppers, roasted bread with herbs and black olives and small pies with onions, mushrooms and goat meat.

"I am glad that you could arrange to eat with us," Queen Elia said to her as she had sat down at the table and a servant had poured her cold water into one cup and even colder wine into another. She had been given the best seat, with a direct view out the large window.

"But of course. I was very happy about the invitation."

"I hope you are feeling better now? I heard that you excused yourself from court today because you were unwell."

"Oh, yes. I am well. It was just a slight discomfort, but nothing serious." She caught Rhaella winking in her direction before she continued speaking.

She knows. Of course she knows.

They talked about this and that for a while, about the lords and ladies Sansa had greeted today and the ones she had missed, about the Dornish wine of this year and why it was worse than last year's, about Princess Arianne's first child, what a little rascal the girl was and how much Queen Elia and Prince Doran both hoped that her next child would take more after his father, a friendly, smart and all in all quiet man. It didn't take long – they had just eaten the soup, but had not yet touched the pies – until Sansa became restless and began to slide back and forth in her chair. She felt ridiculous when she noticed it herself, like a little girl waiting for her septa to admonish her, but just as she was about to pull herself together and sit still, Queen Elia had already noticed it.

"Is everything all right with you? Are you perhaps not well yet? If you feel unwell, you are of course welcome to retire to your chambers."

"You do not have to sit here with us old hags if you are not well, dear," Rhaella added.

"No, it is not that. I am fine. I just... I was just thinking..." Sansa stuttered, "if you... maybe... had the opportunity to speak to Prince Doran about my request already?"

Queen Elia chewed on a piece of bread and then took a deep sip of the cold wine before answering.

"Indeed. And... he was far from taken with the idea."

"So was I when I learned of it earlier," said Rhaella. "If anything were to go wrong-"

"But," Queen Elia interrupted her, "he also admires the courage that such an idea requires."

"A circumstance which I, too, must reluctantly acknowledge," said Rhaella.

Sansa took a few deep breaths, took another small sip of wine and then gathered all her courage.

"I know it can be dangerous, but I ask you to help me anyway. Please, Queen Elia, I need-"

"Please," she interrupted Sansa, smiling warmly, "You are married to my son. You are my daughter now, so I am your mother too. I would be very happy if you would call me mother."

Sansa felt a slight blush rise in her cheeks.

"I would love that very much... Mother," she said radiantly. Elia leaned over to Sansa and took her into a tight embrace. She was surprisingly strong for her small stature and pressed Sansa so tightly against her as if she never wanted to let go of her. "So will you help me?" she finally asked when Elia had let go of her again. "Please, I need your help. I can't just-"

"Of course we will help you, dear. That has already been decided," Elia said. "Women may not wield swords, but just like men, we sometimes too must do what we must do. Things that require strength and heart and courage. I admit, I had doubts about you at first because you are a Stark and all. Another Targaryen falling for a Stark girl, I thought. We all know how that ended last time, I thought. But now… But now I am very happy that my Aegon has chosen you, my dear. I could not have wished for a better wife for him. So of course we will help you, daughter."

Sansa had to blink her tears away before she could go on.

"When?" Sansa asked in a hoarse voice, suppressing a sob.

"Tonight," Rhaella said. "Ser Arthur already knows as well. Drink up, dear. Then we'll be on our way."

Sansa could not believe it at first as Elia, Rhaella, and she rose from their seats. Was this really going to happen? Everything was as unreal as in a dream. Elia hugged her again, kissed her on the cheek and breathed a "be careful" in her ear, then Sansa disappeared through the door with Rhaella. Ser Arthur smiled mischievously at them as they stepped out the door and followed them at a short distance.

"You knew," she rebuked him with a smile.

"I had to promise not to say anything," he said as he handed them capes of dark cloth and with wide hoods, of which she could not say where he had conjured them from. He took off his own white cape and threw it in the next corner before he put on one of the dark capes himself.

Together, the three walked through the Old Palace, skillfully avoiding other people. They walked down some dark corridors, around some corners and crossed a small garden that Sansa didn't think she had ever been in before. The sun had completely disappeared by now, and the corridors and small courtyards through which they passed were as black as the sky above them. Nowhere a torch was burning, nowhere a bowl of fire, nowhere did they meet a servant, nowhere a soldier. They left the palace through a small side gate that was neither locked nor guarded. Sansa was sure to hear the quiet chatter of soldiers nearby, hiding in the shadows but letting them go.

"Why are we sneaking away?" Ser Arthur asked after they had been on the way for the better part of an hour.

"Even in Dorne, we cannot be sure who we can trust," Rhaella whispered back.

"No Dornishman would ever betray you or Queen Elia. And Queen Sansa is Queen Elia's good-daughter, so betraying her would be betraying King Aegon and so by extend also Queen Elia."

"But just because we are in Dorne, not everyone in this city is Dornish, Arthur. And even among the Dornish there are unfortunately men and women who value a few coins more than honor and loyalty. We better not risk anything,” Rhaella said.

Rhaella, pressing a small something wrapped in red silk in front of her chest, had obviously already planned a route through the maze of streets of the Shadow City. She guided them unerringly through the dark streets, past unlit houses and stores, noisy taverns and too sweet smelling brothels. They saw only a few people, and if they did, they were drunkards on their way either home or to the next tavern, or secret lovers who were enjoying themselves together in the shadows between houses and behind bushes. After a while the buildings grew larger, the streets emptier, as they neared the port of Sunspear.

"I think we are being followed," Ser Arthur suddenly whispered, when the masts of the first ships were already in sight. Sansa had already noticed for some time that her white knight kept looking around as if he feared an ambush. Rhaella, however, only waved it off.

"Who should be following us? If anybody wanted to stop us, they would have tried already."

They walked on, now at a faster pace, past more warehouses and drinking halls from which loud shanty songs could be heard booming. Most were in the common tongue, others were foreign and incomprehensible, in languages Sansa could not identify.

"Two more corners and a short stretch along the jetty, then we're there," Rhaella said visibly out of breath. "We should be careful that we-"

"Hey!" a voice suddenly came from somewhere in the front. Rhaella and Sansa were terrified, standing still as if rooted to the ground. Ser Arthur stormed forward without hesitation, sword in hand. A small figure stood before them on the street.

"Don't!" Sansa called, reaching for Ser Arthur's arm before he could strike with his blade. "It's Arya!"

"Where are you going?" Arya asked, ignoring her almost certain death by Ser Arthur's legendary sword Dawn. "What are you doing here? With Queen Mother Rhaella and Ser Arthur Dayne."

 "Me? What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep. So I went for a walk in the gardens and I saw you sneaking around. I followed you. So what are you doing here?"

"That's none of your business. Go back to the Old Palace. Now."

"No way," she said defiantly. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you are doing here."

"You're talking to your Queen, young lady," Ser Arthur growled at her.

"Oh, will you shut up, Arthur? She's her sister," Rhaella said. "There is no time for that now. We have to move on."

Sansa wanted to protest, but Rhaella was already on her way again. So they moved on with Arya following them like a dog. After a few minutes, they reached their destination.

"You're leaving?" Arya asked with a view of the massive carrack they were now facing. The banner of the House of Martell, golden spear and red sun, flew on all the masts, shone through by the pale moonlight. On the still lowered main sail, however, the colors alone already showed the enormous banner of House Targaryen that adorned it.

"Yes, I am going north to find Robb, to make him swear fealty to Aegon and support us against Lord Stannis and Prince Viserys. Robb needs to know the truth, that we are not dead and that he has to support Aegon. Everybody thinks us dead and so a letter or even a messenger would not suffice. Robb and mother might mistake it for a feint, so I need to get there myself. I need to do this, Arya."

"Then I'm coming with you!"

"No, Arya. You can't. The journey could be dangerous."

"Then it's dangerous for you too."

"Yes, that may be so. But this is a risk I have to take. Elia und Prince Doran organized this ship for me. It will sail between the Stepstones and the Stormlands to Tyrosh, trying to avoid the pirates in these waters. Then we will sail up the coast of Essos and then west again, to reach the Riverlands and hopefully find Robb there somewhere. You must stay here where you are safe. And besides, you must stay with father, otherwise he would be all alone here."

"No, he wouldn't. Rhaella is here. They are friends. I'm coming home with you."

"Arya, you must stay here. Please," Sansa said with a pleading look. "I cannot stay here. As queen, I can't just sit around and hope that everything will be fine somehow. I have to take responsibility and, if necessary, take a risk to help Aegon. I need to support my king, my husband, my beloved, Arya. But you have to be safe and stay with father. Please, Arya. Please."

She knew that her pleas had never worked on her little sister before. On the contrary, Arya had always loved to do the exact opposite of almost everything she had ever been asked to do, just to make her or Septa Mordane angry.

"All right," Arya said, completely surprising Sansa. "I'm staying here. And I will look after father. I promise."

"Thank you."

They hugged each other then. Sansa kissed her cheeks and stroked her hair before she let go of her again. She was sure to have even seen tears in her sister's eyes when they separated again. Arya immediately turned around and pretended to inspect the ship Sansa was about to board. Rhaella came closer to her now, hugging Sansa as well.

"I'm so proud of you, dear," she said. "And I have something else for you."

Rhaella handed her the little something she had been holding in her hand the entire time. Sansa took it and unwrapped it from the fine red silk. In her hands, she now held a fine, masterfully crafted ring of silver, set with ruby splinters and decorated with little dragons of copper and gold and Valyrian steel.

"A crown," Sansa breathed.

"Of course," said Rhaella. "You are a queen, so of course you need a crown. A gift from Doran. It is the crown of Princess Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of Aegon IV, who came to Dorne to marry Prince Maron Martell and make Dorne part of the Seven Kingdoms. In her time she was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world. And now the crown shall be yours, the most beautiful woman of our time. Safe journey, dear."

Notes:

So, that was it. How did you like it? As always, I'm happy to read in the comments what you think about this chapter, what you liked (or did not like).

The next chapter will be Aegon in and around Duskendale and should (hopefully) be ready within the next days already, since I had some time to do some preliminary work while thinking about the entire Rhaegar-situation. Stay tuned. :-)

Chapter 41: Aegon 7

Notes:

Hi everyone,

surprise! the next chapter is already here. This one comes so quick for two reasons:

First of all, I had finished my last chapter some days ago already and so - during my considerations about Rhaegar - had time to work on this one already. I know I could have uploaded chapter 40 a bit ealier, but I first wanted to be sure what to do with Rhaegar. I hope you forgive me for that. ;-)

Second of all, I won't have much time in the coming weeks before Christmas because I have plenty of deadlines to meet and work to do (not writing work, but work I actually get paid for, haha) so I won't be able to write as much as I would like. And since I was not sure how much time I will have before the new year, I thought I might just as well take my leave of you all for this year with one more chapter. Take it as an early Christmas present. Haha :-D

So, we are back with our boys, although this one is mostly Aegon. Daeron will only appear here and there, but... well, you will see. ;-) Hope you all have fun reading it.

"A bit more than a league, Your Grace," the soldier reported.

"Thank you," Aegon said, after which the man turned around and disappeared. "One league," he then said more to himself. "That means little more than an hour until they are here."

"Then we should leave now," Lord Tarly said. "The distance is convenient for our plan, not too far away and not too close yet either."

Aegon nodded and immediately Lord Tarly began barking orders for the cavalry to get ready. Their plan was good, if a bit risky, but he was confident enough. The idea to this plan had come from Lord Tarly himself, which had earned him an approving grin from Oberyn. His uncle was a man who had more experience in field battles than most from his time in Essos, and if he thought this plan was good, then it was. He only wished that Daeron was at his side now. He would feel better with his brother at his side. But of course that was not possible. As long as he had no son, Daeron was his heir and he couldn't risk putting him in danger. At least not if it didn't absolutely have to be and certainly not only to feel better. When they would arrive in the capitol, when they would take the city and the Red Keep and fight for the throne, his throne, it would already be dangerous enough for all of them.

They had reached Duskendale a week ago, two days prior to the royal fleet from Dragonstone and four days prior to the Redwyne fleet. The harbor was smaller than they had all expected – or maybe it just seemed that way because of the gigantic number of warships that were now anchored here – and so loading and boarding the ships had taken them way longer than they had all hoped.

They had received word that the second Dornish army under the command of Franklyn Fowler, the Lord of Skyreach, had kept the Reach and its armies quite busy and had thus prevented Stannis Baratheon from getting more support than a few landless knights and a handful of soldiers from Bitterbridge and Cider Hall so far. It was not sure how long a small host of about eight thousand spears could uphold this kind of pressure to the Reach without getting completely destroyed, however, leaving the western route into Dornish territory almost unprotected. Viserys and their father had seemed to be crouching in King's Landing like a mother hen on an egg and had seemed to make no attempt whatsoever to leave the city so far. So for some time it had seemed as if they were relatively save here in Duskendale, given how close they were to the capitol and how many enemies they had on almost all sides.

Yesterday shortly before sunset, however, some of their scouts had reported an army at least seven thousand strong marching directly towards them. The scouts had spotted the banners of House Merryweather of Longtable, a horn of plenty on a white, golden bordered field, House Beesbury of Honeyholt, three beehives on a paly black and yellow field, and House Risley of Risley Glade, a black knight on a black rearing horse on white. Luckily no major houses of the Reach, but still all sworn to House Tyrell of Highgarden and so now without a doubt to the traitor Stannis Baratheon, although neither the stag of House Baratheon nor the golden rose of Highgarden had been spotted. In the hopes that these lords may have come all the way here side with them, Aegon had send a messenger to them to arrange negotiations. The man had not returned however.

So a battle was inevitable.

At least they could be sure not to be surprised from the sea. Lord Gerold Grafton had declared for him, as they had learned by raven, and had completely sealed off the port of Gulltown, the largest port in the Vale and the only one with a significant fleet. An army loyal to Lord Arryn had besieged the city for a short time and had tried – just as in the last rebellion – to storm the city walls to get hold of the ships in the harbor. Lord Grafton had then set the entire fleet on fire, from the largest warship to the smallest fishing boat, and had left nothing behind for the attackers but charred wood at the bottom of the bay. The attack on Gulltown had then been aborted after that and now an army from the Vale of Arryn, at least fifteen thousand strong, was on its way on the high road through the Mountains of the Moon to join Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn at Storm's End.

Fortunately, as they had also learned from Lord Grafton, large parts of the Vale's Houses were not behind Lord Arryn's plans to overthrow the royal family. The last rebellion had more been an act of self-defence than anything else, after his grandfather had murdered old Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon and had then demanded the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon as well. This rebellion though... not so much. House Hunter had sent only a few men, since after the recent death of old Lord Eon Hunter, his sons were divided over whose side to take. His eldest son Gilwood had spoken out against Lord Arryn's plans and had refused to send men south. His younger sons Eustace and Harlan, blaming their brother for their father's death, had tried to call the banners in Lord Stannis' name but had only been able to rally very few of their men. Lady Anya Waynwood had declared for Aegon as well, though probably less out of loyalty to House Targaryen but rather because Aegon had announced that, should they side with him, her ward Harold Hardyng would be named the new lord of the Vale once House Arryn had been deposed. Lord Horton Redfort had also declared for Aegon and even tried – even if unsuccessfully – to block the Bloody Gate from the inside with some of his men, preventing the army from leaving the Vale.

Still, fifteen thousand men at arms, many of them knights on horseback, was a significant force. However, the Vale was far enough away and the road through the Mountains of the Moon was long and difficult, so this only meant that they had to hurry to defeat Viserys and Rhaegar and claim the Iron Throne. As soon as the capitol and the Red Keep were secured and Viserys and Rhaegar either dead or at least in chains, they could take care of Stannis with the combined forces of all Targaryen loyalists before his reinforcements even arrived. Once Stannis was dead and his sons in captivity, the rebellion would collapse like a house of cards in an autumn storm, just as the last rebellion had after the death of Stannis' brother Robert.

"Everything is ready, Your Grace," he heard Ser Barristan say behind him. Aegon tore away from his thoughts and looked around. The cavalry was indeed ready and the Targaryen banner was raised high. It was time to leave. He looked at his men one more time. Lord Tarly and his son, a tall and strong lad named Dickon, both clad in mail and boiled leather with breastplates of simple grey steel. They were warriors, these two. Unlike other lords or knights, they did not wear armor with elaborate decorations, adorned with gold or silver or precious stones. Armor and sword were their tools, war was their craft and they wanted everybody to see this. Only a few feet behind them was his uncle Oberyn, sitting on the back of his Dornish sand steed, talking to Brienne.

Aegon could not remember having seen his uncle looking so miserable ever before. Oberyn hated wearing heavy armor. He was an elegant fighter, fast and precise like a dancer, and heavy armor made of thick plates was about as good for that as wearing a millstone around your neck. In a surprise attack on horseback, however, it was just such armor that would save a man's life. The horse had to be fast and agile, the rider above all well protected. So, reluctantly, he had accepted having to wear heavy cavalry armor. However, since the only armor he owned was in the colors of Dorne, bright red and shining orange, it would have made him stand out in those forests of dark green and even darker brown like a septon in a brothel. After much cursing and swearing, he had finally put on the armor Lord Tarly had gotten him, green and gray steel, with House Tarlys' red archer on the chest.

"It's the ugliest thing I've ever worn, nephew," his uncle had grumbled. "And I once wore a maester's robe for some time. The things you wear should do something for you, not against you."

Aegon had only grinned at that.

He gave the order to march off then, and immediately all two thousand men on their horses set out. Ser Barristan remained behind him at a respectful distance to his right, while Lord Tarly rode behind him to his left. Following behind them were his uncle Oberyn, Lord Tarly's son, and finally Brienne of Tarth. She had found a blacksmith in Duskendale who had been able to patch and dent her deep blue armor, after his uncle Oberyn had noticed several times that with such an ugly thing she should not be allowed anywhere near his nephew. The armor, although again fit for battle, hadn't really gotten any prettier, though. At first, Aegon, Daeron and Ser Barristan had tried to convince Brienne to stay in Duskendale and supervise the loading of the ships together with Daeron. But Brienne had refused to leave her king's side while there was a battle to come and instead sit around to stare at unwashed sailors carrying crates, as she had put it.

Certainly Aegon, as her king, could have ordered her to do it, but after looking at her face and seeing the murderous expression on it when Ser Barristan had ended his last attempt to convince her with "a battlefield is no place for a woman, my lady", he had changed his mind. Aegon was certain that if Ser Barristan had not been who he was, she would have knocked all his teeth out of his mouth for the "my lady" alone. Brienne of Tarth knew how to handle a sword and she was as loyal as she was brave. Aegon did not want to miss someone like that at his side on the battlefield.

Less than an hour ago, Oberyn and Lord Tarly had been arguing about who should ride first behind Aegon. Oberyn had claimed that, as his uncle, this to be his position of honor, while Lord Tarly had pointed out that most of the men who were now following them on horseback were his men. It was true. Except for about three hundred Dornish spears, their small force consisted solely of mounted men that Lord Tarly had brought to them.

"I don't want to argue with you, Prince Oberyn," Lord Tarly had said at one point. "Not in the presence of the King."

Oberyn's reply, however, had almost made the Lord of Horn Hill explode.

"I'm not arguing with you, Lord Tarly. I'm explaining to you."

And so, only after a very pleading glance from Aegon, had Oberyn reluctantly agreed to ride behind Lord Tarly. His uncle and Lord Tarly did not speak to each other since then, but at least they did not yell at each other anymore either. That was some progress, at least.

Who would have thought that leading an army would feel like looking after fighting children?

The rain had barely subsided for days, and even now he could hardly hear anything but the stomping of the hooves through the mud and the pattering of fine drops on his armor. His proud banner was already completely soaked and now hung down sadly like wet laundry on the line. The streets had turned into knee-deep tracks of mud on which their horses only made poor progress. Fortunately, they would not have to follow the road for long. Oberyn had already sent out new scouts to keep an eye on the advancing hostile army, and according to the last report, they would have to stay on the road for less than a mile and then turn south – through a narrow strip of forest and across a few hilly meadows – to intercept their enemies.

A small river cut through these meadows, which was not big enough to really stop the incoming host – not even big enough to have a name recorded on a map, as it seemed – but which had to be crossed nonetheless. If they would make it to the right place in the right moment, they could use this to their advantage.

After about half a mile, Aegon looked behind him again and saw Ser Barristan, Brienne and his uncle Oberyn, all of whom seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. Only Lord Tarly and his son seemed to be focused on the path ahead of them, returning his gaze and nodding to him with a serious expression. Aegon wondered what Daeron was doing right now. Probably he was supervising the loading of the last ships, even if he hadn't blamed him for doing something... different. Inevitably, he had to think back to their arrival in Duskendale. Only a few hours after them and their army, the troops from the Reach had arrived, which Lord Tarly had promised them. Their host had grown considerably by now. To the ten thousand spears from Dorne, the nearly ten thousand swords Lord Tarly had brought with him had been added. About two and a half thousand were his own men, the rest were knights and soldiers from loyal houses in the Reach, House Footley of Tumbleton and House Bulwer of Blackcrown amongst others.

Unfortunately, they had heard nothing from House Bulwer's liege, House Hightower. Having one of the largest armies in the Reach on their side could have been decisive, but no word had reached them from Oldtown. According to Lord Tarly, the Hightowers had indeed called the banners, but had not declared for either side so far. That made sense. They surely did not want to side with a traitor, but, firmly rooted in their faith in the Seven, were probably reluctant to march for House Targaryen after his father and uncle had so openly turned away from the Seven recently. Fortunately, Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove had declared for Aegon as well, even without demanding a royal match for one of his daughters. After his own marriage to Sansa and his brother's betrothal to Lord Tarly's daughter, Aegon had run out of unmarried Targaryen men to offer. Lord Rowan was well-liked, loyal and above all known to be more capable than most, and his open support had probably been one of the reasons Lord Tarly had been able to gather so many men around him in the Reach in the first place. He would definitely offer Lord Rowan a position of honor at his court after the war. To these troops were added three thousand knights and soldiers aboard the ships of the royal fleet that Lord Velaryon had brought from Driftmark and Dragonstone, and another six thousand men, knights and soldiers and mercenaries, aboard the ships of the Redwyne fleet, not counting in the sailors of both fleets.

Another four thousand men, mostly poorly armed peasants, landless knights, and lesser lords, probably hoping to be rewarded after the war with larger lands and castles with no leaking roofs, had joined them on their way from Dorne to Duskendale, men he would not trust unreservedly at crucial moments, however. Their force now numbered thirty-three thousand men, and should they yet receive word from Ser Raymun, the Darrys' seven or eight thousand swords would be added to that number as well. Forty thousand men was not the largest army in the realm, given that the Westerlands, the Vale and the Riverlands – if united under a single banner – could each field the same number of men and the Reach even twice that much, yet it was a formidable force. Aegon had spent much of the last few days in his chambers, brooding over the quartermasters' books, shuffling men and troops and supplies back and forth in lists and plans. Their chances had been poor at first, with little more actual support behind them than Dorne. But now, looking at the numbers, for the very first time he felt he could actually win this war.

Along with the troops, the news from the Reach and his son, however, Lord Tarly had also brought his daughter with him, the Lady Talla. Daeron had, when he had learned about it, almost no longer been able to get his mouth shut with shock and surprise. Surely Aegon would have preferred the wedding to take place later, preferably after the war. Even if only because then they would not have to leave valuable troops behind to protect Duskendale from possible attacks, where Lady Talla would stay until further notice and wait for Daeron's return or the end of the war – whatever came first. But Lord Tarly had made it very clear – not least by the fact that he had brought his daughter with him to a war zone in the first place – that he wanted Daeron and Talla to marry immediately. Aegon had been sure that if he had refused and had decided for the wedding to take place after the war, Lord Tarly would still have supported him. He had sworn fealty to him and he knew that Randyll Tarly was a man who took such things seriously. But on the one hand it couldn't hurt to keep the man happy and on the other hand – which was even more important for Aegon – he wanted to make sure that Daeron would no longer grieve for Jeyne Poole.

His brother no longer spoke of the girl, but Aegon was sure that whenever he had been lost in thought and staring off into the distance with an empty gaze, he had thought of nothing but Jeyne. And so it had been decided that the wedding would take place right there, in the not very great Great Hall of Dun Fort, the fortress of Duskendale.

Two days before the wedding, when the two had been introduced to each other, Daeron had barely got his teeth apart and had spoken almost exclusively with Lady Talla's brother Dickon, about horses and hounds, about swordplay and archery, or about Dickon's older brother, a man named Samwell, who had apparently voluntarily renounced his inheritance of Horn Hill and had instead joined the Night's Watch. Looking at his younger brother Dickon, the Night's Watch could really consider itself lucky to have gotten such a man to their ranks. Aegon did not doubt that Samwell Tarly was already on his way to become the next Lord Commander of the Watch.

"Perhaps you should exchange a word or two with your betrothed, brother. It would be nice if she had at least heard your voice before your wedding," Aegon had jokingly said to his brother, but this had hardly made him more open or talkative towards Lady Talla. Rather the opposite. At first, Aegon had regretted having chosen this bride for his brother, since he had seemed so unhappy with her. Only a subtle hint from Oberyn had put him on the right track.

"Don't be an idiot, nephew. He's shy precisely because he likes her."

Actually, that had made sense. Lady Talla was a beautiful young woman, with long, dark hair that fell down to her back, as black as a raven's feathers. Her skin was exquisitely pale and flawless and she had inherited her father's bright eyes. But where Lord Randyll's gaze was hard and icy like the Wall, her eyes were soft and warm and friendly. She had a gentle voice and a shy smile on her face at all times. In addition, she was slender like a spear, which Aegon knew Daeron liked especially, but fortunately with hips that did not promise too difficult births.

He has fallen for her, he thought, after watching them for a while, and for the rest of the day he had hardly been able to stop grinning. The morning of the wedding, he had gone to see his brother again. He had found him in the harbor, working hard to pretend that he urgently needed to check the load of one of the ships with which they would soon leave for King's Landing. Aegon had taken him aside and sat down with him on the pier some paces aways from the working men where no one could hear them talk.

"I'm sorry, brother," Aegon had said after a while.

"Sorry for what?"

"For making you marry because of me. If you don't like her, perhaps we can break the betrothal and please Lord Tarly some other way." He knew, however, that the former was not true and the latter was impossible.

"No, it isn't that. Talla is wonderful. She's smart and kind and beautiful."

Thank the gods.

"Then what is it?" Aegon had asked after a brief pause.

"It's... well... I don't know. It's just... when I think about us being married soon and then..."

Aegon understood. He knew his brother well enough.

"You feel like you're betraying Jeyne."

"Yes," Daeron said, looking at him. Aegon could see how hard it was for his brother to admit that. "I know it's foolish."

"That's not foolish, little brother." Gods, what would grandmother say now? She always finds the right words. Even Rhaenys is better at this than I am. "Jeyne still has a place in your heart and always will and that's fine. That's not a fault or a weakness, and it's certainly not foolishness. It just shows what a good, loyal man you are. You just have to realize that it's a different place now than it was before. Jeyne is gone, Daeron, married and happy with another. Just like she's not betraying you with this, you're not betraying her with getting together with Talla."

Yes, that was good. That could actually have been from grandmother.

"Yes, you are right. But knowing something and feeling something are two different things."

"I know," Aegon said, putting his arm around his brother. "Just talk to her, little brother. Talk to her, and try not to think of anything but the beautiful girl in front of you. Then everything will fall into place."

There had been only a short ceremony in the Sept of the fort, for which Aegon could not have been more grateful. Aegon knew that his brother would have loved to have a ceremony on front of a heart tree, to honor the beliefs of his Stark family. He himself had married in front of a tree in the Dornish mountains to honor Sansa's ancestry, but there had been no tree large and regal enough for this in Dun Fort, even less a true heart tree. The fact that Lord Tarly and his family were strongly devout to the Faith of the Seven had made it at least somewhat easier for Aegon and Oberyn to talk his brother out of this idea.

"Once you are married in the eyes of the Seven and Talla has come to know and love the Starks as you do, I am sure she will agree to repeat the ceremony in front of a heart tree. Maybe even the one at Winterfell," Aegon had said, eventually convincing his brother. It would hardly have ended well for these two if the very nature of the ceremony had already caused the first dispute between Daeron and Talla before the wedding had even taken place.

At the wedding feast it had then still taken two large mugs of beer for Daeron and three cups of wine for Lady Talla until the two of them had finally overcome their mutual shyness and had started talking to each other. But when this dam had finally been broken, they had – much to Aegon's joy and relief – only had eyes for each other. They had laughed and talked and laughed even more and, back on the dais after their first dance and after some more wine, had even shared some shy kisses. Some of the ladies present had tried to secure a dance with the groom, but Daeron had apparently not even noticed them standing in front of him like a flock of chickens, but had been completely absorbed by his bride. Aegon had taken over for him and had pushed some of the ladies, some almost as old as his mother, others still half children, across the dance floor.

The feast had been great, even though the food had been rather simple. Fish soup with onions and garlic, fresh dark bread with nuts, white cabbage with mushrooms and herbs, and lots and lots of beer and wine. Oberyn had been going on a hunt before the feast to get them some meat to roast over a fire, but had caught nothing.

Daeron had – quite as he had expected – forbidden any kind of bedding ceremony. For most brides, this part of the evening, though often great fun for the men present, was a humiliation that only very few young women enjoyed. Just as he himself had done with Sansa, Daeron had insisted on leading his bride to their chambers himself and alone. So as more and more of the guests had found it difficult to hold themselves up on their feet and even on the benches from wine and beer, and the wandering minstrels Oberyn had brought in from some tavern in the city had begun to play more and more inappropriate, bawdy songs to entertain the drunken guests, the two of them had finally retreated to their chambers for their wedding night, quietly, silently and secretly.

After that, nothing more had been heard or seen of them. Only shortly before noon the next day they had emerged from their chambers and had joined Aegon, Oberyn, Lord Randyll and Dickon for some bread and cheese and hot tea. Oberyn, ignoring the evil looks of the bride's father and brother, had tried to elicit some details about the wedding night from them, but both had been as silent as if they were mute and had only looked each other in the eyes the entire time, all smiling. It was good that there had been little reason to use a knife at the meal, since Aegon was sure his brother would have cut off at least one or two of his own fingers, so inattentive he was to everything and everyone around him except his bride. Daeron had not stopped grinning like an idiot and Lady Talla, also with a mischievous but much more reserved smile on her fine features, had not left his side all day. A few times they had even disappeared together without saying a word, only to reappear shortly afterwards with disheveled hair and untidy clothes as if they had never been away, pretending that there was nothing to see or to talk about at all.

He thought about Sansa, his Sansa, wondering what she might be doing right now, if she was well and happy. Was she thinking about him? He had been dreaming about her a lot lately. He missed her, her gentle voice, her enchanting eyes and the sweet smell of her beautiful hair. More than anything, he wished for his gorgeous wife to be with him again, to hold her close, kiss her sweet lips and feel her body pressed against his in the nights and see her lovely face the next morning when he awoke. But that would only be possible after the war, of course. Gods, how he missed her. It comforted him to know that she was in Dorne, with his family, safe at least. She was waiting for him there, far away from him, but also far away from the war. She was safe and that was all that mattered.

"I think that's close enough," he heard the authoritative voice of Lord Tarly behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. Aegon halted his horse, looked over to him and nodded. Immediately, the Lord of Horn Hill gave the order to stop. The cavalry followed the command as abruptly and evenly as a single man. Rarely had Aegon seen soldiers of such discipline. "With your permission, I would like to accompany you," Lord Tarly then said.

"I wouldn't want to miss you, my lord."

Aegon quickly ordered Dickon and Brienne to stay with the cavalry and Oberyn and Ser Barristan to follow him and Lord Tarly. They left the road and the four of them rode across a small field before passing between some trees and into the nearby forest. The ground was wet here as well, but fortunately so firm that the horses found good footing. For a few minutes they rode silently through the forest, doing their best to avoid the larger stones sticking out of the ground and the roots of the trees, trying not to have their horses go through too thick bushes or get hurt from thorns. They reached a soldier in the colors of House Tarly, who seemed to be waiting for them on a narrow clearing. Lord Tarly did not need to give an order, but only to look at the man with his typical grim expression, making him report quickly and promptly.

"We have caught three of their scouts, my lord. They have not seen us yet, but they will surely notice their scouts' absence soon."

"Good," was the whole answer. "From here we should continue on foot."

Aegon and the others agreed, dismounted and handed their horses' reins to the soldier, waiting at the side as stiff as a plank. They would not be discovered so quickly on foot, but if they were to be discovered and forced to retreat, they would be slower. They followed a small footpath through the forest, sneaking half-ducked past trees and under low-hanging branches until they heard a soft whistling from the side. They stopped and looked around until they heard another whistling.

Lord Tarly nodded in a certain direction and, following him, they crept towards the whistling as quietly as the damp leaves and thick undergrowth allowed it. Shortly afterwards, they reached another soldier, who signaled with his hands to move on in a certain direction. They crept on, past a dead tree that was completely overgrown with tendrils, through between two bushes with wild berries, to a dense row of pines that marked the southwestern edge of the forest. They laid down and slowly crawled towards the light shining through between the dark needles.

"There they are," said Ser Barristan, as they reached the edge of the forest and could look down into the small, shallow valley that spread out in front of them.

They indeed had a perfect view of the other host, seven thousand men, maybe a bit less, and just as they had hoped, they were just beginning to cross the small, nameless river. The one thousand or so lancers were first in line to cross the river, most of them having made it to the other side already, and were now busy securing a large area on the other side where the remaining troops could gather, surrounded by the lancers and safe from a surprise attack from a hidden force within the small forest. Behind the lancers, the three hundred knights and thousand cavalry were lined up, and only after that the foot soldiers, archers – all in all a little less than four thousand men – and wagons with food and equipment would follow. Lastly, there were also a few hundred sutlers preparing the wagons for crossing the small but fast flowing river.

They held their heads low as not to be discovered. It was risky to be here, he knew. If they were to be discovered, they would have a hard time making it back to their horses, let alone back to their men. Of course, Aegon could have simply sent some more scouts and have them inform him about the precise whereabouts and the state of the hostile force. However, Aegon had insisted on personally taking a look at their enemies. He wanted to see them, to know and feel that they were real, not just a message from a soldier, a figure on a map or a number on a piece of paper. He had not wanted to ride into the unknown. It had comforted him when Lord Tarly had nodded in agreement and had explained that he preferred to handle it that way as well, since he hated to rely solely on reports from others.

"The southern bank is unprotected," Oberyn said. "That is almost an invitation."

"Maybe it's a trap," Aegon said, but Lord Tarly seemed to have no qualms about it.

"Orton Merryweather is leading them," he said as if that was explanation enough. Only after a questioning look from Aegon, he continued. "Any pease porridge has more wits than this man. If he leaves his southern flank unprotected, it's not as a clever ruse but out of sheer stupidity."

"Then we will proceed according to plan," Aegon said, slowly nodding. A chill ran through him and he couldn't tell if it was from the cold and wetness of the weather or the prospect of the upcoming battle. Aegon had initially doubted whether this attack would even be necessary or not in the first place.

"Maybe we can still load and board the ships fast enough to leave without a fight. We could just take Talla with us and leave her far enough away from King's Landing in a field camp, where she would be save," he had said to Oberyn when breaking their fast together this morning. "I still have hope that we won't have to attack, won't have to sacrifice men."

"Do it or don't do it, Aegon. But hope is never a strategy," his uncle had said in response. That was true. One of the few things he had actually learned from his father, rather than from either Ser Aron Santagar, the master-at-arms of the Red Keep, or one of the white knights of the Kingsguard about warfare, was that if you wanted to attack, you had to do it with all your strength and all resolve. There was no middle ground. It was a simple rule but as true as only very few others in war. Anything else meant nothing less but planning your own defeat. So he had decided to go for it.

Aegon knew that they had no real chance of winning against this enemy, being outnumbered more than three to one after having learned of the coming of this host only after almost his entire army had already been brought upon his ships. But that did not matter. They did not have to win. All they had to do was to strike as hard and as fast as possible, surprise the enemy and weaken them as much as possible. They only had to weaken them to the point where Duskendale would be able to defend itself against an attack or a siege afterwards. The enemy archers and most of their foot soldiers would be unprotected if they would only get there fast enough, as would their supplies. Without the support of enough archers, they would not be able to storm the walls of the city without losing at least half or more of their men, without enough foot soldiers there would be no one to even try to storm those walls and if they were able to destroy the supplies, a siege of the city would become almost impossible in the first place.

Their cavalry would be split into three almost equal parts. The vanguard, led by Lord Tarly and Aegon himself, would lead the initial assault, causing as much damage and as much confusion as possible among the soldiers. After that, the middle guard would follow, again split in two equal parts, one led by Oberyn and one led by Dickon Tarly. It would further disperse the scattered troops and create even more disorder so that the enemy soldiers would not be able to establish any kind of organized defense. Oberyn had also equipped about every tenth or twelfth man of the middle guard with small wax-sealed clay pots full of lamp oil. They would throw the pots at the wagons carrying the supplies so that they would more easily catch fire despite the persistent rain. Last, led by Lord Rykker and Lady Brienne, the rearguard would follow, setting fire to the supply wagons with prepared torches, and then cover their quick retreat.

If everything went according to plan, they would get as close as they could undetected, would smash into their unprotected southern flank and, after a fast, hard, violent blow, they would immediately fall back, take the same route back to Duskendale on which they had come, and retreat behind the city walls long before the first Reacher soldiers would even have made it within sight of the city. Then they would board the last of their last ships, leaving the two thousand men of the cavalry as defenders in the city and sail as fast as the winds carried them to King's Landing with the entire rest of their army.

So getting close to the enemy, quickly and unnoticed, was paramount. No doubt Lord Merryweather had sent out his own scouts to explore the area, but of course none of them knew the land as well as Renfred Rykker, the Lord of Duskendale and the ruler of these lands. Had they known about the small ford in the forest, they would have tried to cross the river there, not here. Fortunately, the ford was not marked on any map and was known only to those who lived here or traveled more frequently through these lands. Something that could hardly be said of knights and lords from the Reach. Across the meadows and then through the northeastern forest was undoubtedly the direct way to Duskendale for an army, but the easier and quicker way was using the ford in the forest. So obviously they did not know about it.

The plan was set, and if everything worked out, Duskendale – and with it Lady Talla – would be safe for the time being, and very soon they themselves would be on a ship bound for King's Landing. Still, deep down, Aegon did not like the prospect of what they would be doing. Not at all. They would have to kill at least a third of the foot soldiers, preferably more, and destroy at least two-thirds of the supplies so that Duskendale would be safe. Most of the men, however, were unarmed during the march. Slaughtering unarmed men by the thousands was not what Aegon thought of as an honorable, well-fought war. But it was war nevertheless, and he knew from his lessons that in war, one could not always be honorable. Honor rarely led to victory. In war, the worst mistakes were those that sprang from misplaced kindheartedness.

Quickly and unnoticed they hurried back through the forest, to their horses and to the road where their cavalry was waiting for them to return. Orders were barked and immediately the whole force set off in the direction of the small ford, which could only be reached through a forest track, usually only used by the local forest workers, so narrow that no more than two horses could follow it side by side. They made a wide arc around where the enemy army would – unknowingly – be waiting for them and crossed the small ford almost at a gallop. The path behind the ford became wider, first three, then four horses could now ride side by side again. They thundered along the path, past a blurred jumble of green and brown and black.

The trees became lighter, the bushes flatter and Aegon knew they were reaching the edge of the forest every moment now. To his right Lord Tarly was riding now, Ser Barristan as his royal protector following close behind. The visors of their helmets were lowered already, the lances raised and ready.

Like a storm of flesh and steel they thundered out of the forest onto an open field. They immediately made a wide turn to the left, rode around a crumbling watchtower and recognized the bank of the small river in the distance. They rode towards it until the river was on their left and then turned south along its banks. All that Aegon saw was the horizon ahead of him, all that he heard was the thundering of the hooves and his own heavy breathing, echoing in his helmet.

On the other side of the river, they passed a small hill and then suddenly Aegon saw it. At first only briefly and vaguely, like a faint stain on a colorful robe, then clearer and clearer with every heartbeat. He thought he could hear the screams of the men, the frantic shouts and the hectically barked orders when the first scouts spotted them, but he was not sure if this was not just his imagination. Whatever those orders might have been, they came too late. Fifty paces away from their enemies, the riders behind him swung out to crash into their enemies side by side like a wall, a wave of destruction. Thirty paces away, they lowered their lances. Ten steps away and he saw the panic in the eyes of the men in his path. His heart was beating so fast that he thought it would surely jump out of his chest.

Boom.

With a crash like thunderhall his lance smashed against the first man. A painful blow went through Aegon's arm as the wood pierced lengthwise through the man's armor and the man himself. The tip of his lance caught yet another man, flinging him in front of the hooves of a horse to his right, and severed an arm from a third before it bored into the ground. The lance broke. Immediately he dropped it and drew his sword. To the left the next man appeared, fleeing, but too slow. With a quick swipe he separated his head from his shoulders. Then another one. He saw a man with a long sword running across the field towards him. He tried to swing it, but was too slow to actually hit him. Aegon repelled the blow with ease, seeing the mighty blade torn from the man's hands by the impact. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that the man had already fallen victim to Lord Tarly's sword.

Aegon felt the heavy breathing of his steed beneath him, the powerful stomping through the high grass, the blood rushing through his veins. He beheaded four more men, a foot soldier, two archers, according to their helmets, and one crossbowman. Again he looked around, pleased to see how his cavalry had cut a swath of devastation through the enemy. The knights and lancers on the other side of the river tried in panic to cross the river again. But in the confusion, hardly anyone made it even to the middle of the small river before getting stuck in the high reed or falling over wet and slippery stones, their own comrades or even their own feet.

They stormed past the last scattered soldiers. About one hundred paces away, they split up as planned. Lord Tarly took over half of the cavalry and swung out to the left to ride along the riverbank again, striking into the disorganized, panicked soldiers like an iron fist. Aegon and Ser Barristan took over the other half, swung to the right and rode behind the lines in a wide arc. It did not take long before they again approached the confused masses of living, dead and wounded soldiers.

He saw Oberyn in the middle of the fight, rushing through the enemies like a Dornish sand storm. He saw how his uncle gave a signal to the Dornish spears that followed him. All grabbed the small clay jars with the lamp oil from their saddles, throwing it onto the nearest wagons to prepare the enemies' supplies for the rearguard with their burning torches.

The panicky and confused cries had begun to subside and had made way for cries of pain and more and more orderly commands. A small force of thirty or forty men had taken position to defend three of the larger supply wagons. Aegon gave a quick hand sign to Ser Barristan, who confirmed it with a nod. The defenders were desperately fighting off Oberyn and his Dornish spears, trying to prevent them from soaking their supplies with lamp oil. Aegon looked to the left and already saw the rearguard with their flaming torches in distance, approaching the shambles that this battlefield was. They had to act quick now.

He and Ser Barristan gave their destriers the spurs, speeded up their ride to put more and more strength behind their attack. Their soldiers did the same, quickly following them. One of the men trying to guard the supplies spotted them, shouting orders to his comrades, but again too late. Again they crashed into their enemies like a force of nature, the fist of an angry god. The first three men Aegon simply rode down, trampled them down like grass by the sheer might of his speeding horse, the next he killed with a powerful stroke of his sword to the skull, splitting it in half, the last one he drove his blade right through the chest.

They did not wait to see to whether their attack had been sufficient or not, but quickly moved away from the turmoil again. There was nothing more they could do without losing their momentum. In the meantime, a number of crossbowmen had lined up on the bank of the river, taking some of his men from their horses with well-aimed shots. It was time to retreat before the losses became too great. Aegon steered his horse between the men still standing, dodging a few untargeted sword swings and a half-broken lance that someone had thrown at him. He swung his sword once more to the right, slitting a man's throat, then to the left, severing the sword hand of another, before seeing no one in front of him anymore and coming to a halt at some distance from the battle. He looked around again. Ser Barristan was behind him, his white armor speckled with blood and dirt.

Aegon gave a hand signal to one of his men, who immediately raised his visor, took a horn from his saddle and blew a signal. The vanguard and middle guard, completely absorbed in the confusion of fighting and dying men in front of him, immediately turned and began to retreat, leaving the enemies behind. Aegon thought he saw something like relief on some of the surviving soldiers' faces that the attack was finally over and their lives had been saved. The relief quickly gave way to renewed terror, however, as the rearguard suddenly burst through between the retreating cavalry, burning torches in their hands.

In the distance, Aegon saw Brienne's blue armor glowing, brightened by the light of her torch. The rear guard rode in iron formation, riding through between or right over screaming men, desperately trying to defend what was left of their comrades and supplies. Torches flew high through the air like a festive spectacle, tracing red and gold trails against the gray sky. A few short hisses were heard – hiss, hiss, hiss – then the wagons were ablaze.

He just wanted to turn around, wanted to give his horse the spurs, when he heard someone shouting next to him. He looked to the side and saw Ser Barristan, eyes wide in shock, urging his horse with kicks in the flanks to get to Aegon's side faster. He looked past Ser Barristan and saw it as well now. A group of crossbowmen had somehow saved their weapons from the raging fires on the wagons, running in his direction. About thirty feet away, they stopped, knelt down as if to swear their fealty to him. The men all looked at him, weapons now at the ready.

Aegon was frozen. He wanted to give his horse the spurs, but his legs were like lead. He wanted to jump off, but his body did not obey him. He wanted to raise his arms in protection, but his hands seemed to be nailed to the pommel of his saddle. Aegon thought he heard the plops as the clamps were released and the bolts were sent on their way by the powerful arms of the crossbows.

Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop!

The next moment, everything was white. A man, white of hair, armored in all white was in front of him, a white cloak, stained with blood and dirt, waving in front of his face. Everything seemed to happen so very slowly as if the world had almost come to a halt.

He saw the man's body shaken by the force of the bolts' impacts, heard the screams of his horse, hit as well. He thought he felt the breeze as one of the bolts flew past the man's body, narrowly missing his head.

Ser Barristan, by the gods, it finally flashed through his mind.

Suddenly the world around him was back. His sight cleared, his arms and legs obeyed his command again. He quickly reached out, grabbing Ser Barristan by the shoulders before he fell to the ground, irrecoverably buried under his dying horse. He pulled him onto his saddle, feeling the warm blood of his protector – his savior – running down along his legs. When he looked up, he saw the soldiers cocking their crossbows again. Immediately he gave his horse the spurs, thundered away with his white knight in front of him on the saddle.

Notes:

So, that was it. As always, please feel free to let me know what you think in the comments. Even if I do not reply to everyone (please believe me that this is not due to ill will but most often I read the comments, be happy about them but then just forget to answer), I always enjoy reading those.

See you next time/year. Stay tuned. :-)

Chapter 42: Rhaenys 5

Notes:

Hi everyone,

I'm back from the vacation and the stressy work before. I hope that the new year is going to be a bit more... relaxed so that I will again have more time to write. I will at least do my best ;-) I also hope that you all had a good time and a happy new year so far.

So, as you can see, the next chapter is here. We will finally see what Rhaenys has been up to the entire time and will see her going toe to toe with a certain old lion at the end of this chapter. Hope you all enjoy reading it.

The weather had gotten better again since her arrival. The sun shone, warm and golden, shielding her from the chill of the wind. The balcony of her chambers offered Rhaenys an impressive view down on Lannisport and the Sunset Sea beyond. The city, so far below her, seemed more like a painting from such a distance than a living, vibrant city. She knew it was bustling, colorful, brightly lit by the sunshine, even if she could barely make anything out from the great height. From the walls and towers of the Red Keep, overlooking King's Landing, one could see the people in the distance, small like insects but at least still visible, milling about the city streets, going about their daily business. You could hear the hustle and bustle, the clatter of hooves and wagon wheels in the streets, the shouts of the market criers and the laughter of the children. Here, however... Casterly Rock was gigantic and the mountain it sat atop even more so. Three times as high as the Hightower in Oldtown which itself measured seven hundred feet ready, it was said. From that height, Rhaenys heard no clatter, no shouts, no laughter, did not even see people in the streets. She saw the ships at anchor in the harbor, hardly larger than the head of a pin, the largest houses and halls and squares to her seemed hardly just as small as her little fingernail, and even the widest streets looked as filigree as the gauzy veins of a leaf.

On the evening of her arrival, when she had been led to her chambers after the official welcome, the sight had captivated her so much that she had spent half the night on the balcony, gazing into the distance. After more than a week now, the sight was still breathtaking, even if her impatience was increasingly spoiling it for her.

She had been given the best chambers of the Rock, had been entertained with the company of noble ladies from Casterly Rock and nearby castles, with musicians and poets, and almost every evening there was a feast in her honor, as it was said. She had been shown almost the entire city with its markets and the large sept, about half the size of the Great Sept of Baelor, the harbor and the shipyards. She had been shown the surrounding lands, beautiful hills with rivers and lakes and dark forests. She had been shown the largest parts of the fortress as well of course, the Golden Gallery, containing the treasures of House Lannister and the Hall of Heroes, where the Lannisters and their kin were interred, who had fought and died valiantly. She had even been offered visits of other, nearby strongholds like Kayce and Feastfires to the west and Sarsfield to the north. The only thing she had not been shown so far were the solar or the study of Lord Tywin.

The man himself had hardly been visible the entire time. She had of course been greeted by him and he had been present at almost all the feasts, but had hardly spoken more than five or six words with her. Whenever she had tried to even begin to talk to him about a politics and a possible alliance, he had excused himself immediately, leaving her alone to do some more petty talk to some airheaded lady whose names Rhaenys had forgotten as quickly as if she had never heard them in the first place.

"Lancel asked if you would like to ride out with him again today," she heard Ser Jaime ask behind her. She didn't answer at first, just sighed audibly.

"The Westerlands are no doubt beautiful, but you know as well as I do that I didn't come here to admire the countryside," she finally said. "And certainly not to waste my time with your cousin, ser," she spat.

She knew, of course, that it wasn't Ser Jaime's fault. She would apologize to him for it later. Right now, she just didn't have it in her. She turned around then, looking at him. He wore his white armor and white cloak although she knew his father had urged him to dress in Lannister colors during his stay. But for the moment, he still was a knight of the Kingsguard and had – much to her delight – refused to take off the white.

"I take it, then, that your father did not send you to bring me to him?" she asked now in a much calmer tone.

"No, my princess."

"And Ser Kevan?"

"Is not in the city, I was told."

Wonderful. Lord Tywin is leaving me to stew and his brother isn't even in the city.

"I can't just sit here, Ser Jaime. Not while Aegon's fighting a war."

"No one wanted to tell me anything specific, but uncle Kevan seems to be in a field camp somewhere east of Deep Den."

Deep Den. The same distance from the borders to the Crownlands and the Reach.

Ser Jaime had learned from Ser Benedict Broom, the master-at-arms at Casterly Rock, a few days after their arrival that Lord Tywin had assembled more than forty thousand men already. Peasants and knights from the Westerlands and mercenaries from Essos. In and around Lannisport, however, little was to be seen of these men. Apart from a few thousand men, who in addition to the city guards were supposed to protect Lannisport from attacks from the sea, the place was quiet.

"These soldiers must be somewhere, though," Ser Jaime had said to her that evening. "No doubt my father has divided them into four or five armies now waiting for orders on the borders of the Westerlands."

"So he can attack quickly, whichever side he chooses."

"Yes."

She was not sure if that was a good thing or not. It certainly meant that he had not sided with Stannis or her uncle Viserys. Otherwise, she would have long since been in chains. That was good. But it also meant that he had not decided to side with Aegon and Daeron and her, yet. And he also still did not want to speak with her. That was not good.

What is the man waiting for?

Shortly after supper, Ser Kevan's son Lancel reappeared at the door to her chambers, dressed in almost absurdly precious red and golden silk, wearing a chain with a fist-sized golden lion's head around his neck, its eyes made of ruby slivers.

No doubt on Lord Tywin's orders. If he hopes to keep me happy with that, he's a terrible judge of character. Or is he supposed to be courting me?

Ser Lancel was the very image of a Lannister, tall and strong, handsome with sandy blond hair and those distinctive green eyes. She had heard that Ser Lancel was said to look like a young Ser Jaime. Something that was hard to deny. But what Lancel lacked was the gentleness in his gaze and the kindness in his smile. There was always a look of disparagement in his eyes and his smile was more of an arrogant smirk than anything else. No, Lancel was not a second Jaime.

"Ser Lancel, what can I do for you?" she asked, but without inviting him in. He looked past her, as if he expected to be invited in. She would not do him this favor, however. It took a few moments before he apparently buried that hope and began to speak.

"Princess Rhaenys, my uncle Tywin has planned a feast and dance in your honor this evening." How unsurprising. "I have come to ask you for the first dance of the evening." Yes, he's supposed to court me. How very unsurprising.

"I'm honored," she lied. "However, I'm afraid the first dance of the evening is already promised, unfortunately.  But after that, I'm all yours, ser."

"Really? Did you already know about the feast?"

There's been one every night so far, smart guy.

"Call it a good guess."

"And may I ask who is this lucky man?"

"Your cousin Tyrion."

For a moment, Ser Lancel looked like a horse had just kicked him between the legs.

"I didn't know he will even be attending the feast in the first place," he then said, finding back his voice.

"Oh yes, he will."

She had only heard of Lord Tywin's second son, the imp Tyrion, but had not seen him in all this time. Whoever she had asked about this had only come up with half-hearted excuses, no doubt coming directly from Lord Tywin. Ser Jaime had then finally remarked, halfway through the first week, after a few cups of wine on the balcony of Rhaenys' chambers, that Lord Tywin must have been deliberately keeping him away from her.

"Tyrion tends not to do what Father wants him to do. Many say they are like fire and water, but they are not. They are like fire and... more fire."

When Ser Lancel was gone and out of earshot, she took Ser Jaime aside and whispered in his ear.

"Ser Jaime, find your brother and make sure he shows up at the feast. He will need to dance with me tonight."

The feast was extravagant as usual. Seven courses with just as many different wines were served, lamprey pie with garlic, a roasted swan with parsley and lemongrass, deer in a reddish beer sauce with mushrooms, mussels cooked in wine, Salmon baked in bread with eggs and sage, spiced mutton with turnips and apple cakes with honey and mint.

Extravagance certainly has its uses, she thought. Not long ago, large parts of the realm and its people were starving to death, but now Lord Tywin spares no expense and effort to demonstrate the power and wealth of Casterly Rock for all the realm to see. For me to see.

A young man named Whitesmile Wat made sang for them, playing either the lute or the dulcimer most of the evening. He was good, his voice sweet but for Rhaenys' taste way higher than the voice of a man should be. And the stares he occasionally gave her were anything but tempting. It might have been that a singer like him, young, relatively handsome, and always with a mischievous smile on his lips, would occasionally have success with young noble ladies by batting his eyelashes like a girl, but certainly not with the Blood of the Dragon. Had she not found it so ridiculous, she would have asked Ser Jaime to teach him some better manners when dealing with a member of the royal family.

Fortunately, after the banquet, the feast was over quickly. She had excused herself after the dance with Lord Tyrion, saying that she felt a bit unwell. No doubt it had helped that Tyrion had been so drunk right from the beginning of the feast that he had stepped on her toes a dozen times during the dance. If looks could have killed, Lord Tywin would have sent both his sons to the deepest of the Seven Hells at least as many times on the spot, Ser Jaime for dragging his brother to the feast and Tyrion... for everything else.

So instead of dancing with Ser Lancel, she decided to go to bed early.

The next day, after Lord Tywin had once again had a servant inform her that he would unfortunately not be able to talk to her today, Rhaenys had decided to spend her day in the great library of Casterly Rock. Time was running out. Aegon needed her help. She would hardly be able to focus on anything, but perhaps the books would give her an idea of how to proceed with Lord Tywin. Aside from having Ser Jaime chain him to the table in his study, she could think of no way to force the old Lion to speak with her.

Walking along the southwestern outer wall of Casterly Rock on her way to the library, she looked down into the harbor. In the past few days, more and more ships had arrived in the harbor. She hadn't quite been able to make out many of them, being so far away, but Tyrion – after talking about it yesterday before the dance that had been so painful for her feet – had had a page bring her the Myrish Eye of Creylen, the maester of Casterly Rock, out on the parapet so that she might enjoy the lookout a bit more. It was a gleaming, richly decorated cylinder of polished bronze and dark wood that made far-off things look close. The page, a young lad of perhaps twelve or thirteen name days with straw-blond hair and light blue eyes, had been plastered with wax and ink from top to bottom when he had brought the Eye to her. Apparently, as the boy had reported, Maester Creylen had at first not been enthusiastic at all when he had caught the young lad carrying the precious Myrish Eye out of his study. Only when the boy had shouted loudly and distorted in pain that he was supposed get the Eye for the princess, the maester had stopped throwing things at him, but had not stopped swearing and cursing.

Through the Myrish Eye, she had gazed at the city and the harbor for a the larger part of the morning, at the ships sailing in and out – remarkably more in than out. Most of the ships had been paunchy cogs, merchant vessels from almost every part of the continent and the Free Cities, as it seemed. Other ships, especially those under the colorful banners of the Essosi mercenary companies, were slender galleys or richly decorated junks, probably from as far east as the Jade Sea.

It had taken her almost two full hours to spot her own ship in the confusing muddle of hulls and sails, flags and banners. She was glad to see that the damage on the ship had been completely repaired by now. Sailing through the passage between the southwestern coast of the continent and the Arbor, they had been caught in a storm. Not a terrible storm, actually, but dangerous enough nonetheless. They had veered off course, nearly running aground more than once just offshore, and on the last night of the storm, a lightning bolt had struck their main mast, splitting it lengthwise and setting it on fire. They had lost their main sail and the flames had almost spread to the other sails and the rigging, had the sailors not fought so bravely against the flames in the midst of the strong rain and even stronger wind.

Rhaenys had insisted on flying the Targaryen banner on all the masts and the stern of the ship. They had not been openly attacked, but when they had tried to anchor in Three Towers after the storm to have the ship repaired, they had been denied access to the port by order of Lord Tommen Costayne. In the far distance, the light of the Hightower of Oldtown had been visible in the night, the color of its beacon's fire changed to a bright green flame, signaling that House Hightower had called the banners. In whose name, she had not known, however. All she had known – learned from a merchant during a short stop in Cuy – was that the Reach was heavily divided. There were some who had sided with Stannis together with House Tyrell, standing against Aegon, there were loyalists who stood with House Targaryen, either for Aegon or Uncle Viserys, and again some who had stayed neutral. The Reach was so rich and powerful, though, that even parts of the Reach, if they took the wrong side, could be dangerous to Aegon. What of this applied to House Hightower, Rhaenys had not known, and they had therefore avoided struggling up the mouth of the Honeywine in a damaged ship, at the risk of also being rejected, or worse, captured.

So they had sailed on to Blackcrown where, fortunately, Lady Alysanne Bulwer had welcomed and hosted them as kindly as if the war did not exist at all. Rhaenys had learned from the large dragon banner flying atop the highest tower of castle Blackcrown that House Bulwer had stayed loyal to House Targaryen. Chances that this meant either Aegon or Viserys were tied. They could hardly have hoped for a better opportunity, though, and since the ship had been in urgent need of repair and sailing back to the Arbor would have been way too far for their damaged ship to make it, they had taken it. After they had landed at the port and had been welcomed with bread and salt, she had learned that House Bulwer had indeed sided with Aegon. Lady Alysanne's brother had marched east in Lord Tarly's host to join Aegon's fight, but sadly she had not been able to learn anything more about Aegon than that.

This had come as quite a surprise to Rhaenys, given that House Bulwer was closely tied to House Tyrell by blood. House Bulwer's loyalty to House Targaryen, however, seemed to be unwavering. Her injured sailors had not been able to be treated by the maester of Blackcrown, a man named Normund, since the man was a born-and-bred Tyrell, just like Lady Alysanne's own mother, and had therefore been imprisoned immediately after Lord Tyrell had declared himself for Stannis. Her own mother had of course not been imprisoned. She had, however, neither been allowed to attend the small feast to welcome Rhaenys, nor to write letters or speak to anyone except her personal servant, a man whose loyalty to House Bulwer Lady Alysanne was sure enough of.

"I was surprised that you joined my brother, my lady," Rhaenys had said to Lady Alysanne at the feast. "After all, you are a Tyrell on your mother's side. House Tyrell is widely woven in the Reach these days, their blood widely spread. It did surprise me that you and many other Houses from the Reach have not remained loyal to House Tyrell, though of course I welcome it."

"Rats are also widespread, my princess, but this does not oblige us to be loyal to them," the young lady had replied. She was of an age with Lady Margaery Tyrell and had even grown up with her, Rhaenys knew. The closeness to her liege lord's family, however, hardly seemed to have resulted in an affectionate bond. "Please don't get me wrong. My mother is a fine woman by all accounts, but it changes nothing. Your father has renounced his crown and that makes your brother our king. Anyone who says otherwise is a traitor, blood or no blood."

After only three days, the main mast had been replaced, the most necessary repairs had been carried out and Rhaenys had immediately continued her journey. By now, thanks to the diligent workers of Lannisport, the minor damage to the other masts and the rigging had apparently also been repaired, the remaining scorch marks on the hull of her ship had been removed and a new main sail had been rigged. It truly looked as good as new, as far as she could tell through the Myrish Eye.

Casterly Rock's library was huge, though nowhere near as big as her father's library at King's Landing. What it lacked in size, however, it made up for in exquisiteness. In her first walk along the shelves and reading desks alone, she found an edition of Maester Colren's Of Living and Dying - On the transience of the human body, all volumes of Dander Woodfoot's Songs of Glory and Devotion, and even an almost complete translation of The divine Sphinx, a collection of stories, poems and lyrics written by an unknown Valyrian nobleman who was said to have lived early enough to even have personally witnessed the Second Spice War. She was unsure whether or not this could actually be true, but the scrolls were still so rare and precious, that they would undoubtedly have even made everyone in the great library of the Citadel in Oldtown turn yellow with envy. She finally picked one of her favorite books, Lomas Longstrider's Wonders Made by Man, and sat down in one of the large, comfortable chairs with high back and soft padding near the eastern window to read in it. Although she knew it almost by heart, reading about the three bells of Norvos or the Palace With a Thousand Rooms in the old city of Sarnath would never bore her. As a child, she had often dreamed of taking a ship and exploring the world, following in the footsteps of Lomas Longstrider with Aegon at her side, visiting Qarth and Yi-Ti or perhaps even exploring Asshai and Ulos. But those had been childish dreams of a girl who had not yet known anything about how the world worked. She knew that she was lucky to be who she was, because she had already seen more of the world – even though she had never left the Seven Kingdoms – than most others would ever see in their entire lives. Still, that longing had never completely disappeared.

She was just reading a passage about the construction of the Long Bridge of Volantis and the strong magic that had supposedly been needed for it, when she heard the door to the library open and immediately close again. At first she suspected Ser Jaime, wanting something from her or perhaps bringing her a message, but when she heard the plodding footsteps, she knew who it was even without turning around.

She heard Tyrion Lannister unerringly pull a book from one of the shelves and then come in her direction. He walked past her, apparently without having noticed her, and was just about to sit down opposite of her in one of the other, tall chairs when he finally did see her.

"Ah," he cried, a shock running through his whole, small body. His book fell to the floor. It took only a moment for him to regain his composure and pick up the book. "My princess, please excuse me. I did not expect to find you here. I am usually always alone in these halls."

"No need to apologize, my lord. Please, take a seat and keep me company."

"Thank you, my princess. It's nice to have company here for once, too." It was a lie, but at least a polite one and so Rhaenys decided not to say anything about it.

"So do you come here often?"

"Yes, I do," he said, looking at her with his mismatching eyes. "Either to read or to drink. Or both. A good wine and a good book is a combination I can only recommend. You just have to make sure those two things balance each other out. Otherwise, you waste both."

"If you say so, that will probably be true," Rhaenys said and could not hold back a laugh.

"It does. Trust me, I'm an experienced drinker."

"I have indeed already noticed that."

"Oh, the feast... yes, not my best performance. I must apologize for that, Princess. I hope your toes survived it well."

"They're all still there," she said, winking at him. Immediately, the tension in his body eased and a faint smile appeared on his face.

"I still don't know why my brother made me show up there, though."

"Oh, that was my idea. I hope I didn't embarrass you too much with it."

"Your idea?"

"Yes, I needed you to cover a little white lie to avoid another dance with Ser Lancel," she admitted. "He steps on my toes almost as often as you do, my lord, but unlike you he weighs considerably more than I do myself."

"Ah, I see. And no, you have not embarrassed me. The opportunity to dance with one of the most beautiful women in the world is hardly something a man should be embarrassed about."

"Well, thank you very much, my lord."

"However, I am quite sure that my lord father will not have liked this little prank of yours very much. So if you were hoping to buy his sympathy with this, you haven't achieved your goal. Rather the opposite."

"Because he was trying to keep you away from me?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm drunk too often for his liking. Apparently, he doesn't appreciate my extraordinary achievements in this field at all. It is not easy being drunk all the time, you must know. If it were easy, everyone would do it."

"How highly unfair of him. But no, buying his sympathy with this was not my goal. In fact, it was solely to avoid your cousin," she said with a laugh, which made Tyrion laugh as well. "From the looks of it, your father doesn't seem to have any intentions of speaking to me in his lifetime anyway."

"Then you can always pray that my father will die soon and you will have better luck with the next Lord of Casterly Rock."

"And by that you mean yourself?"

"Oh, most certainly not. I may be my father's heir, but rest assured he'll see to it that I don't get the Rock. I once asked him when he intended to finally openly proclaim me his son and heir, to silence all those who spoke of marrying their daughters to my uncle Kevan's sons, since they would surely inherit Casterly Rock one day. His answer was that I would never succeed him as Lord of Casterly Rock, because neither gods nor men could ever compel him to let me turn Casterly Rock into a whorehouse."

"A whorehouse? I thought you were a drunkard, not a whoremonger," she said with a faint smile.

"Oh, I have a talent for both. And believe me, such talents are not so easily suppressed," he answered, grinning broadly. "Drinking and lust. No man can match me in these things. I am the god of tits and wine… I shall build a shrine to myself at the next brothel I visit."

"I'm sure it will be awe-inspiring," she said, now grinning just as broadly.

They sat together in silence for a while, both pretending to read in their books, before Rhaenys finally looked over to Lord Tyrion and spoke again.

"My lord…"

"Yes, my princess?"

"I hope you will forgive my bluntness. Your lord father... will he support Stannis... or Viserys?"

Tyrion closed the book on his lap again, sighed heavily and looked at her intently for a while before answering.

"I don't know, princess. I honestly don't know what my father intends to do. All I know for certain is that my father will do whatever he thinks is best for House Lannister. I can only advise you not to hope for his loyalty."

"I don't," she said with a sad, wry smile. "I only hope that he can and will see beyond the boundaries of his family as well. Stannis would be a king Lord Tywin could expect nothing from. Nothing at all. Stannis'… rather poor opinion of your lord father is widely known, and even if he would not have to fear him, there would be nothing to gain for him with Stannis on the throne either. And Viserys... We've had vicious kings and we've had idiot kings, but I don't know if we've ever had a vicious idiot king. Viserys would be exactly that. The next Mad King, who would surely not only end House Targaryen, but most probably the Seven Kingdoms as a whole." She was silent for a moment, lost in the illustration of the city of Volantis in front of her on her lap, as if that image could somehow give her the answers she so desperately needed. "Maybe he will do nothing at all, will just sit this war out," she said more to herself.

"My father will fight, princess," Tyrion said. For a moment, she was surprised by the certainty in his voice.

"For us or against us?"

"As I said, I don't know. But he will not sit out this war."

"What makes you so sure of that?

"Because there are only few things Tywin Lannister hates more than me but one of these things is to waste gold and time, his gold and his time above all. He wouldn't invest so much time and wouldn't be throwing his gold out the window on entire mercenary companies if he wasn't planning on using them, too."

"Then why doesn't he talk to me? Why does he keep me waiting instead of talking to me and declaring for Aegon?"

"Well, in the beginning, he was certainly waiting to see if any of the other claimants for the throne would come to him. Stannis and Jon Arryn, he would have at least talked to. And he certainly would have enjoyed seeing your father on his knees, begging him for his support."

"But not anymore?"

"No. Apparently no one has come. At least not with an offer that would have convinced him."

Otherwise I would already be in chains by now.

"Then what is he waiting for?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked with a smile on his unsightly face. She looked at him, unsure if he was mocking her or not. "He's making you wait to increase the pressure on you, Princess. With each passing day, your brother is in more dire need of new allies for his war. He wants to see what you are made of, Princess. My father respects strength and despises weakness more than anything else. You are not a lioness, but you must convince him that you are not a sheep either. Prove to him that you are a dragon, a true scion of House Targaryen."

"But how can I do that?"

"Be daring, strong and confident. Show him that you are no beggar hoping for a few coins, but that you are on par with him, that he needs you just as much as you need him."

"Does he though?"

"My father wants to get the most out of it for House Lannister, my princess. He certainly does not want to end up empty-handed again like he did after the last war. Your presence here, though my father may have given a different impression, is not a burden to him, but an opportunity. The best opportunity he has. Maybe even the only opportunity he has."

"So if he fears that this opportunity is in danger of slipping away from him..."

"Then he will be only too glad to talk to you."

Immediately she slammed the book shut, threw it on the small table beside her and was about to storm out, filled with new energy. Before she left, she turned to Tyrion once more.

"Thank you, my lord. I will not forget this."

When she arrived in her chambers, she had a servant send for Ser Jaime and immediately began spreading her clothes and scarves, shoes and boots, stockings and undergarments on the bed. She had given Ser Jaime the day off to meet with parts of his family, some of his cousins and an aunt he was very attached to. While they were here, he should be given the opportunity to spend time with them, she had decided. She knew that he also would have liked to see his sister. Lady Cersei was married to Keren Lannister, however, a cousin of hers from one of the lesser branches of the House Lannister and the Lord of some puny castle somewhere on the edge of the Pendric Hills south of Ashemark. After the last war, Lord Tywin had received quite a few offers for his daughter's hand, but since the question of the inheritance of Casterly Rock had been unresolved, he had preferred to marry his daughter off within the family so as not to allow anyone in a generation or two to have an unwanted claim to the Rock apart from his immediate family. So Lady Cersei was rarely seen in Casterly Rock these days. The only times she returned to Casterly Rock were when she brought her two sons, Tywin and Tywald, to Casterly Rock to parade them around, no doubt in the hope that her father might decide on one of them as his heir.

Rhaenys went to the far corner of her chamber and took out, one by one, the smaller boxes that would hold her belongings while she was on the ship again. Her white knight arrived in her chambers shortly after.

"My princess, you asked to see me. What exactly are you doing?" he asked, wide-eyed as he watched her take her things out of the chests and cabinets to pack them into her traveling boxes.

"I'm starting to pack my things, ser. Isn't it obvious? Since your father doesn't seem to want to talk to me, I see no reason to stay here any longer," she said, loud enough to be sure the servant who was undoubtedly still standing outside the door listening would surely hear but not too loud not to raise any suspicion. Her gamble was risky. If the servant wasn't as curious as she suspected, Lord Tywin wouldn't know of her supposed departure until it was already too late. And if the old lion saw through her game, she would only appear desperate, further weakening her position. "Please send a messenger to the harbor and let the captain of our ship know that we will be leaving first thing tomorrow at dawn. Since we apparently will not find any allies here, we will travel back to the Reach and try to convince some of the still neutral lords and ladies of our cause. I'm sure we'll find something that we can offer House Hightower, for example."

"Yes, my princess," Ser Jaime said, bowing his head.

She was sorry to have to lie to her white knight, but everything had to be absolutely convincing. Ser Jaime had to send a messenger to the harbor, the ship had to be made ready to leave in the early hours of the morning, and she herself also had to give the impression, without allowing the slightest doubt about her intentions, of departing and leaving Lord Tywin with empty hands.

She slept little that night, tossing and turning from side to side in her bed. Tomorrow morning she would leave for the harbor, board her ship and depart, should Lord Tywin not hold her back. Tomorrow morning would determine whether or not she would be able to win over the old lion for Aegon. If not, she would indeed have to travel to Oldtown and just hope for the best. If not, she would maybe be able to give Aegon ten, maybe twelve thousand swords instead of forty or even fifty thousand. Nightmares kept her awake most of the night, cruel thoughts of the end of the war, of Stannis on the throne with Aegon dead and herself fleeing, chased by sinister figures, faceless and without mercy. She dreamed of Viserys on the throne and all of them engulfed in green flames, screaming in pain while he was sitting on the Iron Throne, with fingernails as long as claws on his bloody hands, and greasy hair, unkempt like a beggar, laughing shrilly like a madman.

The next morning she had just put on a new dress, elegant enough for a princess and the king's sister but still made from sufficiently thick fabric to withstand the fresh winds of a ship's voyage, black with golden dragons on the sleeves and over the hem, when there was a knock at the door and a maid entered her chambers.

"My princess, please excuse the intrusion, but Lord Tywin requests to see you."

Oh, much faster than expected, she thought, grinning to herself.

Rhaenys had feared Lord Tywin would make this a trial of strength as well, letting her leave Casterly Rock, ride through the entire city, and perhaps even board her ship already, before asking her to come all the way back to him. Apparently, however, the words the eavesdropping servant had no doubt conveyed to him had unsettled him more than expected.

Half an hour later, she entered Lord Tywin's study, followed by Ser Jaime, who had been waiting next to her chambers' door and had wordlessly followed her through the castle. The room was large and nobly furnished, with high shelves of dark wood, filled with countless books and scrolls, tables with old and new maps of Westeros and the western parts of Essos, fiery red cushioned benches and armchairs and, next to one of the large windows, an exquisite Cyvasse board with pieces made of white mammoth ivory and black dragon bone. Lord Tywin himself sat behind a large table made of weirwood with golden lion feet and a tabletop of polished, reddish stone, no doubt the same stone from which all of Casterly Rock was hewn. Jaime took up his position next to her, his whole body as stiff and tense as if he were awaiting his execution. The old lion looked down intently at the letter he was writing, not standing up for her, not bowing to her, not greeting her, not even looking at her.

So he is still making this a trial of strength, she thought.

Rhaenys wordlessly sat down on the broad armchair opposite of him, looking at the Lord of Casterly Rock, waiting for a reaction, any reaction. With any other man, she would have tried to be gentle and kind and submissive – maybe even a bit seducing – as many men expected women to be. But she knew that Lord Tywin Lannister was a man who despised weakness and that no look from her dark eyes, however seductive, could bring this man to let his guard down. So she had to be strong and confident, a true daughter of the sun and the Blood of the Dragon, if she was to have any chance of winning him over for Aegon. She counted the heartbeats and was already at eleven when Lord Tywin finally began to speak.

"I have heard you wish to leave us," he said without looking up. It was not a question.

"Indeed. I thank you for your hospitality, but I do not wish to be a burden any longer, my lord. After all, as you know, I am still searching for allies for my brother. You have no doubt noticed that there is a war going on."

"And where do you intend to find these allies?" he asked, folding his now finished letter. He then poured some bright red molten wax on the folding and pressed his seal stamp on it, still not looking up at her.

"I don't know yet. Oldtown, maybe. The Hightowers are still neutral, but could be very valuable to my brother."

"I see," he said. After that he remained silent for a time while taking a new sheet of paper from a drawer to begin the next letter. "So you want to continue playing your little game?"

"Not at all, my lord. I have no interest in games, so what do you say we both stop with this silly fuss now?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Jamie's eyes widen at how she was speaking to his lord father. No doubt Lord Tywin was not used to have someone speak at eye level with him. There weren't many who were at eye level with this man, after all. And Ser Jaime seemed even less used to seeing this.

"Fine. So?" he asked, tearing his gaze from his letter for the first time and looking her in the eye.

"I'm here to make sure my brother has the best possible chance of winning this wretched war. And whoever knows Tywin Lannister is on his side does have the best chance of winning."

"I expected more from you than cheap flattery."

"Oh, that wasn't flattery at all, just an objective observation."

He stayed silent for some moments, looking at her, inspecting her. No movement was visible in his face, no emotion. If she hadn't known better, one could have thought the man was made of stone.

"Please, convince me then," he finally said.

He put the quill away now and leaned back, folding his hands in front of his chest. His emerald eyes bored into hers like daggers. Jaime had the same eyes, she noticed, but where Jaime's eyes were kind and soft, Lord Tywin's eyes were those of a predator. Examining, constantly weighing his next move, always on the lookout for its prey, always ready to attack. Sharp eyes, intelligent but cold and hard.

"I understand, of course, that you are cautious, my lord. So far, the war is passing by you, and getting involved, no matter for which side, would mean a risk, for you personally and your family. That is in the nature of war."

"So what do you want from me?"

"Isn't that obvious? I want you on our side," she said outright. There was no point in beating around the bush. "I want your armies, your mercenaries, your gold and yourself. I want you to help my brother get his crown."

Lord Tywin just sat there for a while again, looking at her with these hard eyes of his. With every heartbeat, Rhaenys became more nervous, doing her best to sit still and trying not to let show how fast her heart was beating by now. After what felt like an eternity without a single word from the old lion, even Ser Jaime began nervously shifting from one foot to the other. Finally, Rhaenys decided to speak again, since Lord Tywin apparently did not intend to do so.

"To be honest, my lord, I'm unsure whether to be annoyed or relieved that you haven't named a price for your support right away."

He still did not say a word, did not move one inch as if hewn form stone, did not blink, even seemed not to breath.

He does not want to name a price. He wants to be made an offer, she realized.

"I take the fact that you haven't thrown me out yet as a sign that you are open to an offer. So let me make you one. Perhaps you will find it appealing."

"I'm listening."

Finally.

"My brother will give you back your son," she said. She then pulled out of her sleeve the small signed and sealed writ that Aegon had prepared for her, confirming that she was indeed allowed to negotiate on his behalf and to offer whatever she deemed appropriate. Lord Tywin took it, broke the seal, unfolded it and read through it before folding it neatly again and placing it on the table in front of him.

"I already have my son back. He is standing right there next to you."

"Well, he's here, in Casterly Rock. He is still a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, though. Even if that means nothing to you, it means something to your son. Otherwise, he would not still be wearing this white cloak of his anymore. And even if he didn't, it would mean something to the realm. You could force Ser Jaime to marry, maybe you could even somehow force him to father children. But that would do House Lannister no good in the long run. You could call whatever children would come out of this Lannisters all you want, their legitimacy would still forever be questioned."

"A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep."

"Of course, that wouldn't be a problem in the first place if you simply declared one of the sons of your daughter Lady Cersei to be your heir. Undoubtable lineage with parents being Lannisters on both sides, mother and father. Unfortunately, young Tywin is said to be blessed with the mind of a turnip, and Tywald, by all accounts, is said to take more after his great-grandfather than after you, my lord, easy to love but weak-willed. A new Lord Tytos, but certainly not another Tywin. Or of course you can save yourself all the trouble and give Casterly Rock to your other son Tyrion. Just teach him to dance with a lady without trampling her feet first. It would make it much easier to find a suitable bride for him then." She saw how his gaze darkened at the mere mention of Tyrion. "Aegon will give you back your son, my lord, the only son you really want," she repeated.

"Stannis Baratheon could make me that offer as well."

He doesn't talk about Father and Viserys, she noted. That was good. Either the two had not contacted him at all – unlikely given the strength and wealth of House Lannister and the Westerlands – or Lord Tywin was aware that the thought that he might ally with Viserys and Rhaegar of all persons, the king who had already refused to return his son to him in the past, was so absurd that he spared it right away. Probably the latter.

"Did he, then? I didn't think so," she said after he didn't answer for more than two heartbeats. "Stannis may pride himself on what he calls scrupulousness or being true to his principles, but in the end it is nothing more than pure stubbornness. Stannis is a man who would rather bite off his own tongue than agree to release your son from his vows, should he indeed one day sit on my brother's throne. You know that as well as I do."

"Perhaps that is so, perhaps not. I would be willing to take that risk."

"I don't believe you. I do not consider you a gambler who takes unnecessary risks for the sake of an exciting bet. Especially not when the future of your House is at stake. But just in case I am wrong here, my offer goes further. After the war, you will once again be Hand of the King. Aegon will welcome you to his court and appoint you as his Hand, the second most powerful man in the realm."

"So not only am I to win this realm for your brother, afterwards I am also to rule it for him?"

"Are you really going to pretend you don't want this position? I thought we were going to end this silly charade, my lord."

"That is not enough," Lord Tywin then said, returning to her proposal.

"As you wish. As I said, I have no interest in playing games, and to prove this to you, I will now offer all I have to offer on my brother's behalf. If that is still not enough, we can end this conversation immediately. Then you'd better put me in chains right away. You will get your son back as your heir, you will become Hand of the King and on top of that you will get a bride befitting your heir's rank."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Jamie take a tiny step forward to say something. The prospect of so suddenly not only no longer being a knight of the Kingsguard, but also of once again being the heir to Casterly Rock, and on top of that having to marry soon, seemed to completely overwhelm him. Of course, he should have known that as the future Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, he would not be able to remain unmarried, but still she somehow pitied him. Her white knight was caught completely cold by this, as foreseeable as it actually should have been. However, she had no use for any objections from his side and so she silenced him with a quick wave of her hand before the first word had even left his mouth.

"Who?" the old lion asked.

"Me."

Again, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime wince, beginning to stutter like an insecure boy.

"But, my princess... I… I can't... I've known you since you were a child and-"

"Then surely you will have noticed that I am no longer a child," she interrupted him, holding Lord Tywin's gaze. "I am a woman grown and a rather comely one at that, if I may say so myself. No doubt there are worse fates than taking me as your wife, ser."

"But-"

Rhaenys raised her hand again, immediately silencing Ser Jaime and still holding the old lion's gaze.

"Should you accept, the wedding can take place even today, my lord. For that I expect from you then to march to war with all your men, all knights and soldiers and mercenaries, first thing tomorrow to support Aegon and help him to secure his throne. In return you will get a royal match for your son and heir, and in addition the personal promise from me that my first daughter will marry Aegon's first son once we have children."

"Children...," she heard Ser Jaime gasp from the side.

"Ser Jaime, please be silent now," she chided him. "Your daughter may never have become queen, Lord Tywin, but if you now support my brother in this war, your granddaughter will. So, my lord, this is my offer to you. Take it or leave it. Do we have an agreement?"

Notes:

So that was it.

Many of you were probably not all too surprised about what Rhaenys has offered to Tywin, but Jaime certainly was. :-D

I also wanted her to be a bit "dominant" or "authoritative" towards Jaime at the end, not because she doesn't like him - because she very much does - but because I wanted to show that she might look like very Dornish, but that she is still very much the granddaughter of Rhaella. ;-)

So, how did you like it? Let me know in the comments what you think.

Chapter 43: Viserys 3

Notes:

Hi peeps,

the next chapter is here. We are back at King's Landing with our good friend Viserys. In this chapter we will see what these two have been doing the entire time and again have a little insight in Viserys' head. Hope you have fun. :-)

The music was loud and cheerful, the food rich and delicious. Viserys was pleased, satisfied with the feast, with the guests and, of course, with himself. In the middle of the former Grand Hall, for the time being transformed into his throne room, most of the tables had already been moved to the sides to make way for the dance. The real Throne Room, still housing the Iron Throne, had been damaged when the river wall had broken off and was at risk of collapse according to the builders and masons. So he had decided to hold court here and also to have his feasts and dances here as well for now, at least until the war was over and the work on the fortress was finished. The first guests were dancing already, even though the dance had not actually been opened by him yet. However, he decided to let them do so. This should be an evening for exuberant merriment, an evening in which one amused oneself and thought of nothing else than with whom one would probably later secretly share the bed.

He had already cast an eye on some of the ladies in the hall. He was most taken with – he hardly thought it possible himself – one of the servant girls who had been busy handing new refreshments to some of the men in the hall the entire evening already. She was tall for a girl and lush, with big teats, golden curls and dark eyes in a pretty face. Also, she would be the easiest to have, and should she be left with child, she would have no noble family behind her to demand anything of him. On the other hand, as surely as the sun rose in the morning she was no longer a maiden. A girl so pretty never remained untouched for long without the protection of a great name. And having a girl in his bed who had already been used by who knows how many other men was certainly less appealing to him.

Then there was Eleanor Mooton, niece of Ser Myles Mooton, who had died during the riots. The man had been a good friend of his dear brother. Old Lord Mooton also held Maidenpool in his name, blocking the road and its surrounding lands for enemy messengers and landless hedge knights trying to join the wrong side. So although House Mooton did not have much to offer in terms of soldiers and knights, it certainly could not hurt to repay House Mooton somewhat for their loyalty by taking care of the young lady's maidenhead. She was fifteen or sixteen, so at the best age for her first night.

Lady Tanda Stokeworth had also offered her daughter Lollys, a fat wench of nearly forty, as broad as two wine casks and with as little wit as a rock. He had not even dignified this offer with a reply, but had merely ordered Lady Stokeworth and her disgusting brood to be immediately removed from Maegor's Holdfast.

The numerous Walder Freys in the hall had in turn offered him Lady Tyta, whereupon he had almost thrown them out as well. Tyta Frey had crooked teeth, short legs, and an ass like a brewery horse. No wonder she was still a maiden at thirty-something. It wasn't until her brothers or uncles or cousins or whatever they were had noticed his anger at this insulting offer that they had finally introduced him to Arwyn Frey. She had just turned eighteen, was petite and slender, but seemed as prim as a septa. Instead, he had decided – should he indeed take a Frey to bed with him tonight – that it would be Roslin Frey. She was already twenty, but also still a maid. She had a pretty face for a Frey with a delicate nose and big, brown doe eyes. The little gap in her teeth bothered Viserys a bit, but surely he would be able to overlook that. If she were indeed to find herself in his bedroom tonight, he would make sure that he – either by having her from behind on all fours or on her knees in front of him – would not have to keep looking at her teeth. Supposedly Roslin Frey also had a talent for music, which didn't really interest him though. He would very likely make her sing tonight, but it would have little to do with music.

There were, of course, still other ladies he could have a look at. Lord Janos Slynt, one of the lords from the Riverlands who had joined him, apparently also had a daughter with him as well. However, if she looked like him, stocky, bald and with a face like a frog and built like a keg, she wouldn't be worth the trouble. He really didn't feel like looking at any more women and listening to their boring chatter anyway. All he would need for tonight was a bed warmer but Viserys surely didn't want to waste the whole evening looking at women he wouldn't really be attracted to anyway. He would probably just take one of the Freys and leave it at that. Maybe he would get the servant girl to join in too. That could be quite worthwhile. But he would decide this later spontaneously.

After a few hours the dance was almost over and some of the guests looked so tired, as if they wanted to fall asleep right where they were standing. The ladies Roslin and Arwyn were nowhere to be seen, but that didn't matter. He had made it very clear to their brothers or cousins or whatever that they should keep themselves ready for him tonight. Probably both of them were already in his chambers in his bed, waiting for him, longing, willing and wet.

Viserys was just taking another cup of wine from one of the servant girls – not the blonde one he had hoped for, however – when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, how his brother seemed to be talking excitedly with some of his guests. It was Lord Janos Slynt and two of Ser Oswell Kettleblack's three sons. Which ones they were exactly he could not say, but he suspected Osmund, an ox of a man with a thick brown beard, standing over six feet tall, most of it muscle, and Osney but the latter could just as well be Osfryd. At first it looked like they were talking about something pleasant, but the closer Viserys got, the clearer it became that his brother was not at all pleased with the way the conversation was going. He gestured wildly with his arms and looked angrier than he had in a long time.

"My lords, brother, what is this all about? This is supposed to be an evening of merriment, not argument," Viserys said with a wide smile when he was close enough to be heard. Immediately they all fell silent and turned to him. Janos Slynt and Osmund Kettleblack had fiery red faces, but Viserys could not tell whether from wine or from anger.

"Your Grace," they greeted him together as if in chorus.

"So? What was this conversation about? It seemed to have been quite agitated."

"Nothing important, Your Grace. Nothing you should burden yourself with tonight," Rhaegar said. Viserys frowned at his brother. Rhaegar knew exactly how much he hated getting answers like this. He was the king and when he decided to be informed about or involved in something, it was not up to his subjects to decide otherwise. All around them, the conversations were now beginning to die down as well. Apparently, the rest of the guests were more interested in Viserys' conversation than in their own. It was Janos Slynt who, after a brief hesitation, finally began to speak.

"We were just talking to your royal brother about how we find it a bit odd to be sitting around here in the Red Keep twiddling our thumbs while there's war going on in the rest of the realm, Your Grace," he said, earning a scowl from Rhaegar.

"Armies from the North have crossed the Neck and are now sitting ready to strike in the Riverlands," one of the Kettleblacks added. "But for or against whom they will fight is still unknown."

"The Stormlands and parts of the Reach are in open rebellion and the Vale of Arryn is in flames with loyalists and traitors at each other's throats," Lord Janos continued again, apparently repeating the same discussion they had just had with his brother. "Better not to even talk about Dorne."

Viserys felt the heat rising inside him. He was the king, he owned this realm with everything on it and in it, including these morons. In his veins flowed the blood of dragons and gods, and yet they dared to question his decisions. By now the whole hall had fallen silent, no one was speaking and even breathing seemed to be stifled by many of the guests around them. Only Janos Slynt seemed unable to keep his mouth shut. Not noticing Viserys' rising anger, he simply continued speaking.

"The time is right for an attack on Storm's End, Your Grace, before Stannis can gather new men. If we strike now, we can end this rebellion with one single blow. Highgarden would no doubt lay down his arms. Mace Tyrell is as cowardly as he is fat, and would not dare oppose you."

"Oh no?" asked Viserys. "But that's exactly what he's doing," it exploded out of him. "He opposes me, my power, and my rightful claim to the throne!"

"But only," the younger Kettleblack babbled in from the side, "because he can hide behind Stannis and Jon Arryn. Once those two are dead, he'll run back to Highgarden with his tail between his legs as fast as he can."

For a dimwit who can't even read, this worm sure thinks he knows a lot. I will have to drive this smart-mouthed prattle out of him.

"If Mace Tyrell doesn't see another chance to put a crown on his daughter's pretty little head, he'll give up. I guarantee you that," Slynt said.

"Perhaps you should take her as your wife yourself, Your Grace," the elder Kettleblack now murmured. "If you did, I'm sure the Tyrells would quickly take your side."

"That is out of the question for my brother," Rhaegar intervened. "His blood is too precious to be watered down with Highgarden filth. He needs new brides of pure Valyrian ancestry."

Viserys had to smile at his brother's thoughtfulness. For a brief moment, he even forgot his anger at the imbeciles standing before him. Of course his brother war correct. Once this annoying war was won, he would need new brides with pure Valyrian blood, worthy of him, to give him heirs. Anything else was out of the question. To keep her as a mistress, however, Margaery Tyrell might do. He had seen her before and she was pretty enough for that. Highgarden would certainly not be able to make any demands on him after the war, and so seeing their daughter as the king's bedwarmer would be a good prospect for these traitors. Way better than they deserved.

"My brother is right. That's out of the question. But I already know what to do with the cunt anyway," he then said. He had thought earlier already that as punishment he would simply sell all the daughters of all the rebelling houses as slaves to Essos. One or two of the girls were certainly pretty enough and would do well in a pillow house in Lys while the others could still serve as fodder for the wild animals in the fighting pits in Slaver's Bay or as broodmares to produce even more slaves. That would be a lesson that the traitors in his kingdom would certainly never forget.

"The Vale will also submit once Jon Arryn is dead. You simply take his wimpish son as your ward. If they ever rebelled after that, you would simply end the Arryn bloodline. They wouldn't dare to risk that," Janos Slynt babbled on, just as if Viserys hadn't gone over all this a hundred times with his brother already. "And all on their own, the North wouldn't want a war with you either. After that, only Dorne would have to be subdued, but with the combined forces of the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Vale and the Reach, that will be a breeze."

"I thank you for your suggestions, my lords, but I have already made my decision. I know very well how to win a war and my decision is to wait. I will wait until my enemies have destroyed each other. And then, when my enemies are on the ground, I will march, punish everyone who opposed me and save my kingdom from these vile, cowardly traitors. At any rate, that is better and wiser than rushing headlong into a war and wearing out one's own forces unnecessarily."

"Your Grace, you don't win a war by cowering behind walls," the younger Kettleblack said.

"I do not cower!" screamed Viserys. How could this useless, goat defiling illiterate ever dare to talk to him like that?

"No doubt," his brother intervened, "Ser Osney didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"No, of course not," the worm now said, his head as fiery red as Viserys' doublet.

"I'm a dragon, Kettleblack," he said, no longer screaming but still loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him. "The dragon does not run to his enemies like a dog begging for a bone. My strategy is well thought out. You'd better never forget that again."

Viserys seemed unable to breathe for a moment as he heard the next words from one of the insolent, wine emboldened dolts.

"You call it a well thought out strategy, but many others will probably just take it for cowardice," the elder Kettleblack said.

It took Viserys nearly an hour to regain at least some composure. The swiftness with which the red knights of his Flameguard had, at his command, dragged Osmund Kettleblack out of the hall and thrown him over the parapet of the Red Keep's eastern fortress wall had calmed him down at least somewhat. It had pleased him so much that he had even intended to actually keep his promise. Had the man survived the fall, Viserys would have indeed welcomed him back at court. However, after one of the numerous crashes onto the sharp-edged rocks of the cliff below the wall, apart from the breaking of some bones, a loud crack could be heard – the breaking of either the neck or the skull. His previously so shrill cries of pain had abruptly ceased afterwards, so Viserys no longer expected to have to endure the man's impertinence ever again.

After that, he had thought about taking his anger out on someone else. The fool had woken the dragon and had felt his wrath, but his blood was still boiling. He briefly thought about the Frey girls, what he could do to and with one or two of them tonight, then about fat Lollys. Lady Stokeworth and her cow of a daughter couldn't have gotten too far since he'd thrown them out of his fortress. Maybe he should get her back. He'd never fucked one so fat. Maybe he would like it. Her body was certainly pleasantly soft and her teats and ass were big enough to hold on to nicely and easily while fucking her. He had always had a weakness for big tits. With those alone he could have some serious fun tonight. Not to mention the rest of her plump body. And if she didn't make it through the night after he had had his fun, no one would mourn the imbecile either. But he could not warm up to such experiments right now. The servant girl was on his mind again, but he didn't know where she had gone and didn't feel like sending his men to look for her. She was probably already lying with wide spread legs under some kitchen servant or stable boy anyway.

Rhaegar brought him out of his musings when he offered to join him in his old study – as the new king now Viserys' study, even though he practically never used it – for a last cup of wine before they went to bed. Viserys accepted, and so they walked together through Maegor's Holdfast to the study, sat down in the wide, comfortable chairs, and had a servant bring them some Arbor Gold. For a while they sat there in silence before Viserys began to speak. He certainly hadn't turned down a night of carnal pleasures just to stay silent with his brother.

"You don't like the way I handled things with Kettleblack, do you?"

His brother looked at him and he could see in his eyes how carefully he was thinking about his next words. It made him a little angry again to see this. Viserys loved his brother, so much that he was the only one who was always allowed and even supposed to speak openly with him – at least as long as they were alone.

"I could not let him get away with such behavior," he finally said, after Rhaegar apparently could not bring himself to answer him. "Back when Father was punishing traitors in the Throne Room and I was allowed to watch, he revealed an important lesson to me. Viserys, my son, he said, war means nothing. A battle lost can be made up for by one won, but one thing can never be restored once destroyed. Authority."

"Wise words."

"Indeed. Father was a wise king, after all. Still, something is bothering you, brother. Come on, out with it."

"Well, I am worried."

"About me?"

"Yes, about you. Even the wisest ruler needs good men surrounding him to support and help him."

"I do have you," Viserys said, toasting his brother, an honest smile on his lips.

"Yes, but I won't be there forever, brother. Once we have our family back, it will be time for the ritual. After that, I won't be there anymore and you will need other men surrounding you."

"So?"

"It will be hard to find good men when they fear they will meet the same fate as Osmund Kettleblack as soon as they open their mouths."

"You think Osmund Kettleblack was a good man?"

"No, he was a fool and had drunk too much, but good men must dare to tell their king the truth to his face if they think he is making a mistake. The best man will be of no use to you if he dares not utter anything in your presence but flattery. There is no other means of guarding against flattery than for people to realize that they are not offending you by telling you the truth."

"So you think I should have let him live?"

"I think you could have resolved it a little... less public."

"I will keep that in mind, brother. And thank you. It is precisely because of such advice that you are my closest confidant."

"I thank you, Your Grace," Rhaegar said with genuine pride in his voice.

For a while they just sat there, drinking their Arbor Gold and enjoying just being two brothers, talking about nothings and laughing together. Viserys' thoughts drifted back to the servant girl every now and then, but not focused enough to do anything about it. Finally, it was Rhaegar who brought him back to the here and now.

"We still have not received word from Casterly Rock," he said. "So Lord Tywin either hasn't received our offer, or he's not taking it. The latter is more likely, though."

"The old bastard. I'm not surprised he's abandoning me just as he has abandoned our father. Once the war is over and I have consolidated my power, it will be time for a new Lord of Casterly Rock. I could give the Rock to his son, that misshapen abomination, just to spite him."

Then, once the old man was dead, he would appoint a proper lord, a man whose obedience he could trust. His offer to the old lion had been more than generous. He would officially be pardoned for his betrayal of their father and if he could present him with girls he liked, Viserys would take one or two Lannister daughters as his mistresses, though of course they would be out of the question as wives. They would, however, certainly be allowed to give him a couple of royal bastards. Bastards Viserys then would have legitimized as Lannisters to give Lord Tywin some worthy heirs for Casterly Rock. Yet the old fool had not responded. The more Viserys thought about it, however, the more he realized that Tywin Lannister was only part of what annoyed him, a small part.

"We have too few allies, brother," Viserys said. "Tywin Lannister is just one of numerous cowards who will end up feeling my wrath. It just angers me that there are so many traitors in our realm."

Too few lords and ladies had bowed and sworn fealty to him indeed. There were simply too many traitors in his realm who had thrown themselves at Stannis Baratheon or his damned nephews, too many cowards who thought they could get through the war without risking themselves by joining neither side. As if that were any less treason. After the war, he would have a lot of work cleaning up the ranks of these traitorous dogs and cowardly worms, sweeping through their ranks with an iron broom so that only those loyal enough to earn a place in his new kingdom would remain.

"I understand what you mean. But do not worry about the number of your enemies, nor the number of your allies, Viserys." For a moment, he looked at his brother in surprise. It was not often anymore that Rhaegar addressed him by his first name instead of his title. "It is the value of the monarch that makes the difference, not the number of his bannermen. Fate has destined you to succeed, and that is exactly how it will be. They may be able to betray their vows of fealty, but divine providence cannot be betrayed."

Viserys had to smile. His brother was right, as always. It was good to have him by his side and he almost regretted a bit that his death would be necessary for the awakening of the dragons. But his fate was more important than his brother and his feelings for him. He would get his dragons and then there would be no one left to oppose him. As much as he resented the betrayal he had to suffer from so many sides, the thought of settling accounts with them all when the time would come pleased him greatly. Too few had joined his cause. Far too few. Had he had to win this war in open field battles, it would have been an almost hopeless endeavor. His and his brother's plan, however, called for their enemies to wear each other down until they were easy prey for the Blood of the Dragon.

In the end, his apparent inferiority in the field would only serve to make his victory all the more glorious. Aegon the Conqueror had subdued the entire continent with only seven thousand men and three dragons, and even today the realm trembled before his name. In the end, when he finally had his dragons and his enemies were burned to ashes, his name would be spoken with the same reverence.

That night Viserys slept better than he had in a long time. He had not taken a woman to his bed. To his own surprise, his brother's words had been enough to make his anger and flaming rage disappear. The next morning, he treated himself to a hearty breakfast with fresh bread, soft goat cheese, dry sausage made from bear meat, wild berries in honeyed milk, and strong tea before leaving his chambers. He was in a good mood and he wanted everyone to see that, so he wore the robe that his father had always worn when he had been in a particularly good mood. The robe was made of precious spider silk, with fourteen dragons embroidered with gold thread on the back and the sleeves. With it he wore his new boots of black leather over matching red trousers, also of the finest silk and a black doublet in his beloved Valyrian style with small dragon scales made of copper attached to the chest.

After a short walk through the Godswood, for which he still hadn't found a new, appropriate name, he decided to check out the progress of the construction of the new defenses. Yes, he was truly in a good mood. The fact that he hadn't seen the red priestess for several days only added to that, he realized. Ever since her last, failed attempts to wake dragons without his family's blood, he couldn't bear the sight of her very well anymore. Missionary work in the city was making only moderate progress, no matter how many of those red priests ran around blathering about R'hllor's mercy and no matter how much silver he distributed from his treasuries among the people of the city. Even thoughts of taking her to his bed to enjoy her body had subsided.

She isn't even good for that anymore.

But that did not bother him. Not today. She wasn't there, and that was all he cared about right now. He was just walking towards the main gate of the Red Keep – completely renewed, cut from the wood of the old oak from the Godswood and reinforced with extra thick bands of iron – when he was joined by his faithful dog, Ser Boros Blount. He greeted him with a humble "Good morning, Your Grace. I hope you slept well," which Viserys did not dignify with a reply though. If he spoke to the man now, he would yell at him not only for being late but also for not having his armor properly cleaned again. It hadn't been in the last few days already, and when had confronted him about it, Ser Boros had replied that he still hadn't found a new squire to do the work after the last one had perished in the fires in the Red Keep. He would let him get away with this impertinence one more time though, Viserys decided, since he was in such a good mood today and didn't want to let it be spoiled by his dog, but by tomorrow he would be raising other sides, should Ser Boros appear before him again with dirty armor.

Stepping out of the Red Keep, he could look down on the city. His city. The Flameguard and the Gold Cloaks had done a good job of fortifying the city against the coming attacks. In exchange for food as payment, they had been able to round up enough men and women from the city to build the fortifications alongside them according to his and Rhaegar's plans. Entire streets had disappeared to set up defensive lines. Breaches had been cut and ditches had been dug all across the city, dividing it into more than a dozen smaller parts. They had razed entire rows of houses and streets to the ground to create large, unprotected areas for his archers and crossbowmen to shoot at. From the rubble, they had built obstacles and simple walls that would make a quick advance impossible. One of the particularly large squares had even been turned into a maze with walls more than a man's height, from which, however, there was no exit that would bring the attackers even one step closer to the Red Keep. Most of the ideas had come from Rhaegar, others from the Lords Boggs and Cafferen as well as a man named Lord Theomar Smallwood. He had never heard that name before, but apparently he was a man from the Riverlands from a family renowned for their loyalty to the crown. Viserys decided to have the man rewarded with new lands and titles after the end of the war. He would surely have use for a vassal with some wits. The idea for the maze had come from himself. He would have a great time hearing about the fools wandering around in the maze, looking for an exit that didn't exist. The thought alone made him grin.

Behind each wall and on the edges of all the larger areas, he had ordered wooden towers to be erected with nests for more crossbowmen, each stocked with large jugs of lamp oil, which he had purchased at a particularly low price from a very desperate merchant from Pentos. Any tower that could not be held would be set on fire by his own soldiers before they retreated, so that the towers could not be used against his own men afterwards.

In other streets his men had dug trap pits and provided the paths with concealed caltrops that would certainly cost them large parts of their cavalry should they dare to attempt an attack on horseback. Even on the city wall, his soldiers had built barricades of wood and stone, dividing it into smaller chunks. So a soldier, even if he was able to fight his way onto the wall, would never be able to walk more than a few hundred steps on it without facing the next defensive position of his soldiers and knights. Taking the city wall and simply walking on it to avoid the death trap that was the interior of the city was thus impossible as well.

The wall itself would not be defensible for his men for long, he knew. After having erected so many barriers and obstacles along the wall, it would be impossible even for his own men to move too freely on the wall to repel attacks from any particular side. His soldiers could no longer quickly and easily gather at certain points on the wall to fend off attacks and throw the enemies back. So the city wall would be taken relatively quickly. Viserys was sure of that. But all that mattered anyway was that his men would give the attackers a good fight and make them pay with as much blood as possible for each and every part of the wall. The more attackers died climbing the city walls, the better. The real death trap for the traitors would be the city itself anyway, through which they would inevitably have to fight their way in order to reach the Red Keep. The fortress was still not back to the condition it had been in before the wildfire explosion and the riots, but it had visibly been reinforced again, with a new river wall, more nests for archers on the sides of the hills, and well-placed piles of rubble and debris that could tumble down the slopes of Aegon's High Hill at any moment at his command, burying and crushing any attackers under them like the hoof of a galloping horse would do to a nut.

Whichever army would arrive here first to challenge him, Stannis Baratheon and his band of traitors or his pathetic nephews and their Dornish goatfuckers, would wear themselves out on the city so much that they would be easy prey for him and his men afterwards. Or for each other, should both hostile armies meet within the city. He himself would wait for them in the Red Keep, would command the defense of the city from Aegon's High Hill, and would enjoy the carnage that would take place beneath him in the city.

This would all be so much fun to watch. Not as much fun as seeing Stannis' and Jon Arryn's men burn bright with his beloved wildfire, but still fun. Yes, he would definitely need to get Lollys Stokeworth back, he decided, thinking about how excited he would get enjoying the sight of this slaughter.

He also saw that his men had already hoisted his new banner on the entire length of the wall, on every watchtower, and on all the towers of the Red Keep and Maegor's Holdfast. At his command, the women of the city had sewn the new banners from cut-up Targaryen banners, old sailcloth, and any scraps of fabric they could get their hands on, according to his wishes. Hundreds of banners they had sewn in the last weeks. Instead of just lazily sitting around, they had at least been able to make themselves useful. His new banner was adorned with a golden dragon surrounded by a red flame on white. Golden as his blood, white and pure as he himself and the flame… well, the flame was self-explanatory for a dragon lord. Most of the banners were poorly sewn and ugly to look at, but at least they were recognizable for what they were supposed to represent. A new time had dawned, a new reign under a new king who would establish a whole new dynasty of dragon riders. His golden dragon also had only one head, no longer three. He was the king, the ruler, the future savior of mankind and the awakener of dragons, and so he would tolerate no one on the throne beside him, certainly no wives. Only beneath him.

After looking down on the city with a smile and enjoying the progress of the works for a while, he turned around and went back to the Red Keep. Here, too, to his delight, the work was progressing very well. On the northern wall of the Red Keep, where the kitchens and Council Chamber had formerly been, he had ordered the construction of a new dungeon about a week ago. The stones, wood and most of the other building material had been used by his men for the defenses in the city and so his new dungeon, in fact more freestanding prison cells without a solid roof and with only the fortress wall as a solid wall on one side, looked more like oversized dog kennels. The remaining three sides and the roof consisted of simple and quickly forged iron bars. There was no door, only a closable opening on the top a little more than three steps above the ground. The new dungeon, if one wanted to call it that, was neither beautiful nor particularly spacious, but it would suffice for the moment. Each of the eight cages could hold up to thirty prisoners, as long as they stood upright and close enough together. More even, if many of them were children.

As well as the preparations were going, there was still one problem he had to take care of. Many of his men, specifically the Gold Cloaks, were simply not trustworthy. Many had already deserted, so that of the initially six thousand men, only about four thousand were left. This should not really surprise him though. Most of the men were nothing more than rats from Flea Bottom, not lords or knights with at least a basic understanding of honor. He could have realized it earlier that these men could not be relied upon. Rhaegar, when telling him about the latest deserters, had again uttered one of his beloved quotes from one of the old farts he called philosophers which he loved to bring up so much at any given moment. And even though Viserys hated it when his brother babbled on like an old woman, this time he had been right.

"A man's greatest possible misfortune is to realize the truth too late," he had said. Indeed, they had both realized too late what kind of men the Gold Cloaks mainly consisted of. Just as they had realized too late what kind of men and women their own family consisted of, who had so shamefully abandoned him. But at least with the Gold Cloaks, there was still something he could do to remedy this problem. The solution to this problem was as simple as it was ingenious. Viserys simply had to make sure that for the Gold Cloaks, this war and the coming battles had to be about more than just coin. He had to offer them more incentives than mere payment in copper or even silver. He had to make the Gold Cloaks want to fight for him, so that they would truly defend the city with all their strength and utter determination against any enemy that came along.

So he had ordered his knights of the Flameguard to go immediately after the completion of the new defenses to the camps of the townsfolk, which he had also ordered to be spread all over the city as human barricades, to seize the wives and children of any Gold Cloaks they could get hold of, and to lock them up in his new dungeons. So the next time one of the Gold Cloaks had the stupid idea to desert and betray him, he would simply have his family executed.

Now there was only one thing left to do. As long as he didn't have the Gold Cloaks' families as means of leverage, he had to and wanted to take care of certain things himself. With a smile, he turned away from his new dungeons and, followed by his dog, walked towards the stables in the inner courtyard. Three Flameguard knights stood guard outside the flat building and opened the wide door as he approached them. The stables were only dimly lit and still reeked horribly of horse and shit, although there were only very few animals left actually since almost all of the Gold Cloaks' horses had been slaughtered and eaten during the famine. The only horses left in King's Landing were now owned by his Flameguard to defend the city with them. Wasting these fine animals on the cowardly cunts of the Gold Cloaks was of course out of the question.

Viserys walked all the way to the back of the building. In the far corner, half-hidden in the shadows, a figure hung lifelessly in the ropes that had been tied around his wrists, ankles and neck. He smelled the man's blood, saw the red and brown stains all over his body, the blue and black bruises, and the oozing burns where the Flameguard had treated him with red hot irons. The face was an ugly swollen mass, barely recognizable as human anymore. Slowly the man raised his head and had his eyes not been completely swollen shut, he probably would have opened them in shock.

"Pleafe, You' Grafe, have merfy," wailed the man through his broken teeth and jaw, immediately beginning to weep. Tears, red from the blood they washed from his cheeks, ran down his disfigured face. Thick threads of spittle, as blood-red as his tears, ran down his chin from the corner of his half-open mouth and dripped onto his chest. The sight was despicable, disgusting.

"Mercy? You are a deserter, a traitor," Viserys spat at him. "Death is the only mercy you deserve."

The worm began to sob. His whole body was shaken as if by the hand of a giant, as far as the ropes and his injuries would allow. The Gold Cloaks would certainly do better without such a heap of misery within their ranks. This traitor would do him one last service, however. As soon as he was done with him, he would be dragged out of the stables and hung by his guts on the outside wall of the Red Keep. He would be a warning to all those who toyed with the idea of betraying him as well.

"Untie him," Viserys finally said in a calm voice. Immediately his red knights rushed past him and cut the ropes. His body fell limply to the ground.

"Fank you, Fank you, fank you, You' Grafe," the fellow stammered, crawling towards him on his knees. A curt nod sent his red knights back outside so he could be alone with the traitor. Ser Boros followed them wordlessly. A powerful kick to the man's battered chest finally brought him back to the ground where he belonged.

He reached behind him and pulled his dagger from his belt, Valyrian steel with a hilt carved from dragon bone. For a moment he hesitated, but immediately scolded himself for it.

You are the blood of the dragon. You are the blood of the dragon. You are the blood of the dragon.

With a scream, he lunged at the traitor lying on the ground in front of him. He crashed with his knees on the traitor's belly and stabbed. Again and again and again. The man screamed like a stuck pig but after only a dozen or so stabs, the man fell silent, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling. Viserys stabbed again. Again and again. The traitor's blood splattered around, on his face and chest, covering his hands until they were as red as his robe. Again and again he stabbed the dead body until he was totally out of breath and hard as a flagpole between his legs.

Viserys sat back then and smiled.

Notes:

So, that was it. Hope you liked it. We have seen that King's Landing is ready and waiting for the first attack from whoever will arrive first, we have seen that Viserys is still an idiot and... well, a pervert. ;-) So, please let me know what you think. I really enjoy reading your comments.

Until next time. Stay tuned. :-)

Chapter 44: Daeron 8

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. I had a little free time lately, so I thought to spend it on writing some more here.
In this chapter, we are back with Daeron and will see some flashbacks from his POV and also the beginning of the attack in King's Landing. Hope you like it. :-)

The night sky was clearer than it had been in a long time. After the days of constant rain in Duskendale, it felt good to finally be able to see the stars again. The moon was also standing in the sky, pale as a bowl of fresh milk. The moon wasn't quite full yet, but it still shone so brightly that he could see the other ships and even land ahead of them almost as well as if it were day. They had hoped for a few more cloudy nights to be able to approach their destination unseen, but they would be successful even so. They just had to be.

Daeron stood at the bow of the Arbor Queen, one of the ships of Lord Redwyne's fleet, looking up and searching the night sky for that one, special star. It would bring him luck, would protect him, Talla had said. On his first and unfortunately so far only night with Talla, after they had made love for the very first time, they had sat down on a cushioned bench, wrapped in thick blankets in front of the window of their chamber in Duskendale and had looked up at the rainy night sky. Hardly anything could be seen, except for a few stars and the moon, almost entirely covered with clouds. Talla had pointed to one of the few stars whose light had been powerful enough to fight its way through the dark clouds. It had been the middle star of the King's Crown constellation, the Maiden's Eye as the septons called it. She had told him that when she had played as a child, she had always called this star Samwell, after the grandfather she had loved so much as a child and after whom her oldest brother had also been named, the one who was now doing his duty in the Night's Watch. As a child, she had imagined to be a bird, flying up to the stars and seeing her grandfather there again.

Daeron had loved listening to her as she had laughingly told of childhood at Horn Hill, of the horse rides with her brother Dickon through the dark woods that surrounded her family's castle, of the books she had read together with Samwell, of swimming in the chilly rivers nearby with her lady friends without her father knowing it, and of the stories her grandfather had told her when she was a little girl. She had lain under the thick blankets in his arms, her slender body leaning against his chest, and had not stopped talking while Daeron had embraced her with his arms, caressing her flat belly and her soft breasts and smelling her wonderful dark hair.

Before and at the beginning of their wedding feast, they had hardly exchanged a word with each other, not even really dared to look each other in the eye. After all, they hadn't known each other at all, so what could they have talked about? After a few cups of wine, however, Talla had been bold or maybe just careless enough to make a quiet joke about Lord Eustace Brune's beard, which had turned completely red from the spilled wine, saying that it now was so red and shaggy that the old man's face looked like the butt of one of the long haired cattle living on her father's lands. Daeron had heard it anyway, though, and had laughed so hard that he had spat his beer all across the food in front of him. After that the spell had been broken and they had talked, danced and laughed for the complete rest of the evening. Near the end of the feast, they had lost themselves in each other so much that they had hardly been able to wait to finally be alone in their chambers and… do what was done on a wedding night.

After they had made love one more time later that night, she had told him how she had been to King's Landing once back when she had been no more than a child. Her whole family had been in the capital at that time for the celebration of her father's tenth anniversary on the throne. He still remembered this celebration well. Aegon and he, still children themselves at the time, had played a game for which they had been severely reprimanded afterwards after their father had found out about it.

Old Lord Hugh Grandison had been present, placed not far away at one of the honorary tables near the royal family as a reward for some special service he had done for their father at that time that Daeron could not remember anymore. The old man had already sunk into a deep sleep in his chair less than halfway through the feast, and so Aegon and Daeron had come up with a game to pass the time. Aegon almost won their little game of throwing food scraps at the sleeping Lord because four of his bread crumbs had gotten stuck in Grandison's beard without him waking up. Daeron had only managed three breadcrumbs, but had placed a sauce-stained raisin right in his mustache with a deft flick of the wrist, what had earned him the victory.

Talla had laughed heartily when he had told her this, had turned around and kissed him passionately on the mouth. She had then told him about how she had seen him and Aegon back then, even if only from a distance, but for a young girl from a rather small House, even a brief glimpse of the royal family had been something very special for her that she had been able to talk about with her friends for weeks and months afterwards. She had even claimed to have found Daeron better and more… intriguing than Aegon back then. It was an obvious lie, since he knew very well how girls and ladies have always reacted differently to his brother, the perfect Valyrian prince, compared to him, despite his name being the very image of a Stark of Winterfell. Still he had found it sweet that she had said it.

He had decided, however, that what mattered most anyway was not how she had found him then as a child, but how she found him now. And he had no doubt that today, after their first of many nights together as husband and wife, she actually did find him more intriguing than his brother.

Some distance ahead he saw the Pride of Driftmark, the lead ship of their fleet, upon which was Aegon together with Lord Velaryon and Lady Brienne. She had refused to leave Aegon's side in the coming battles, leaving him without a personal protector, and after they had had to leave Ser Barristan behind in Duskendale because of his severe injuries, Daeron felt significantly better knowing that she – bigger, stronger, and better with a sword than most men he knew – was at his brother's side. He knew she was fiercely loyal to his brother and would rather die than abandon him. If only there were more knights like this woman.

"It's so quiet," he heard a voice next to him.

Daeron looked to the side and saw Ser Duncan Brune standing there, one of Lord Eustace's grandsons. The man was a giant, with sun-streaked hair and soft eyes.

The name Duncan is well chosen, Daeron thought with a smile.

"This is the deep breath before the plunge. This is where the war will be decided, this is where the hammer blow will come down hardest."

"Don't forget that Stannis and Jon Arryn are also still there, my prince. Even if we take King's Landing and the Red Keep now, it will not end the war."

"That's true, but for us King's Landing will still be crucial. If we take the city and put Aegon on the throne, we can take care of Stannis with the combined forces of all the loyalists and many of those still unsure of their loyalty. If we lose, we won't have to worry about the Lord of Storm's End anymore, because we'll be dead then," Daeron said, attempting a wry smile. Whether or not Ser Duncan had seen it, he could not say though.

"We will be victorious, my prince. The gods are on our side. They will not tolerate the false red priests who worship this abomination in your brother's realm."

Daeron did not really believe this, otherwise it would never have come to all of this, but did not say it aloud.

"I pray that you are right," he said instead.

"Trust in your sword and in the gods and you will prevail," Ser Duncan said, and for a brief moment Daeron felt as if he were speaking to Ser Bonifer again. The old man had never stopped speaking of the gods either, as if he were a septon. Ser Duncan then bowed and turned away, returning to his men.

Daeron turned his gaze forward again, thinking about what would await them here. The remaining warships at King's Landing, now under the command of Viserys and their father, would no doubt try to block their way into the harbor. So Aegon would deliver the first blow, striking as hard as they could with his superior naval force and clearing the harbor basin and the entrance to the Blackwater for the rest of their ships, carrying their main force. He thought back to their last talk in Duskendale before they had set sail, standing in the harbor together looking at their waiting fleet. It had been their last conversation, as they had been on different ships after that. He remembered the look on Aegon's face. Daeron had recognized uncertainty and he thought even fear in his eyes. He had never seen his brother like that before. Aegon had always been confident, very confident, even with a tendency to being a bit too arrogant at times. Not even the pending cavalry's attack on the army from the Reach that had been marching towards them at that time, which his brother had personally intended to lead, had unsettled him, but the prospect of what would await them at King's Landing had seemingly rattled him completely.

"We will be victorious, Aegon. You'll see," Daeron had said to him, trying to build him up a bit.

"I know. That's not what I'm worried about."

"About what, then?"

Aegon had held a cup of hot spiced wine in his hand, letting the wine slosh back and forth in the half-empty cup, gazing into it as intently as if hoping to find the answer to the question at the bottom of the cup, before he had finally continued speaking.

"We will go to war against our own family, brother. Against our father and our uncle. What sons do such a thing?"

For a moment, Daeron was stunned. What his brother was saying was complete nonsense and he knew it. He probably just wanted to hear him say it to make himself feel better.

"What else are we supposed to do? Just let them burn us alive?"

"Of course not. But we might have been able to flee. To Essos maybe. Then there wouldn't have had to be a war if we'd just disappeared."

"Don't be silly, Aegon. As if they would have just let us go. You know better than that. We didn't declare war on them, they declared war on us."

Aegon had finished his wine in one deep gulp, held the cup in his hand for a while as if measuring its weight, and then flung it out into the bay with a hearty toss.

"It's not about going to war with Father and Uncle Viserys, is it? Not truly. Come on, tell me what's bothering you already. Whatever it is, you've got to get rid of it before we set sail. Your head has to be clear for the battle."

Aegon had looked at him again, a wry grin on his face that clearly said "you just know me too well, brother".

"You're right," Aegon had said. "It's about something else." Aegon was silent for a moment, looking out into the harbor. "What if he's right? Stannis, I mean?"

"Right about what?"

"What if it's in our blood? Father was much beloved as a young man and a good king for many years, grandfather the same. They both fell to madness. What if it becomes the same with me? Maybe Stannis is right and... our blood is poisoned or cursed or whatever."

"That's bullshit," he snapped at Aegon and felt the anger rising in his guts.

"You can't deny that our family has a certain… tendency toward the extremes," Aegon said, again grinning wryly.

"I certainly don't deny that," he said, now calming down again after seeing the sorry expression on his brother's face. "But you are different. Grandfather was a good-natured man when he was young, but always weak and unstable. Didn't you ever listen to grandmother when she talked about the old days?"

"Of course I did, but-"

"Then perhaps you should have listened better," he interrupted Aegon. "Then you would also know that father, no matter how popular he might have been in the past, was deeply melancholic and somehow… unworldly all his life, completely lost in old stories and prophecies. Even if as a young man he would never have been capable of such deeds as he is today, he was always completely absorbed in all this nonsense about awakening dragons and saving mankind from some enemy found in children's books. The dream of awakening dragons has brought down many in our family, better and worse men than our father."

"You're right, I know all that. I'm… I'm just afraid that… that I'm too much like him. Does that make sense? Maybe you should be the king after the war, not me."

"I don't want to hear that nonsense, brother," slowly getting angry with him again now. "What good should that do? I am as much our father's son as you are. So if your blood is… poisoned or cursed, so is mine. You were always meant to be king. You are a king, Aegon. Not only by being born as the king's first son, but.... simply because you are the way you are. You just have that in you, I know it. I will always be by your side, brother, but the king of the two of us is you. Besides," he followed up after a moment of silence, "you're not so much like father as you think."

"Oh, no?" he asked, demonstratively pulling at a streak of his long, white hair.

"Those are just looks. You know that perfectly well. It's not in what you and father resemble each other that matters, but in what you differ. You are nothing like father, Aegon."

He was not. Where their father was serious and overly melancholic all the time, Aegon was cheerful and friendly. Where their father could spend days alone in his study, buried under mountains of books over prophecies, dreams and legends, Aegon preferred to be out and about on the back of a horse, in the training yard with a sword in his hand, on a beer bench in a tavern or even caring about state affairs. In fact, Aegon had long been significantly more involved in the day-to-day affairs of the crown than their father, even though Daeron knew that he had never allowed his brother to have real power to truly rule already, since he had only trusted Lord Connington enough to do all the work for him. They might look more alike than almost any other father and his son ever had with their silver-white hair, bright purple eyes and the almost inhuman Valyrian beauty, but Daeron knew that their innermost being could not have been more different. Aegon was Valyrian on the outside and Dornish on the inside while their father was Valyrian on the outside and… the gods knew what on the inside.

Aegon would win this war, they all would see to that. He would take the throne, with Sansa as his queen at his side, and he would become king, a great king, a king he would gladly bend the knee to when this was all over. Daeron did not have even the slightest doubt about that.

The distant hammering of war drums tore him out of his thoughts.

Boom boom boom boom-boom-boom boom boom.

The beats rolled across the water, hit him like waves in a storm, speeding up his heartbeat with every boom that reached his ears. In the distance, the shape of the Red Keep had peeled out of the darkness, sitting and lurking on Aegon's High Hill like a predator, pale and colorless in the gloomy moonlight like some unknown creature from a nightmare. Never before had his home seemed so threatening to him. He saw movement on his brother's ships ahead, no doubt men getting ready for battle on deck. Looking between the Harridan and the Seahorse, Daeron caught a glimpse of the mouth of the Blackwater. He saw the ships of King's Landing's royal fleet, led by the mighty Pride of Valyria, about to sail out of the harbor to meet the oncoming superior force.

In any other war they would have marched on King's Landing and besieged it, starving Viserys, their father, and their men, and at some point forcing them to surrender, or, if the opportunity had presented itself, storming the city and fortress when its defenders were weakened by privation and despair. This, however, was not any other war. They had no time for a siege, not even for a lengthy battle of conquest. They had a few days, a week, maybe two with a little luck. By then King's Landing had to have fallen, to be in their hands, and Aegon to be on the throne. Otherwise, they ran the risk of failure. They knew that an army had fought its way past the loyalists out of the Vale of Arryn and was now on its way to fall at their backs in Lord Stannis' name. How many new men Stannis had meanwhile gathered around him from the Stormlands in Storm's End, hired as mercenaries from Essos, or received from his traitorous allies in the Reach, just waiting to strike, they did not know. However, it could not be long before they found out.

"Stannis will hardly do us the favor of waiting at Storm's End until we are finished here," Oberyn had said correctly a few days ago. "He has never been known for his courtesies, and he certainly won't extend that particular courtesy to us."

It all would have been easier had they managed to reach Robb. They had been told that Robb was waiting with the entire army of the North near Riverrun. For what, they could not say. Presumably, however, he wanted to protect the Neck and thus block access to the North for any hostile army. At the same time, he could protect his grandfather's lands in this way, should Tywin Lannister, for example, decide to leave his Westerlands with unfriendly intentions after all. They had tried to send a messenger to Robb from Duskendale. The messenger had carried word to him that his family was safe in Dorne and that his sister was now queen. At the same time they had asked him for support, but had not received any answer.

Even from Darry they had heard nothing. They knew from traders and hedge knights who had joined them coming down from the north that Lord Darry had called the banners and gathered a few thousand men around him, yet Lord Darry had not marched to join them. Just like Robb at Riverrun, Lord Darry sat in his castle and seemed to twiddle his thumbs. Several mounted messengers had been sent out to Riverrun and Darry, some north via Maidenpool, others south past God's Eye and Acorn Hill, but none of the messengers seemed to have arrived.

Shouts and cheers could be heard in the distance, swords, axes and spears were raised swiftly into the air. Aegon and the captains of the other ships were no doubt tuning the men up for battle. As if by some inaudible command, all sound ceased, a silence like that of a graveyard spreading over the water. Then, in the distance, Daeron saw a swarm of burning arrows rise into the air from the Pride of Valyria, quickly followed by arrows from the Bold Laughter and the Growling Thunder. Most of the arrows fell hissing into the water in front, behind and beside his brother's ships, only a few hit its targets, but apparently without causing any major damage. Few screams from those that had actually been hit and wounded could faintly be heard, but Daeron was sure he had not heard his brother's voice.

He's way too far away, he scolded himself. As if you could hear him from this distance.

Still, Daeron was sure Aegon was fine. It just had to be that way. A second volley of burning arrows rose into the night sky from the three leading ships, now followed by volleys from five or six of the ships further in the back of the defending fleet. The first volley of arrows was now launched from the leading ships of Aegon's fleet. The arrows did not hit much either, though. Silent and stubborn as oxen on a cart, the ships pushed on and on toward the enemy fleet. Some sails on two of Aegon's ships had caught fire, the mainsail of the Seaman's Bride and the spritsail of the Golden Seahorse. New swarms of flaming arrows followed from both sides now, meeting in other in midair, and this time more screams were heard. The first ships of the two fleets were now so close that the soldiers would be in range of crossbows. Then suddenly a horn was heard, then a second, then a third. The horns fell silent and suddenly the oarsmen of all of Aegon's ships visibly speeded up. The massive cogs and dromonds practically leapt forward, swarmed out to the sides, and as if with a mighty burst of thunder, the first ships crashed into each other lengthwise.

Wood smashed against wood, breaking apart with thunderous crashes as more and more ships wedged themselves into each other. The mighty Mermaid's Tail thundered into the side of the much smaller Stranger's Wrath with such force that the ship was split clean in half. Sailors and soldiers jumped from the sinking wreckage into the water, trying to pull themselves up on the Mermaid's Tail in search of help, but were met only with arrows and crossbow bolts from the soldiers on board and thrown back into the sea dead or dying.

Daeron on the Arbor Queen, and the ships following it, was now getting closer to the thick of the battle ahead of them, already passing between the first fighting ships and would soon catch up to the front lines of their fleet. His hand inevitably went to the hilt of his sword at his side. He knew, however, that he and his men would not be able to intervene, that he would not be able to help his brother. At least not here and now. He saw the Pride of Driftmark had wedged itself into a middle sized warship and men were now crossing in between flying arrows to try to capture the smaller ship. He could not make out Aegon. The light of the moon was too dim for that and the ships too far away, but he was sure that his brother was already in the midst of the battle on the deck of the enemy ship. All he perceived was the occasional flash of blades being swung around in the pale light, the clash of steel on steel and steel on wood, and the shouts and screams of those fighting and dying on both sides.

The Mermaid's Tail had just slammed sideways into the Pride of Valyria, as he now saw, had pierced its ramming spur through the hull at the aft end of the ship, and was now slowly pushing the massive flagship of Viserys' fleet sideways in front of it, supported by the Smiling Lady. More and more ships thundered against each other. Some broke apart instantly like the Wavedancer, others merely wedged themselves together, still others went listing and began to sink into the tide. To his left, some distance away, he saw a dromond from Viserys' fleet bore into the side of the Sea Wolf. The Sea Wolf quickly filled with water and began to sink, apparently beginning to drag the enemy dromond down with it.

Aegon's fleet was more than twice as strong as the defenders' fleet, one hundred and thirty ships of the royal fleet of Dragonstone against the fifty or so ships of the royal fleet anchored at King's Landing. Thus, there were almost always two, sometimes even three ships under Aegon's and Lord Velaryon's command facing only one ship under Viserys' command. Aegon's fleet had approached in a broad front and quickly engaged the defenders in fights, while parts of the fleet had bypassed the defenders' lines and were now additionally attacking Viserys' ships, which were already in a hopeless position, from behind. Some ships had already surrendered to the superior force, others would surely follow soon. For the rest, it would be a tough, bitter but ultimately hopeless struggle.

As more ships sank or became wedged in skirmishes with each other, more gaps formed in the defenders' lines, through which the Redwyne fleet, led by the Arbor Queen and carrying their main force, could now push. Daeron looked right and left, ahead and back, and saw nothing but ships either burning or sinking, men fighting, dark figures with shining weapons, of whom it was impossible to tell who was who in the poor light. Men shouted orders and insults, screamed and died, fell into the water and drowned, dragged into the depths by armor and chainmail, were pierced by spears and arrows, cut to pieces by swords and axes or beaten to death by flails and clubs. The salty sea air was filled with the stench of smoke and blood, sweat and vomit. For a moment, Daeron had to pull himself together to avoid throwing up himself as they passed a ship in the immediate vicinity that had just been captured by Lord Velaryon's men. Only about a dozen of the defenders were still alive, the rest lay dead and hacked to pieces on deck in puddles of blood and their own piss. Stripped of their armor and anything else of worth, more and more dead men were now floating face down in the water around the captured ship after their bodies had been thrown overboard.

Daeron closed his eyes, looking away from the slaughter on all sides and avoided the gaze of any of the men behind him, most of all Lord Redwyne's. He could not appear weak if he wanted the men to follow him into their own battle very soon. Still, this was not a battle but a massacre. Of course, it could only have been avoided if the defenders had surrendered in time instead of fighting a hopeless battle that could end with nothing but their certain demise. Thus, the slaughter had been necessary, even if he knew that Aegon – as well as he himself and many of the men around him – would suffer from nightmares about it for a long time.

He breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench and kept his now reopened eyes fixed on the harbor entrance of King's Landing, which was now getting closer and closer. The Arbor Queen had broken through the ranks of the defenders by now, leaving the fighting behind, and was now heading straight for the harbor entrance, being followed one by one by nearly a hundred ships of the Redwyne fleet. They passed the rest of the river wall, which was still lying in the water at the foot of Aegon's High Hill like the dead body of a slain giant, blocking almost a third of the harbor entrance. From a few defensive positions on the rubble hill and along the side of the hill, a few arrows were shot half-heartedly in the direction of the large ships that were moving unerringly past, but without doing any damage.

As expected, Viserys and their father had reinforced the southern side of the hill above the remains of the river wall with new defenses and had a new rampart built on the otherwise unprotected flank of the Red Keep. While all but a few of these fortifications were made of wood, they were carefully placed and apparently well manned, as Daeron could see as he sailed past, so that a direct attack on the weakened south side of the Red Keep would have been nearly impossible. At least, unless one was willing to sacrifice half of one's own men. Aegon, thankfully, was not and so they would take the city first and then fight their way up to the Red Keep.

They passed the River Gate, on the east side of which a new, small guard tower had apparently been built from some wood and the rubble of the river wall. The assault on this position would be dangerous for Oberyn and his men, but Daeron was confident that he would prevail and survive. After all, Oberyn had already survived other, more dangerous things than this during his time in Essos, if his stories were to be believed. He took a closer look at the battlements of the wall and towers, noticing the strange banners flying there. For a brief moment, he thought that perhaps the city had already fallen and someone else had made themselves comfortable on the Iron Throne. Then, however, with the moonlight shining through some of the banners, he recognized the dragon in its center. It was of a dirty yellow color, had only one head instead of three, and was framed by a misshapen red patch on grey or dirty white. Daeron decided not to pay any further attention to it, however. Whatever Viserys had been thinking with this nonsense would soon be of no relevance anyway, once he was kneeling in front of the executioner's block.

He knew that he should now say a few words to his men. He was the commander of these men, their prince, and would lead them into battle. He was expected to make their blood boil with pithy words so that they would be ready to fight. Daeron wished Aegon were here now. Not so much to give the speech himself, but at least to tell him what to say. Aegon had always been good at winning men over. The knights and soldiers at court had loved him ever since he had been old enough to hold his tiny, wooden toy sword and run around the Red Keep with it, shouting "I'm the Young Dragon, I'm the Young Dragon."

"Men," he finally began. Still not knowing what to say, he just hoped that words would find their way to him on their own. And so he began to speak, rather to babble, about the battle and honor that would await them in victory and in death. He felt like an idiot and judging from the look of the men facing him, seemingly anything but eager to fight and thirsty for blood, they thought the same of him.

Gods, what would Aegon say now?

For a short moment he was silent, collecting his thoughts. For a few heartbeats, he pondered what these men wanted? What did they have to be promised to make them storm these walls? Certainly not the prospect of death. Coin maybe? They were already getting that. But a little more certainly couldn't hurt. Honor? Not really. They couldn't buy anything from that. After all, with a few exceptions, they were not knights, but simple soldiers who wouldn't gain anything by donning honor and glory. Women? Absolutely. What man was not willing to take up arms and shed blood for the love or even just the body of a woman? King's Landing? They were men from the Riverlands, Dorne and the Reach. What did they care for King's Landing? Maybe they did not, but they should, he decided. Some of the men were already beginning to turn their backs on him, rather facing the city they were about to attack than him, from others he heard a soft coughing, which only made the uncomfortable silence even more uncomfortable. Then he finally continued to speak.

It was true, King's Landing was not their city. But it could be their city, he told them. What Viserys was doing here now, the crimes he was committing in the name of his vile red god, he could just as easily commit tomorrow in the rest of the realm, in Rosby and Stoney Sept, Goldengrove and Rain House, Blackhaven and Lemonwood and every town and village in between, if they didn't stand up to him together. He spoke of people waiting behind those walls, that tomorrow could very well be their mothers or sisters or daughters… or lovers, waiting to be rescued by them. He spoke of merchants and traders with full purses, cowering in the dark, of brewers and liquor burners, doing the very same in cellars full with bottles and barrels, and of course of girls and women alone and without protection in their cold and empty beds, all of whom would certainly be grateful for their courage. Each in their very own way, should they prevail. With that, he now won the men over completely, and the uncertain silence gave way to broad grins and shouts of jubilation.

"Prince Daeron," some shouted. "Down with the false king" or "away with the false god," others screamed. Still others did not stop chanting Aegon's name while a few did not speak or shout at all, instead hitting their shields with their weapons in an ever faster and faster becoming beat.

Daeron joined his men standing at the railing and put on his helmet. They sailed past the massive city walls of King's Landing, watching the devastated docklands pass by. The docks had been destroyed intentionally and many of the wooden bollards had been hacked to pieces, minor damages that could quickly be repaired, but that were probably meant to make it harder for their ships to dock and let the soldiers loose on the city.

As if that would help them much, Daeron thought grimly.

In a moment, the time had come. The southwestern corner of the city wall, just a few hundred paces from King's Gate, was already in sight. Steadily, the ships moved on. Daeron looked back along the riverbank. The ships of their fleet had not quite been able to keep in the right order due to the battle still taking place in the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, so that now some of the ships carrying his men were behind those carrying the force that would be led by Oberyn. Still, it would be enough. Nearly half of their fleet, following the plan, had managed to keep up with the Arbor Queen and continued up the Blackwater Rush from the powerful pulls of the oarsmen, while the other half of the ships were spread out in the harbor basin and at the anchorages. He would attack the King's Gate with half their men, while Oberyn would charge against the River Gate at the same time with the other half.

He turned his head a little more and saw among the men behind him already the ladder bearers and the archers, who would cover their assault, ready and waiting. The men's shouts and chants had died off by now, but their faces were still serious and determined. Only a few allowed themselves to show fear. Daeron hoped that he was not unintentionally one of them. One last time he checked the fit of his armor, the shield on his left arm and the sword at his side, then it was time. He raised his fist, waited a few heartbeats, and then quickly jerked it back down. Immediately, horns were sounded, first on the Arbor Queen, then on the other ships of his fleet.

Like a wave of flesh and steel, he and his men rushed over the railing into waist-deep water near the shore, trudging forward and beginning to run the moment they had dry ground under their feet again. The first defenders on the walls immediately began raining arrows down on them, but all still too inaccurate to hit too many of his men. Three, four, five men around him were hit and went down, screaming or already dead. Then they had already reached the wall. Daeron held his shield over him, breathing heavily from the fast run in his armor.

More soldiers reached him, pressed up against the wall beside him, their shields raised as well for protection. He heard the shouting of men and yelled orders from all around him and from above on the wall. Forty paces away he saw his archers, taking up positions now behind large, wooden shields, beginning to answering the defenders with arrows of their own. The defenders' arrows were more accurate now, hitting more of his men. But his own archers were good, he knew, able to shoot quickly and accurately up the high walls. Stones were dropped now onto them from the wall by the defenders. Two of his men right next to him were hit. One had a shattered shoulder, the other a shattered skull. He heard more screams than orders now, more men lying around dead or badly wounded. With a tremendous crash, something hammered against his raised shield, jerking it around and smashing it into his own face.

Daeron blurrily saw something lying on the ground in front of him. A rock as big as his own head must have hit his shield at the edge. He tasted blood and for a moment he was dazed. He quickly caught himself, though, and held his shield above him again.

He heard a scream above him, then another, and knew that his archers had hit the stone throwers directly above him. Next to him, a man hit the ground with an arrow in his neck. Now was the time. The defense was still disorganized as they had to respond to two attacks at once. But it wouldn't last long, so they had to take their chance.

"Now," he shouted, and immediately the ladder bearers charged forward, ramming the retaining spurs into the ground and struggling the heavy ladders upright with all their strength to make them crash against the city wall.

Thump, Daeron heard the first ladder hit the stone, accompanied by the cheers of his men. More ladders followed.

Thump, thump, thump.

Quickly the first soldiers were hurrying up the ladders. Immediately he ran back a few steps to the foot of the ladder, shield his soldiers and himself from the enemy arrows as good as he could.

Thump, thump. More ladders followed. Now ever faster. Thump, thump, thump.

He saw how the first men had already reached the top of the city walls but were fought off by the soldiers on the wall with bows and crossbows, swords and spears. A wild confusion of Gold Cloaks, those ridiculous red knights of Viserys' so called Flameguard and what appeared to be townspeople, men and women completely without armor, fought bitterly against his soldiers. He now lined up between his men and quickly began to climb up the ladder himself as fast as the men in front of him allowed it. Two, three of them were hit by arrows, falling down to the sides of the ladder, screaming.

Four more steps, three more... Closer and closer he came to the crown of the wall, and by now he could even make out the faces of the men and women in front of him. One man was still in front of him. He swung his sword around, stabbed a woman with a hammer in her hand in the chest and hurried over the top of the wall. Immediately Daeron drew his own sword, climbed on, taking two steps at a time, and leaped after him.

The man who had been on the ladder before him was engaged in a wild fight with a red knight to his right. Quickly he turned to his left and with one massive blow severed the head from the shoulders of another red knight who had just been about to throw one of his men off the ladder to his death. Daeron leapt forward, raised his blade, and blocked a sword strike from a Gold Cloak in the last moment. He parried another hard blow from the left, ducked to the right and charged forward, sword first. Gasping and bleeding from his stomach, the man went down. Daeron pulled his sword from the man's stomach, kicked his weapon aside and moved on quickly. Behind him, more of his men were now charging through the gap in the defense. Ahead of him, he also already recognized a dozen of his soldiers desperately fighting off a superior force from two sides.

"Quick," he shouted to the men behind him. He ran, followed by he didn't know how many of his soldiers, knocking a careless man swinging a butcher's knife headlong off the city wall as he ran, and driving his sword through the neck of another, a lumberjack judging by the massive build and the axe in his hands. Luckily, the man was also not wearing any kind of armor.

He fought his way forward along the wall, his soldiers beside him, behind him and in front of him. He climbed over dead men, stabbed through bodies with his sword, and hacked off heads, hands, and feet. A Gold Cloak appeared beside him with a spiked flail in his right hand. He quickly jerked his shield up before the thorns could crush his skull. Pain exploded in his left arm and his shoulder, burning and biting as if his arm had almost been torn off. The heavy blow caused him to stumble a few steps sideways before quickly regaining his footing. The next blow followed. Daeron held his shield tilted this time, deflecting most of the force past him. He leaped forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc. The soldier jerked his leg up and Daeron's sword crashed against the thick jambeau at the last moment. The soldier could not suppress a short cry of pain. Immediately Daeron leapt forward and hammered his entire body against the man. He lost his balance, dropped his flail and shield, and fell over backwards against a comrade, who immediately had his spear thrust into his stomach by another soldier. Daeron followed up and struck again. This time the Gold Cloak couldn't block the blow, yet raised his hands desperately trying to shield himself, both of which were immediately severed by Daeron's sword. Another quick stab to the chest followed and the handless man was dead.

The battle went on and on. More and more men fought their way up the ladders onto the city walls, now vastly outnumbering the barely reinforced defenders. Soldiers died in droves on both sides, but fortunately significantly more on the side of the now hopelessly inferior defenders, pierced by swords, arrows or crossbow bolts, with their bellies or throats slashed open, heads cut off or simply being pushed down from the wall, breaking their necks.

Daeron could not tell how long he had been fighting and killing already. The sun had already fully risen, so at least an hour or more must have passed since they had arrived. His arms were tired, his legs ached and he was sweating heavily under his helmet. Blood mingled with his sweat ran down his face and into his left eye, burning like fire, though he didn't know if the blood was his own or his enemies'. Back to back with Ser Bolliver, a hedge knight who had joined them in Duskendale, he fought against yet another Gold Cloak. He fended off a sword strike with his battered shield, pushing the Gold Cloak back some steps, and just barely dodged a lunging spear from the side. He grabbed the spear with his left and hammered down on it with his sword. The wood, cheap and crooked, immediately broke in two. He hurled the tip of the broken spear into the face of the now disarmed spearman, who went down screaming, and just so managed to dodge the Gold Cloak's next sword thrust. Daeron jumped to the right, slashing at the man's left foot, but missed. He blocked another blow from the man, was knocked backwards by the force of the blow, wildly waving his arms to not lose his balance and fall down. He saw the man already raising his sword to strike again, a strike Daeron could not have blocked, when from the side Ser Bolliver leapt forward and thrust his sword straight through the man's throat. Blood splattered like a torrent from his neck, spreading all over the knight's blue and green doublet, as the man fell to the ground gurgling. Ser Bolliver reached out and pulled Daeron back to his feet. He nodded his thanks and then looked around.

His men had secured this section of the city wall. The few enemies still standing were already either surrendering or being cut to pieces by four, five or six swords at the same time. He suddenly heard a horn being signaled in the distance. With a final, powerful slash of his sword, he knocked the weapon out of the hand of the man in front of him, one of the last defenders who had still believed he could achieve something here and had kept fighting, and gave the stunned man a powerful kick in the chest that sent him falling backwards over the parapet to his death before he allowed himself to see what was going on.

He quickly took the two steps to the parapet and looked north along the wall. The Lion Gate had been opened in the distance, through which cavalry were now pouring out in great numbers, armored from head to toe in fiery red. The defenders attempted a sally to fall his men, who were still waiting at the ladders below, in the backs and ride down as many as they could. He could not yet tell how many they were, but judging by the mass of red steel, it had to be at least several hundred men. He could already hear the trampling of hooves as the defenders' cavalry rolled in like a wave on the sea.

Behind him he suddenly heard cheering. He looked around and was pleased to see that it was the cheering of his own men, who had now ultimately secured and cleared this stretch of wall from all remaining defenders all the way over to the neighboring watchtowers on the left and the right, on which they had already broken down the heavy oaken doors as well and were now making short work of the archers on top of them. The first Targaryen banners were now raised on top of the battlements and the towers as well to signal their control of this part of the wall. Immediately, but now with a broad grin on his face, he looked back down at the field outside the city. The red knights were still a bit more than three but less than four hundred paces away from his men when another horn was sounded, this time from the west from a small patch of woods on a hilltop. With a roar and a shout, more cavalry burst from the undergrowth, clad in green and brown under the banner of House Tarly.

Ninety of their warships had been needed to transport all their horses and the riders, and as planned, they had come ashore hours ago and in the dark of night a few miles north of King's Landing, had ridden in a wide arc around the city, and had been waiting for just this moment. Lord Tarly had expected an early, too early attempt of a sally from the attackers and had therefore proposed to hide their own cavalry nearby both as a trap and as a backup. Losing the suspected majority of his remaining cavalry would deal Viserys a severe blow, and so Lord Tarly had requested to be allowed to personally lead this quick counter attack. Aegon had been only too happy to grant him this honor.

Surprised to suddenly be the attacked rather than the attackers, the formation of the red knights began to break up on the flanks even before Lord Tarly's cavalry had even reached them. Moments later, however, the greens already crashed into the western flank of the reds, literally plowing through them as mercilessly as a glowing blade would cut through a silken curtain.

It took only moments for Lord Tarly and his men to crush the enemy cavalry. Many of the red knights already lay dead on the ground after what felt like no more than a few heartbeats, pierced by lances, hacked to pieces by swords, or trampled down by horses. Others betook themselves to flight in all directions, but Lord Tarly and his men mercilessly pursued and cut down the scattered horsemen. No more than fifty or sixty of the red knights, from the rear of their now completely dissolved formation, had managed to turn around in time to escape the slaughter and were now galloping back toward the Lion Gate with their tails between their legs.

He continued to look around, saw the faces of laughing, victory-drunken men. They bowed to him, some knelt down, others completely forgot his rank and patted him brotherly on the shoulder. One soldier, a young lad with flaming red hair and a gap between his teeth, even grabbed him and squeezed him in a tight embrace before he realized what he had just done, backed away and, all color drained from his face, stammered an apology and sank to one knee. Daeron smiled at him and pulled him back to his feet.

"It's all right, boy. You fought well," he said, though of course he had no way of truly knowing that. Daeron gave the lad himself another hearty pat on the shoulder and then pushed past him with a broad smile.

He looked past the eastern watchtower that his men had captured and saw that the Targaryen banner was now also raised on the wall and the watchtowers at the River Gate. In the crowd of men, some with their fists raised in jubilation, others still busy driving enemies from the wall on the other side of the tower with bows and crossbows, he saw Ser Duncan standing. The tall man towered over the soldiers, stood out like a tree on a plain field, his sword victoriously raised in his right hand, a Targaryen banner waving like a handkerchief in his left. Viserys' strange new banners all lay in the dirt or had been set on fire already. The royal fleet was now entering the harbor as well, as he could see. More men landed and rushed into the city through the now open River Gate and up the still standing ladders onto the city wall. So Aegon was finally there and would now join this fight after the hard sea battle.

Only now did he take the time to look in the other direction and let his gaze wander over the city. What he saw shocked him. Large parts of the city had been destroyed as if half a dozen other armies had already marched through the streets plundering and pillaging. More houses than he could count had been torn down, whole streets had disappeared and in their place Daeron saw new walls, crooked, poorly built and apparently constructed from rubble, trenches that ran across the city like enormous scars and countless wooden towers that stuck out of the city like the spikes on a hedgehog's back.

But these were things that would be taken care of tomorrow. Today, Daeron was in good spirits. They had overcome the massive city wall and, as he could see, the first fights were already taking place within the city near River Row and among the ruins of Fishmonger's Square, using the momentum of the successful attack to secure these areas of the city in one swift strike. Today was truly a good day and he couldn't wait to drink to today's victory with his brother later.

Notes:

So, that was it. The first step has been taken, but it's still a long way to go for "the gang" before they truly control the entire city, not to speak of the Red Keep. I know I'm not particularly good at writing fight scenes, so I hope you still enjoyed it. Please let me know in the comments what you think. I always love to read your comments. :-)

See you next time.

Chapter 45: Catelyn 4

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. We are back with Catelyn, looking after Robb and stuff. And at the end, there is a little surprise waiting for her and Robb. Can you guess what it is? ;-)

The rain had stopped days ago, but the ground was still wet and deep and the winds cold. Catelyn was glad to be on horseback, even though she didn't really enjoy riding, so as not to have to continually lift the hem of her dress out of the mud. Castle Darry was small, considerably smaller than one might expect from a castle with such an ancient name, but the family that ruled this defiant castle since the time of the Andals was all the stronger for it. Similar to the Freys, House Darry was both richer both in coin and in swords than their liege lord, her father Hoster Tully.

She had hoped to be received as guests by Lord Darry, to be given bread and salt and quarters in the Plowman's Keep, so that after weeks in damp, wind-blown tents she would finally be able to sleep in a warm bed surrounded by walls of solid stone again. The news that Robb had been named King in the North, however, had caused mixed responses among her father's bannermen. Unsurprisingly. Old Lord Darry, even though he had not gone to battle against Robb, had let him know by a messenger that Robb and his men – in his eyes all of them traitors – would not be welcomed in Darry. Only the old man's respect for Robb's father and paternal grandfather, both good men of honor and principle, kept him from ordering his five thousand horsemen to trample Robb and his army into the ground.

After a long and uneventful wait in and around Riverrun, Robb had decided, after a lengthy, nightly meeting with his bannermen, to march further southeast past Harrenhal to secure more of the Riverlands in his grandfather's name. As a child, she had seen the mighty fortress a few times whenever her mother had wanted to visit her uncle there, but always in the most beautiful of summers, when the lands had been green and alive and had smelled of flowers and felicity. In this weather though, dark and damp and foggy the entire day, Harrenhal had been a gruesome sight, more ruin than fortress, quite as a graveyard. She had never given much credence to the talk that a curse lay on Harrenhal, but after catching a glimpse of the behemoth a week earlier, that had peeled itself out of a dense fog, dark and sinister as a demon from a nightmare, she was no longer so sure about it.

After the death of Lord Walter Whent and the end of the male line of House Whent, with his oldest son killed in the rebellion twenty years ago, two dead from a fever and another gone missing on a journey to in Essos years ago already, Harrenhal had not received a new lord. Long before all her brothers had passed or disappeared, Lord Whent's daughter, the Lady Joenne, had chosen to live as a septa, so that no new heir had come from her either. King Rhaegar had refused to let her father appoint a new lord though, but the king himself had also never appointed a new Lord of Harrenhal either. So even though through their late mother, Lady Minisa Whent, her brother Edmure had the best claim to the old castle, it had lain fallow for years now, without knights or soldiers or even a castellan to keep the fortress in good shape. Harrenhal had remained crown possession, whereby all taxes from the surrounding lands had fallen directly to the crown, while at the same time the king had seen fit to impose upon her father the duty of protecting it and driving bandits and other rabble from the fortress and its lands whenever necessary. She had been glad that they had not rested there for more than a night.

Catelyn did not doubt that it had either been Rickard Karstark's or the Greatjon's doing that had led Robb to the decision to march. She had tried to dissuade Robb, had tried to convince him to stay in Riverrun, but Robb had decided that it was not enough to secure Riverrun while the rest of his grandfather's lands were simply left unprotected. Just because there had been no fights in the Riverlands so far, it didn't have to stay that way. An argument she had had nothing to counter. Robb had nevertheless left at least a part of his army behind at Riverrun. Especially since Robb's position was anything but set in stone, even among his own bannermen.

Walder Frey might have let them pass his damned bridge, had even sworn fealty to him, but had given him no soldiers apart from a hundred spearmen and thirty horsemen – a ridiculously small number that could only be called symbolic at best. The toll for crossing his bridge had been the promise that either Sansa or Arya would marry one of Lord Walder's sons or grandsons as soon as one of them had returned north. She knew well enough that a man like Walder Frey did not go to war for a promise, so her son could not count on the old man's loyalty as long as this promised marriage between Sansa or Arya to a Frey was not closed and consummated. She had been horrified when Robb had told her after her return from Storm's End on what he had agreed with the Lord of the Crossing as a toll, had begged him not to allow this, to offer the man something else instead and had as his mother even tried to forbid him to do this. As if she still could have forbidden him anything.

I may still be his mother but he is also my king now, she had had to remind herself. She had seen the sons and grandsons of Walder Frey and the idea of giving one of her wonderful girls to one of those brutes as a wife, of condemning one of them to a life at the Twins under the rule of old Lord Walder, had made her cry for half the night. The thought that she had already lost her two daughters, however, and so this would never happen anyway, had made her then cry the rest of the night. It was not until noon of the next day that she had managed to look presentable again, leave her tent and join Robb at his next meeting with his bannermen, which – whether by accident or on purpose she could not say – had been precisely about Walder Frey's not very trustworthy loyalty.

Fortunately, she had been of one mind with Robb's bannermen regarding this point at least. Moreover, which only made things more dangerous for all of them, no one yet knew which side Tywin Lannister would take in this war, if any. Several armies had been massed along the borders of the Westerlands, twenty thousand men alone near the border to the Riverlands, as their scouts had reported, but so far had not moved a bit from the spot. Still, the threat was clear. Tywin Lannister was readying himself for war, he had just not decided for or against who he would fight. So if this man were to choose the wrong side, there still had to be enough men available at Riverrun under the command of her father and Lord Medger Cerwyn, who Robb had left behind to take command of the soldiers if necessary, to repel an attack from the west.

"I don't want to go into any battle, but waiting for one you can't escape is even worse," Robb had said to her when, just a few days ago in the evening in his tent, she had once again tried to convince him to turn around and march back.

It was a brave sentence, a sentence that could just as well have come from Ned, yet it was not true. Waiting might be the less glorious way, but waiting didn't get you killed. She had tried to convince him that the best course of action would have been to just stay safe while the rest of the realm was bashing their heads in, but Robb would hear no more of it.

"Your lord father swore fealty to me, so the Riverlands are part of my kingdom. As king, I cannot hide in a fortress and leave my kingdom and my people unprotected. How can I ask the lords and knights and even the peasants of the Riverlands to accept me as their king if I don't protect them in times of need? So if all you're going to keep telling me is to sit back and wait, then you'd better not say anything at all anymore," he had said and ended the discussion for good. Since then, she no longer spoke of it.

Now here they stood, in the mud outside Castle Darry, with the gates locked and at least a few hundred archers on the walls facing them, just waiting to unleash their arrows on who they called traitors to the crown. They had to wait the better part of an hour in the cold wind under a white flag, signaling their will to peaceful negotiations, before the gates of Darry finally opened and Lord Darry himself made his way out of the gate and towards them through the deep mud. He sat high on his black steed, a wonderful breed from the Reach, and was flanked by three knights clad in black and brown as well as the ever-grim Ser Orwen Maller, master-at-arms of Castle Darry. She hadn't heard the man say even a single word yet, and seriously wondered why he was even with his lord every time they met, when he wasn't contributing anything anyway.

Maybe he's a mute, she thought. In a lord's household, there were many positions that required a nimble tongue, but master-at-arms was hardly one of them. A mute might very well be a good master-at-arms.

Now that the old lord was finally riding towards them, Catelyn was not sure any longer if they had been kept waiting so long on purpose or if it had simply taken so long to hoist old Lord Darry onto his horse. The man was as hairless as an egg, thin as a spear and had a face so wrinkled that he appeared a hundred years old. She knew that this was not the case, yet still the man looked more dead than alive. Unlike the knights to his right and left, he was not wearing any armor either. Probably because he would not have been able to hold himself on his horse with so much weight on his shoulders. His eyes were milky and he had no more than three teeth left in his mouth. He was frail, hard of hearing, and yet there still was something... noble and sublime about him, although Catelyn could not put it into words what exactly that was.

"Lord Stark," said the old man in a strong voice that did not seem to match his appearance at all. She was glad that neither Robb nor on of the men waiting behind her son on their horses, Rickard Karstark, Mors Umber and Wendel Manderly, said anything about Lord Darry addressing him as lord rather than king. It annoyed her for a tiny moment until she realized something.

It shouldn't annoy me. I did the same thing with Lord Stannis, after all, she thought.

"Do you have something new to tell me, or are you just missing my most pleasant company?" the old man asked with an almost toothless smile.

"I would like to speak with you again in hopes of resolving our conflict peacefully."

"With pleasure, young lord. Take off that silly crown, swear fealty to House Targaryen, and march south to separate the traitorous heads from the shoulders of Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn. And just like that, our conflict is resolved. Do this not, and you are still the same traitor you were when you arrived here a few days ago."

"My grandfather is your liege lord and has bent the knee to me. It is therefore your duty to swear fealty to me, my lord."

"My duty is to the king, not to a boy who just thinks himself one. That your grandfather is even supporting you in this folly disappoints me most of all. He should know better."

"Wouldn't you support your grandson?" asked Catelyn. The moment she uttered the question, she realized it had been the wrong one. Lord Darry should join Robb because the Riverlands were part of his kingdom, not because a grandfather didn't scold his grandson when he went too far at play.

"Rest assured, my lady," the old man then said, "I will always support my family with all my strength, but if a grandson of mine ever stood against my king, I would personally put the gallows noose around his neck."

Catelyn felt her hackles raise, and for a moment she didn't know if it was the cold wind or the fact that she believed the man's every word.

"Where is your king then, old man?" barked Mors Umber now. "I see only one king here, and that is the King in the North. So if you want to keep your little castle, get off your donkey and bend the knee."

"So the boy is supposed to be my king because he just happens to be standing in front of me, Umber? I had heard that you had little more than a wood wool between your ears, but that it should be so little wood wool surprises even me. So if that one," he said, pointing his gnarled finger at Robb, "is gone, and tomorrow the next fool shows up calling himself king, I'll bend the knee to him as well, will I?"

"There is no need to insult each other," Catelyn tried to calm the mood. Lord Darry, however, did not seem to be interested in this.

"Then don't insult me by trying to present this boy as my king and blathering something about duty. My king is of House Targaryen, not Stark, not Baratheon, not anything. Targaryen."

"Then why are you sitting around here instead of helping your king in the south with his war?" asked Robb.

"Because I'm an old man who has to go to the privy every half an hour, boy. What help would I be on a battle field, sitting on my horse and pissing in my own armor?"

"And what about your grandson? Lyman is his name, isn't it?"

"He's ten name days old. The only knights he is commanding have reels and are carved from wood. But do not worry about my loyalty to the king or that of my family, young lord, "he said, emphasizing these last words as if it were a challenge. "My son is with the king, and as soon as the king has orders for House Darry, my son will come, take command of our knights and soldiers, and do his duty to the king. So if that's all there is to it, I'll retire now. I will soon have to pay a visit to my chamber pot again and I can ensure you that that is something you do not want to see."

With that, the old man pulled on his horse's reins and rode back to his fortress at a remarkably unhurried pace. She glanced to the side and recognized the dark stare of Mors Umber, who, like her, was not yet on his way back to their camp with Robb, but was piercing the old lord with his gaze. She had no doubt that at that moment he would have liked nothing better than to draw his sword, ride after Lord Darry, and cut the man's head off. She just wasn't quite sure if it was because he was still refusing to swear fealty to Robb or because even after days Lord Darry hadn't let himself be intimidated by his constant barks.

She spent the rest of the day in her tent, drinking tea and eating some steaming hot soup with onions and lamb meat, trying to finally get some warmth back into her hands and feet. She sat for a while on the little chair at the little table next to the bed and began writing a letter that she planned to send to Winterfell. She wanted to ask Maester Luwin how Bran and Rickon were doing. With all the worry about Ned and her girls, she had almost given no thought to her other children and felt terrible about it. Bran was old enough to understand why she needed to be down in the south with Robb, but Rickon... Rickon was still a child. No doubt he wouldn't want to sleep or eat, would scream and rage and make life hell for Maester Luwin and Old Nan. She had to smile as she thought of this and at the same time wiped a tear from her face with her sleeve. She missed her boys and could not wait to be back home, taking them into a tight embrace and never letting go of them again.

Of course, she also wanted to know how Wynafryd was doing, if everything was going well with her pregnancy, and how she was feeling overall. For the moment, Wynafryd was the lady of Winterfell. An awfully big, frightening task for such a young woman. Who would know that better than she herself? She knew that Robb and Wynafryd wrote to each other regularly, yet it was good for the girl to know that Catelyn cared about her as well. She was her daughter now – the only daughter I have left, she thought bitterly – so she would love her like a daughter and Wynafryd should feel that.

Then she wrote a few more lines to Maester Luwin, asking about the supplies of winter wheat and turnips, wine and hops and fodder for the animals, the condition of the glass gardens and the expected harvest, and asking him about the general morale in Winterfell.

The sun was already setting, glowing in a dark red, and the wind had grown even colder when she stepped out of her tent again to look after Robb. She had finished the letter, but would probably write it again before sending it off. Her handwriting had become ghastly in places due to her hands being stiff with cold, absolutely inappropriate for the mother of a king, and there were a few wordings she didn't really approve of in hindsight. But there would be time for that tomorrow. Now she wanted to go to Robb first. There would be another meeting with Robb's bannermen, just like every evening, and she wanted to be there to be sure that none of the men tried to persuade Robb to do anything reckless.

Heat hit her as she entered Robb's tent, both the heat from the fire bowl in the center of the tent and the heat from the fierce argument that was apparently taking place. No one seemed to notice her as she entered. At least no one turned around to greet her, not even Robb, who sat with his arms folded on his chair lined with bear and wolf skins at the head of the tent. He stared into the flames with a serious expression, silently and motionlessly holding a mug in his hand, looking as if he would gladly be anywhere in the world but here.

She saw her uncle Brynden standing next to her brother Edmure, both apparently listening to an argument between Rickard Karstark, Mors and Jon Umber on the one side and Wendel Manderly and Helman Tallhart on the other. Cley Cerwyn, Helman Tallhart and Roose Bolton were there as well but seemed to be immersed in a conversation of their own.

"There's no point in delaying it any longer," Cley Cerwyn suddenly said aloud.

"Delaying it? We've only just arrived, haven't we?" she heard Wendel Manderly say, chewing and swallowing.

"Four days is not exactly just arrived," Lord Bolton said in a voice as cold as his eyes.

"Besides," young Cerwyn spoke again. "What's the use of a siege if you don't intend to be serious about it? Old Lord Darry won't bend the knee, so we have no choice anyway."

Catelyn didn't need to hear more to know what this was all about. Some of the men were trying to persuade Robb to attack Darry again. It didn't surprise her that Cley Cerwyn was one of those men. He was young, eager to win glory and shed blood. He was only a year younger than Robb, but still so far more a boy than her son. For him, war was a game, an adventure to brag about to women and girls afterwards, and maybe to tell his children stories about in later years.

Some of the other men nodded in agreement, including Mors Umber and Rickard Karstark. That didn't surprise her either. They were old men, long past their prime, who would not get many more opportunities to bring honor to themselves and their families. Quite a few of the old men who had gone to war for Ned years ago, only to end in bloody defeat, carefully nursed their grudges against the South and could probably think of nothing better than to go down in history as the men who had finally won back freedom from the Iron Throne for the North at the side of their king.

"This is not a siege," Robb finally said. "I have no intention of waging war against Lord Darry."

"Then why are we here at all?" barked Jon Umber at him now, obviously drunk again. Catelyn would rather he had been sober, at least on such an occasion, but telling the Greatjon to stop drinking would have been like forbidding him to breathe for a few hours.

"To secure these lands in the name of my grandfather," Robb returned in a tone as if he were trying to explain something very obvious to a very stupid child.

"At the moment, however, these lands are owned by the Targaryens," Lord Bolton said before the Greatjon could say anything that he would regret afterwards. "And without a battle, that's not going to change."

"Besides," Rickard Karstark now interjected, "we came south because our lord, now our king, called us to war, but apart from a little skirmish when we took the Strangler, we haven't seen anything of the war yet. I certainly didn't march all this way just to sit my ass off here."

"If it is bloodshed you seek," Catelyn now said, "then I suggest you become a butcher. As a lord in the service of your king, you are certainly in the wrong place with that."

As before, none of the men turned to look at her. Only Lord Karstark looked at her briefly and darkly, but then bowed his head in her direction.

"Lord Darry is not my enemy. He is just a lord loyal to his king," Robb said.

"That king is very much your enemy, however, and unfortunately that makes Lord Darry your enemy as well, Your Grace," Cley Cerwyn pointed out. She was glad Robb didn't want to consider everyone his enemy who didn't immediately throw himself at his feet, however, Cley's words, as much as she hated to admit it, were true.

"Maybe we should just turn around and head back north," Helman Tallhart now said. "We should guard the Neck, leave enough men at Riverrun to protect the Tully lands from an attack, and otherwise let the South be the South. Let the Southerners fight it out among themselves. They have their king, we have ours. What business is it of ours who sits on this ugly iron chair?"

"I'm not going to leave my grandfather's lands abandoned. Leaving him nothing but a few men he then also has to feed through is not enough. Otherwise we might as well collect some coins to pay mercenaries from Essos to do it. Tell me, Ser Helman, how much are you willing to pay to be able to hole up in the North again?"

Ser Helman said nothing, only lowered his gaze. His face turned as red as an overripe apple.

"Besides," Robb continued, "this is not just about my grandfather's lands. The Targaryens, Viserys and Rhaegar, murdered my father when they locked him in that dreadful dungeon. And the gods alone know what fate has befallen my sisters at their hands."

"Throwing yourselves headlong into a battle won't bring them back, though," Catelyn said, having to pull herself together to keep from bursting into tears from the mere thought about Ned and her girls. "Neither will I get my husband back, nor my daughters, should I now lose my son as well."

Now, finally, the men turned to her.

"I can understand that you are afraid, my lady. You are the gentle sex," Lord Karstark said. "But a man has a need for vengeance."

"Give me Viserys and Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Karstark, and you would see how gentle a woman can be."

"My father taught me that war is not a game to be played for personal enjoyment," Robb said now. "Even if you come out alive yourself, others will die for the choices you make... or don't make. So I have no interest in diving headlong into a battle, mother. But what my lords say is true. Whether it's for vengeance or to protect my grandfather's lands, we won't accomplish anything by just sitting around here. And as much as I think Lord Darry to be a good man, it sadly is true that he is loyal to a king other than me."

"We have something else to consider," her uncle Brynden now said, his eyes fixed firmly on Robb. "The knights from the Vale." Robb looked at him, said nothing but waited to hear what the Blackfish had to say. After a short pause he continued. "Fifteen thousand men have marched down the high road through the Mountains of the Moon to join Stannis Baratheon."

"And that leads them right this way," Robb said.

"Indeed."

"When will they get here?"

"Our scouts say in little over a week, ten days at the latest, but apparently these bastards are setting a pace like the Stranger himself is on their heels. So probably sooner. And when they get here, they won't be pleased to run into an army with a king other than Stannis Baratheon. If we're still standing around chatting then, they'll catch us with our pants down. With this army attacking us from behind and the closed gates of Darry in front of us, we are trapped between a rock and a hard place."

"Then we have no choice but to attack," Edmure now said as well. "Let me lead the attack for you, my king. I know these lands and will give you Castle Darry before the sun sets tomorrow."

Oh, sweet brother, she thought. I know you just want to make our father proud, want to prove yourself. You have a big heart, a soft heart, but sadly, sometimes your head is even softer.

Her brother was a lot of things, but a fearsome warrior and a conqueror of castles was not one of them. Yes, her brother knew these lands since he was a little boy. But having hunted in the surrounding forest before would do him precious little good when it came to taking the heavily fortified and manned castle right in front of them. She also strongly doubted that Edmure, on any of his previous visits to Darry – whether as a child or a man grown – had simply by chance spotted a weakness in the defenses of Castle Darry that just so happened not to have been noticed by anyone else in the centuries before. The look uncle Brynden gave him out of the corner of his eye told her he was having similar thoughts.

"Do we know how many men Lord Darry has?" Robb now asked, avoiding to answer Edmure's request. Immediately the heads of everyone present snapped up to look at her son. This was probably the closest they had ever come to persuading Robb to attack in the past few days. "He claims to have five thousand men on horseback. Can that be?"

"House Darry has many men indeed," Edmure said. For the first time, the others were now paying close attention to him, and apparently her little brother was enjoying the attention. His chest continued to swell with every word, so much so that Catelyn was beginning to fear he might burst at any moment. "Father once told me that House Darry can field as many as nine thousand men, ten in a years with a good harvest," he bragged, obviously unaware of the fact that he was praising not his own strength but the strength of the family against which he had personally wanted to lead an attack just a few moments ago.

"Nine thousand is a lot," Robb said, nodding, "but out of nine thousand there will hardly be five thousand on horseback."

"Hardly,” her uncle Brynden now said, before Edmure could go on. "I do believe Lord Darry to have five thousand men in his castle. Maybe even more. But if he claims that there are five thousand mounted men, they must be riding cats and dogs. There is no way he has five thousand horses behind those walls."

Robb said nothing but seemed to be considering what he had just heard. Five thousand men was a lot, but less than Robb himself had available. Of the sixteen thousand men with whom he had destroyed Dragon Shield, he had left five thousand at Riverrun to defend the Riverlands alongside her father's men against an attack from the west in case of need. Another one thousand men now held Harrenhal for Robb. The fortress was in ruins, but it was still by far the largest and one of the strongest fortresses in the realm. In addition, he had sent out two smaller armies of five hundred men each, one toward Stoney Sept led by Ser Kyle Condon and one toward Maidenpool led by Halys Hornwood, to demand fealty from the lesser lords and knights on their way, to report back to Robb should there be anything to report and to pacify the land by force if necessary, should fighting have already occurred there. Additionally, he had lost a few hundred more to desertion and disease.

Robb had thus a little less than nine thousand soldiers and knights left, with about two and a half thousand of them on horseback. It was almost twice as many men as Lord Darry probably had, but even Catelyn, who had never been taught the art of war, knew the old saying that one man on a wall was worth ten on the ground.

"What if we were to get help from the Vale of Arryn?" she then asked.

"What do you mean?" asked Wendel Manderly. "Lord Arryn has joined Lord Stannis. So from whom would we receive help from the Vale?"

"From my sister."

"Pah," laughed the Greatjon. "We can wait a long time for that."

"Not all the Vale stands by Stannis, my lord," she scolded him in a serious voice.

"That's true," the drunkard said in an almost amused tone. "Some have also declared for the Targaryens."

"My sister will certainly side with us. She is a Tully of Riverrun. No doubt you know the words of my family? Family, Duty, Honor. Family always comes first."

"If Lord Arryn were still on the Eyrie, we could certainly talk to him," Brynden said. "He probably would have joined us by now all on his own anyway, if only for what happened to Ned and your daughters, Cat. But the old man has already picked a side. And that, unfortunately, is not ours. Lady Lysa will not be able to overrule his decision, even if the Vale were not yet engaged in fighting."

"A woman can be a strong ruler, uncle," Catelyn said.

"The right woman can. Make no mistake, Cat. Lysa is not you."

"Still, I could send a letter to my sister. If the reply comes quickly enough, and in it she orders the knights to leave Robb's army alone, we may not have to fight. She is their lady and the mother of their future lord, after all."

"That reply, if it came at all, would not reach us in time," Brynden said. "And even if we took the fastest ravens... I know the Vale, its lords and knights, and Lysa... is not much loved there. She is considered weak and that she is indeed, Cat. If these knights have decided that Stannis should be their king, they won't act any differently just because your sister demands it of them."

"Is it decided, then?" asked Roose Bolten. "Are we going to attack?"

The men were already agreeing, nodding, eager to toast the coming battle. Only Robb sat silently in his chair, again staring into the flames with a blank stare.

"Your Grace, I ask again for the privilege of leading the attack in your name," Edmure said. Rickard Karstark, Jon and Mors Umber, and Cley Cerwyn immediately protested loudly, wanting to claim this honor for themselves. Robb still said nothing. Only when their uncle Brynden spoke, did the others in the tent fall silent.

"The king has not yet made a decision," he said in a firm voice, "as to whether this attack will even take place. So before you all start bashing each other's heads in with lust for a little blood and iron, you'd better wait and see what your king has to say."

Some of the men glared darkly at Brynden, but then turned their faces to Robb along with the rest. For a brief moment, Catelyn considered going to him. A small gesture would certainly be enough to encourage him in his decision, whatever it might be. His mother's hand on his shoulder or a short stroke through his hair... But before she could take the first step towards her son, Robb began to speak.

"Attacking Castle Darry seems to be the obvious solution. However, since our numbers are not that superior, we have no siege engines and we would most likely suffer great losses from such an attack, even if successful, I will not make this decision on a whim. I thank you all, my lords, for your contributions. I will sleep on it this night and announce my decision tomorrow. You may now leave."

It was clear that this was not the answer these men had wanted to hear. Rickard Karstark was scowling even more than he had all evening, and she even thought she had seen how the Greatjon barely kept Mors Umber from spitting on the floor in front of Robb on his way out. Cley Cerwyn slightly shook his head when leaving the tent and Roose Bolton looked as indifferent as always. Uncle Brynden seemed to be the only one reasonably pleased with her son's considering attitude.

"It's good that he won't be rushed. But it can't go on forever like this. Whatever he decides, he'll have to do it soon," he whispered in her ear as he left the tent. Before she could answer something, he had already disappeared into the darkness that had settled over their camp.

Catelyn walked over to the table at the side and poured herself a cup. She had hoped for tea, but not very surprisingly only found warm mead and spiced wine. She decided on mead for a change. The most important thing was that she drank something hot to drive the chill from her hands. She sat down at the second table on which there were the remains of a small feast, grabbed some of the bread and a small bowl of cooked turnips in garlic, and began to eat. It took at least half an hour before Robb began to speak again.

"Go ahead, say it."

"Say what?" she asked.

"Whatever it is that you don't like. If you agree with my decisions, you're always gone right after the meetings. But if you're sneaking around like a cat on the prowl, then there's something you don't like."

For a brief moment, she had to smile. Years ago, Ned had said something very similar to her when he had had to make the decision what dues to raise to pay the Crown's punitive taxes for the rebellion after the reserves of gold and silver and even copper in Winterfell had been largely depleted. Ned had made many decisions that he simply had had to make, unpleasant decisions. She had supported him in each and every one, but whenever she had disagreed with one of his decisions and had tried to convince him to change his mind, she had acted just as she was doing now, she realized.

"If you want to fight this battle, I will support you, my son. Just as I have always done with your father. I just want you to be sure about it and not do something simply because your lords expect it from you. You have to be sure about this."

"Aye, that's exactly why I'm not going to announce my decision until tomorrow."

"Yes...," she then said, hearing her own uncertainty in her voice, "that's the other thing. You can't afford to look indecisive in front of your men. Especially not in front of men like Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton. Those men aren't your friends, they're your bannermen, Robb. Remember that."

"So I should have made a decision directly? Here and now?"

"You should have made a decision the moment you marched off of Riverrun, Robb. I hate to say it but Cley Cerwyn is right. What's the point of marching against Castle Darry if you're not going to attack it?"

"So you think I have to attack."

"That's not what I meant to say. I was trying to warn you, my son. Whatever decision you make, for or against an attack, there will be many who will disagree."

"That doesn't change a thing," Robb said, now taking a sip from his cup for the very first time since she had been in the tent with him. "I must attack if I don't want to appear weak."

"There is another way," said Catelyn.

"And what is that?"

"Bend the knee."

"What?" said Robb, jumping up from his chair. "How can you even say that?"

"Choose a king Robb, there are plenty in the south. Stannis or Viserys, it doesn't matter. Choose a king and bend the knee."

"I can't bend the knee, mother, not even if I wanted to. My lords would never abide by that."

"Your lords made you their king," she then said, standing up and walking over to him. She tried to take his hand, but it was clasped as tightly around the arm of his chair as if it were made from iron.

"And they can unmake me just as easily," he said with a voice as grim as his expression.

For a moment she just stood there, looking down at her son, who was now once again staring into the diminishing flames as if enchanted by them. She took the cup from his hand, half empty, poured the rest of the cold wine into the fire and filled it with new wine. She then poured herself another cup as well and handed Robb his cup again. He took it and drank directly from it, though without looking at her, only murmuring a quick "thank you".

"Wars don't have to be fought to the last drop of blood, Robb."

"To the last drop of blood? We've only fought one battle, against an almost unmanned castle. On the way here, I've lost more men to unclean whores than I have in this battle."

"Still, it need not be more, Robb. A good king, a good liege, is not known by how many men he has lost on the battlefield, is he? You wouldn't be the first king to bend the knee, Robb, nor even the first Stark."

"Never."

"There's no shame in that. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror rather than see his army face the fires."

"Did Aegon the Conqueror kill Torrhen's father? Or his sisters?"

"If not Visers Targaryen, what about Stannis? I know he's a difficult man, but he had nothing to do with your father's death or your sisters' fates."

"Oh no?!" said Robb now in a distinctly louder tone, jumping up from his chair so suddenly that it almost fell over backwards. "You told me yourself that he was there. Stannis was there, in the dungeons under the Red Keep. He was there, with Father, and he did nothing, left him to die like a common thief. And did he try to save Sansa or Arya? No, he didn't. He didn't do anything there either. He had the chance to save them, but did nothing. He's just as guilty as the Targaryens are. I will rather die than bend the knee to this man."

She could see the tears in his eyes and how hard he tried not to let them flow. She knew he was right. She hated Stannis for this as much as Robb did and the thought of her son kneeling in front of this man made her sick. Yet, she knew that for the sake of her family, she had to pretend otherwise. She could not stand the thought to lose another child.

"But vengeance won't bring them back. If anything, you risk losing even more," she said, coming to stand next to him. "Robb, if your sword could bring any of them back, I should never let you sheathe it until Ned and my girls stood at my side once more... but your father is gone, Sansa is gone, Arya is gone, and a hundred conquered castles won't change that."

Catelyn was about to grab him, turn him around and embrace her son in her arms, to comfort him and tell him that everything was going to be all right, that they would somehow make it through all this madness, when suddenly a man poked his head in through the flap of the tent. It was one of the soldiers standing guard outside the tent, she saw. She could see her son abruptly disappear and the King in the North reappear beside her. His look was serious, almost stern, and nowhere was a trace to be seen of the young man who had been on the verge of tears just a moment ago.

"Your Grace, please forgive the intrusion."

"What is it?" asked the king.

"A messenger from Saltpans has arrived for you, Your Grace."

"From Lord Hornwood?"

"No, your Grace. It is a messenger in the colors of House Cox."

Saltpans was not even halfway to Maidenpool. Had something happened to the five hundred men Lord Hornwood had taken with him? She hoped not, of course, but any distraction that would prevent Robb from attacking Castle Darry could only be good at the moment and would be most welcome.

"Send him in," Robb said, and immediately the head disappeared behind the tent flap again. Only a moment later the flap was again pulled open, wider this time, and the soldier stepped into the tent, followed by the messenger. It was more a boy than a man, eleven or twelve name days old, thirteen at the most, with long dark brown hair and green eyes so pretty that they would even have looked good on a girl.

"He is unarmed, Your Grace," the soldier then said. Catelyn looked at him for a moment and thought she recognized his face. Unfortunately, however, she could not find a name to go with it.

"You may leave," Robb said. Again, the man was quickly gone. "So what message do you have for me?"

"My lord," the messenger began, only to immediately fall silent and begin again after a startled glance at the iron crown on Robb's head, all color drained from his face. "Please… please forgive me, Your Grace. My liege, Ser Quincy Cox, sends me to you with a message. A ship has arrived with an emissary from the King. He will arrive here tomorrow to negotiate with you, Your Grace."

"Which king?" Catelyn asked, before Robb had even had a chance to say a word. The lad looked at her with wide eyes, apparently not understanding what the question could possibly mean or too shocked that he had to answer any additional questions in the first place. "Which king is sending an emissary to us? Stannis Baratheon or Viserys Targaryen?"

"Forgive me, my lady, but I don't know that."

"Under what banner did the ship sail that arrived in Saltpans?" asked Robb in a calm tone that actually seemed to put the lad at ease a bit.

"I don't know that either, Your Grace. I have not seen the ship myself, only received orders from my liege to deliver this word to you. Please forgive me, Your Grace."

Robb thanked the young man and then sent him out with the promise that he would be given food and drink and would be allowed to spend the night in their camp to get a good night's sleep before heading back home tomorrow. They pondered together for a while whether there was a clue as to which king might have sent them an emissary, but came to no conclusion. There were no clues and even if it made more sense for Stannis Baratheon, being further away and with his enemy's lands between Robb and himself, to send a ship than for Viserys Targaryen, there were good reasons for both of them to prefer a ship over land, above all the unknown loyalties of some lords of the southern Riverlands.

She then said goodbye to her son, made him promise to go to bed early to be rested tomorrow when this emissary arrived, and then left his tent. She walked back through the camp to her own tent, and on the way considered taking a slight detour to get more fresh air and get her thoughts in order, but then decided against it. The night was nice and clear, if a bit fresh, but even though no battle had taken place here yet, this was still a war zone where it was better for a lady not to wander around aimlessly at a late hour, and alone at that.

On the rest of the way to her tent, she again briefly thought about who this emissary might be who would arrive here tomorrow. Would it be the man they called the onion knight? Catelyn tried but could not remember his name. He had been a friendly man, but clumsy and clearly of low, very low birth, who had felt horribly uncomfortable in the company of true nobles. Yet it had quickly become clear that he had been one of Lord Stannis' closest confidants. Still, one did not send such a man on such a mission. He had worn his heart on his sleeve, which was an endearing quality on any other occasion, but totally out of place if one wanted to conduct negotiations.

Maybe Stannis has sent Jon Arryn here, she thought. That would make sense, could he then not only conduct the negotiations with Robb – whatever they believed there still was to negotiate – but also at the same time take command of the approaching army from the Vale, given that they knew about it in the first place.

Possibly, she thought then, someone might come at the behest of the Targaryens. She wondered if Viserys and Rhaegar Targaryen would actually have the gall to demand Robb's loyalty after all they had already cost their family. She could hardly imagine it. On the other hand, the Targaryens were not exactly known for a lack of arrogance. So it was possible after all.

After entering her tent, she quickly took off her boots, the little jewelry she had worn and her heavy blue dress – despite all her efforts still stained by the deep mud here and there – and put on a simple grey and shapeless but all the more comfortable dress for the night. She quickly washed her face then, took another cup of the strong red wine that had been waiting in her tent for her, and crawled into her bed under the thick blankets and furs. The warmth came quickly to her, though sleep did not. She didn't know how long she had lain awake, listening to the wet footsteps of the soldiers patrolling around her tent and the little song the wind played in the branches of the nearby tress, before she finally lost herself in her thoughts and her eyes fell shut. But even then, sleep did not come to her. Her heart simply weighed too heavily.

I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I'm so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that's all... a day... an hour.

If Ned were with her now, she could be just that. She could be weak and frightened, she could cry and would let him comfort her and hold her. But Ned wasn't with her, and he never would be again. It was a monstrous cruel thing to lose a child. Something she had hoped she would never have to endure. Losing two children all the more so. It broke her heart just to think of her daughters, let alone their possible fates. Of Sansa, her perfect little lady. Catelyn knew that Sansa would have become the most wonderful, most beautiful lady at any southron court, had she and Ned found a suitable husband for her in time. Of Arya, her little wild wolf. Gods, what wouldn't she give right now to be able to get upset just once more about Arya's dirty fingernails, her crooked stitches, or a torn dress? And now, not even Ned was left to catch her in this greatest of pains.

The next morning came quickly and when a handmaiden came into her tent to help her getting dressed shortly after sunrise, she felt so exhausted as if she hadn't slept at all. She decided to put on the grey dress for today. It was made of good linen and precious brocade with white ornaments of silk in the forms of running wolves and silver embroidery on the sleeves. It was the best dress she had with her, actually much too good and fine for a field camp, but it was in the colors of House Stark and would undoubtedly make an impression on this emissary, whoever he might turn out to be.

"Has the emissary arrived yet?"

"No, my lady," said the maid. "Only a mounted messenger to announce the arrival."

"And when will that be?"

"In a little less than an hour, my lady."

That was good. Then Catelyn still had time to eat something and confer with Robb before they would have to face whomever. She almost didn't dare even ask the next question, but then did anyway. She just had to.

"This messenger... under what banner did he ride? To which king does he belong?"

"Targaryen, my lady."

The bread, wine and roasted grouse – leftovers from the previous night's meal – helped her get over the shock. Robb had refused to eat anything at all and was trudging restlessly up and down in his tent the entire time, continuously ranting about the impudence of how the Targaryens could even dare to send someone to him. More than once he had threatened to have this emissary hanged on the spot and his body brought back to King's Landing, cut into three pieces, one for each member of their family they had already lost at the hands of the Targaryens. In his rage, Robb had even begun to draft a letter he had planned to pin on the dead body of this emissary, promising Viserys and Rhaegar the things he would do to them once he had taken the Red Keep and razed it to the ground. It had taken all of Catelyn's effort to calm him down enough to at least stop him from cursing and making threats, even though he was still pacing up and down like a wild animal in its cage.

Brynden sat across from her at the small table, also eating from the grouse and some oatmeal with it, but drinking no wine. He sat there watching Robb, but said nothing the entire time. Only they three would be present when soon this emissary would arrive. A small group, too small for Catelyn's taste. She had wanted to convince Robb to have more of his lords attend the meeting as a sign of strength, but Robb had decided otherwise. Karstark and the Umbers would have insulted the emissary at best, killed him outright at worst. Robb did not trust Roose Bolton enough to take him into his confidence in this matter, and men like Cley Cerwyn and Wendel Manderly with their constant clamor for war and bloodshed, though fiercely loyal, were not much of a help.

It might actually be better that way, she thought. Only the place, she would have wished differently. A royal emissary had to be welcomed in the open air, at the entrance to their camp, personally handed bread and salt, and not in a sticky tent after having accepted the guest right by some random soldier. Robb had not let himself be changed, however. He would meet with this emissary, talk to him and then send him on his way again. But that was all that could be expected of him and all that the Targaryens would get from him.

"You need to stay calm, Robb."

"Stay calm, Mother? They killed Father and Sansa and Arya and I'm supposed to stay calm?"

"Yes, calm. Calm enough to listen to what this emissary has to say to us and then reject it out of hand. When he arrives at our camp, he will be served bread and salt, and you do no one any favors, yourself least of all, if you are so upset as to break the guest right. You cannot raise your hand against the man, whoever it might be. Not even if Viserys Targaryen would show up here personally."

Robb said nothing, only scowled at her as if she had demanded that he forgo his vengeance.

"You better not think I don't want vengeance for what they've done to us," she continued, her voice low and as cold as she had hardly thought possible herself. "We will get our vengeance, Robb. I promise you that. But not here and not now. Now you must be a king, Robb. Nothing more, nothing less. Once we get our hands on Viserys you Rhaegar, whether in a month or a year it doesn't matter, you can be a son and a brother again."

Finally her son stopped, looked at her, understanding in his gaze, and nodded, though his gaze was still dark. She saw that he wanted to say something, but the next moment she already heard footsteps approaching the tent. No voices could be heard, but apart from this emissary, no one would come to them now. Catelyn's heart was in her mouth as she rose and stood next to Robb. Brynden had already risen and taken his place on the other side, to Robb's left.

The flap of the tent was pushed aside and a man entered, clad in white from head to toe, his hand on the pommel of the sword at his side. He entered, took off his helmet and looked around. He was broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist, with a handsome face, dark hair with silver streaks in it, and purple eyes.

Ser Arthur Dayne, Catelyn thought surprised. She felt Robb tense next to her, suddenly being in the presence of one of the heroes of his childhood, abruptly standing taller and with his back even straighter.

The Sword of the Morning briefly looked around in the tent, then turned around again and nodded to the outside through the open flap. He stepped further into the tent and then to the side to make room for the person following him. It was a woman, tall but still clearly recognizable as such by her slender, yet feminine form. She wore a thick cloak of jet-black wool with red stitching and a fur-trimmed hood pulled low over her face, completely hiding her head.

The woman reached for her hood and pulled it back. The sight struck Catelyn like a blow. For a fraction of a heartbeat, she thought this could only be a dream, sent to her by a very cruel god. Those eyes... The blue of those eyes she would have recognized anywhere. She felt her tears fall in torrents from her eyes as she rushed forward and embraced her girl. Her girl was back, her Sansa was here. Catelyn's heart felt like it was going to explode with happiness. She wanted to say something, asked her something, anything really just to hear her voice again, but all she could bring herself to do was to weep with joy and relief.

Sansa returned the hug immediately. Catelyn felt her daughter's warm tears running down her face, mingling with her own. Their bodies trembled in the embrace, though Catelyn couldn't tell if it was from her sobs or her daughter's. Just a moment later, Robb was there, taking them both in his arms as well. How long they stood there, crying with happiness and holding each other tightly, Catelyn couldn't say. Eventually, though, they broke away from each other. She took her beautiful daughter's face in her hands, stroking her cheeks and wiping away her tears. If that was even possible, her gorgeous girl had only become more beautiful.

"You're alive," she breathed, "Oh, my sweet girl is alive."

"It's good to see you again, girl," Brynden said with an honest smile, but without having moved from the spot. "I guess it's better if I leave you three alone. I don't think you need me here now."

With these words he left the tent, smiling at Sansa and brushing Cat's arm as he passed.

"How?" asked Robb, obviously as overwhelmed as Catelyn herself.

"We escaped from King's Landing. Aegon and Daeron, along with a few others, took us to safety in Dorne."

"Us?" Catelyn asked in disbelief. Could this be true?

"Yes, father and Arya too. They are in Dorne now, safe."

This was too much for her. She felt the world begin to spin around her, losing her footing. She felt Robb's arms under her left armpit, Ser Arthur's under her right, holding her on her feet and helping her sit down on a chair. Sansa was with her, squatted in front of her like she had often done as a child when Catelyn had told her sweet daughter all the stories of the southern courts, of feasts and dances, of gallant knights and young lordlings. Robb stood beside her now, one hand on her shoulder. Ser Arthur came back to her side again, handing her a cup of what she hoped to be wine. It was water, but she still thanked him with a nod. For a while, they all just sat, squatted and stood there in silence, before Robb finally began to speak again.

"We thought you were all dead," he said in a low voice. Catelyn could hear that he, too, was fighting back tears.

"We sent ravens north and mounted messengers to let you know we were all right, but received no answer," Sansa said. "We already suspected they did not make it to you. That is why I am here now, to let you know that we are well."

"Then why isn't Father here?"

"Father... got injured when they imprisoned him in the black cells. It got worse during the escape. The maester in Sunspear is taking care of him now, but he has not yet been able to travel again."

"And Arya?" asked Catelyn now, finally finding her voice again.

"She is alive and well, mother. I promise. But the journey here was... not entirely without danger, so Arya stayed in Dorne."

"It wasn't too dangerous for you," Robb said incredulously. "If it was so dangerous, what are you doing here? And what is Ser Arthur Dayne doing here, a knight of the Kingsguard?"

"Protecting my queen," said Ser Arthur, speaking for the first time now.

Silence fell over the group. For the first time now, she noticed the fine silvery ring resting on her daughter's head. A crown, she thought, the realization hitting her like a punch. Catelyn wanted to say something, but didn't know what. She heard Robb trying to say something a few times as well, but instead falling silent every time before even a word had left his mouth. Catelyn was the first to find her voice again. She rose, new strength in her legs, and took both of her daughter's hands.

She's grown up so much, she thought, as she had to look up a little to meet her eyes. She is no longer my little girl. She is a woman grown now. For a heartbeat, the thought made her sad, until she decided otherwise. She will always be my little girl, no matter how old we both grow.

"Is that true?" she asked.

"Yes," Sansa said in a hushed voice, but beaming all over her face like the sun itself. Catelyn saw Sansa bite her lower lip lightly. Something she had done as a child already to force herself to maintain composure and poise whenever her emotions had threatened to overwhelm her. "Aegon and I are wed."

Again she took her daughter in her arms, kissing her on both cheeks, tasting the remnants of her tears. Her girl was beaming so wonderfully, with the most adorable smile on her face, that Catelyn couldn't help but be happy for her, to take her in her arms and hug her again. In this moment, she would have loved to never let go of her daughter.

"Did he force you to do it?" she heard Robb ask.

Catelyn saw disbelief in Sansa's face at the harsh words, then shock. For a brief moment Catelyn looked over at Ser Arthur, who stood some distance away, wordless and stiff and straight as if hewn from stone, his disapproving gaze fixed firmly on Robb though.

"No, of course not," Sansa said then, breaking the brief silence, firmly shaking her head.

"Sansa, I am your brother. You can tell me the truth," Robb said, now in a softer voice. "Did he rape you?"

With a loud bang, Sansa gave him a hard slap in the face. Her smile was gone, her expression serious, even angry now. Robb looked startled, but said nothing. His cheek was already beginning to turn fiery red, the shape of Sansa's delicate hand becoming visible on it.

"How dare you," Sansa hissed. "Aegon married me because he loves me and I love him. He is my husband and the rightful king, Robb. You should bend the knee to him and support him in his fight instead of allowing yourself such insolence."

"That's why you're here? To make me bend the knee?"

"That too," she admitted, her chin proudly raised high, not backing down even a hand's width. Robb looked at her for a moment, seemed to be thinking about what he would do or say next.

"I might help him," Robb then said, his own face now serious and stern, "but I'm not going to bend the knee. I'm a king in my own right now and if he wants my support, he will have to accept that."

"But our father has already bent the knee to him."

"That's what you say," he spat back at her. "Only on that I will not do it."

"Think carefully about this, Robb. That's treason. You know that Aegon is the rightful king and that you owe him your allegiance. Father will never accept that you turning against Aegon. He has already bent the knee and so you must do it too. Bend the knee or there will be another war as soon as Aegon is done with Viserys and Lord Stannis."

"You would wage war against your own family?" Robb asked in an unbelieving, challenging tone. Catelyn saw that Robb was beginning to get angry again.

"Aegon is my family now as well," Sansa said, her tone low and soft again now, but still firm. "He and the child I carry under my heart."

Notes:

So, that was it. How did you like it? As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think. :-)

The next chapter should be there soon as I'm already almost done with it. Hope you stay tuned. :-) See you there.

Chapter 46: Eddard 8

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. So, first of all I have to admit that this is 100% a filler. Since we are getting closer to the finale in King's Landing, there is not much left to do for Ned and Arya, but I didn't want to just let them disappear from the story. So here we have another Eddard-chapter. Hope you still have fun reading it.

The world was darkness and pain. Every now and then, he managed to open his eyes a bit and the world became a blinding white light and even more pain. Then, the world was dark again. But the pain never left. His right leg felt as if on fire, his left leg he did not feel at all most of the time. He woke up in the middle of the night. He was alone. He turned his head, needing all his strength and feeling as if the world was spinning around him, and saw a window somewhere to his left, through which a cold breeze came into his room, caressing his face. Still, he was sweating so much that he feared he would burn to death. Then he fell asleep again, dreaming of the pain and the darkness.

Am I still in the black cells?

He did not know.

How much time has passed?

He could not tell.

Ned tried to force his eyes open again, but his eyelids were so heavy as if made of lead. Half asleep, he heard voices every now and then, unsure whether someone was truly speaking to him or if he was simply dreaming. He heard Cat talking about preparations for a feast and how Septa Mordane had complained about Arya's crooked stiches again. He heard Benjen talking about the supplies of Castle Black, oat and dried fish and cheap wine, something his little brother could talk about to no end as if he already were the next Lord Commander. He heard Robb's squeaky voice, asking for a sword of true steel the way he had always done when he had been no more than five or six name days old.

It must be dreams, he thought, feverish and confused. No more. Or not? No, Robb's not a child anymore, he's a man. It must be dreams.

He heard Rhaella talking to him about… dancing? Then there was Sansa, his sweet daughter, her voice as soft and gentle as the finest silk. At first, he could not understand what was said either. Then the words got clearer, yet their meaning did not. He heard her softly singing to him and talking about a ship and a voyage. About going north to meet with someone, though he did not understand with whom. She talked about a war and the things she must do for love. Sansa had always had dreamed about love and gallant knights, but certainly never about war. He heard Arya as well and the things in his head got even weirder. It was Arya speaking, but whoever was talking in her voice, talked about men and marriage. Something his little she-wolf had always hated to even listen to, let alone speak of herself. It was his daughters' voices, but it was not his daughters speaking. It could not be. He knew his girls well and this was not them. Certainly not.

What game is my mind playing? Am I going mad?

No, it was dreams. Nothing more. He remembered Robb's voice from when he was a child, remembered Benjen's talk about stock and supplies, Cat complaining about Arya most of all, but he certainly did not remember his daughters ever having talked about those things they did now in his dreams. If at all, then only the other way around. It had to be dreams. Fever dreams.

The pain came back like a hammer blow, feeling as if his leg was just about to be cut off, but then faded just as quickly. For some time, he felt nothing at all, his entire body numb, unable to move. He tasted sweetness on his lips, like honey, and remembered to have tasted that before in one of his dreams with Sansa singing for him. He heard voices again. Again he tried to force his eyes open, but failed again. He tried to say something, but the words only formed in his mind, not in his mouth. And even in his mind, his own words made no sense.

Dreams came back to him, about Winterfell and the summer snows. He dreamed of sitting in the Godswood in front of the old weirwood tree, cleaning and oiling Ice. He saw himself in his study, writing a letter to Jon Arryn, about what he did not know. Walking through the long, grey corridors of Winterfell, he saw the setting sun through an ice covered window, bathing the walls in a bright red. The dream was pleasant. His family was there. Cat was sitting on a bench with Sansa, doing some needle work, smiling. Robb trained the use of the sword with Ser Rodrik, Bran and Arya not far away practiced archery, not listening to their mother's admonitions that the bow is no tool for a lady, while Rickon squatted at the feet of Old Nan and listened to one of her stories.

Cold suddenly swept through him, then heat, then cold again. The pain in his leg returned, at first only faintly, but growing stronger with each heartbeat, pushing the dream out of his thoughts. He tried to hold on to the dream, to grasp it with his mind and not let it go, so as not to lose his family, so as to be able to stay there, in Winterfell, where he belonged. But the more he tried to keep his family with him, the more their faces faded, became formless shadows. Then his dream was over and the darkness was back. He heard Rhaella's voice now, clear and regal as always, but could not make out what she was talking about. Arya was there too, blustering about this and that. Ned thought he could understand the words, but in his mind, they still made no sense. The taste of honey was back together with Rhaella's voice, then Arya's, then Rhaella's again.

It was night when he actually opened his eyes the next time. His head was still spinning, but his body still felt numb as if dead. He was no longer sweating so terribly and was grateful for it. At least that's what he assumed. He wanted to call out for someone, for Cat or Sansa, Arya or Robb or Rhaella, for anyone, so he wouldn't be alone anymore. But he was too weak for even the smallest word. His throat was dry, his tongue felt like it was made of wood, and everything hurt terribly. As cool air brushed across his face again, he felt wetness on his face, but couldn't tell if it was sweat or tears. Or both. Then his eyes fell shut again and a dull, throbbing pain returned to his leg. He didn't know how long he had been lying there, trying to escape the pain in his leg as best as he could, before he heard someone talking to him in a voice he didn't know, the voice of a man. He dimly felt something being done to his leg and someone wiping a damp cloth across his face. Then the pain disappeared again and his whole body felt like he was falling. Falling and falling and falling through the darkness.

The next time he opened his eyes, the was sunlight shining through the window, but now it was to his right somehow. Everything was blurry, but the light no longer hurt his eyes so much. Even now, everything was still spinning, and so he closed his eyes again. He was lying flat in bed, softer than the last one, and yet he had the feeling of falling over whenever he opened his eyes. Heaviness fell over his body and pulled him into a quiet, dreamless sleep. When he awoke the next time, he again tasted honey on his lips and the remnants of tea in his mouth. Someone must have fed him. The dry feeling in his throat was still there, but his tongue no longer hurt so horribly. He tried to move and found that he had some strength back in his limbs.

Ned could lift his head, look around. His hands were stiff, probably because he hadn't used them in so long, but otherwise he was fine. He looked around. Ned didn't recognize the room. It was a different room than the one he had last been in. Or was it? He could remember little more than a few voices, scraps of words, and fading, confused dreams. How was he supposed to know what the room had looked like in which he had last woken up in the middle of the night burning with fever? The walls were made of pink marble, his bed of dark wood, draped with curtains of cloth so fine that the light shone through as through a mist. He heard the singing of birds, the laughter of children and the sound of splashing water and the sea. Could this be real or were his senses playing tricks on him again? Then he looked down at himself, at the blanket under which he lay despite the warmth. It was a deep red, woven of thick fabric and richly decorated with embroidery of gold thread. He was sweating slightly, but he was sure that this time it was from the blanket and no longer from fever. With his right hand, he reached for the blanket, pulling on it. The blanket rubbed against his leg and the pain returned, weaker this time and thankfully only just a bit below the knee, no longer in his foot. That was good, he supposed.

At first his fingers would not obey him, but then he got hold of the blanket. With a strong jerk, he pulled the blanket aside, ignoring the burning in his leg. Ned tried to sit up, looking down at himself again. He felt cold and hot at the same time at the sight. His eyes snapped open in shock. Ned shook his head to scare the nightmare out of it. What he saw could not possibly be true, must not be true. His left foot was there, healthy and movable. His right foot... was missing. Just below the knee, his leg simply ended.

This is a bad joke. Or a dream. A bad dream.

He wanted to scream, to call for help, but no sound left his dry throat. The world began to turn around again. His thoughts were racing. Where was his foot? Where were his children? Where was Cat and where was he? What had happened and who had done this to him? Was all of this really true?

Suddenly he was back in Winterfell, sitting in the Great Hall with his father, with Brandon and Cat and Hoster Tully. His mother was there and his brother Benjen as well, a boy of three-and-ten, Lyanna and her childhood friend Celia. He had not thought about the girl for years, decades even. What she did here now, he did not know. They all talked and laughed and drank. Ned didn't know what about, but that did not matter. They ate together, some meat that smelled delicious, juicy and tender. Fat dripped from the large skewer onto the embers and small flames shot up here and there, giving it a wonderful crust and making the food look even more tempting. Ned reached for his knife, trying to cut off a piece, but his hand didn't respond. He tried again, but could not grasp his knife. He looked along his arm and... his hand was gone. He jumped up, screaming as looked at the others, all still laughing and talking. He screamed for help, but none of the others seemed to hear him. He screamed louder, but still nobody reacted to him.

The next moment, a cold wind hit him in his face like the fist of a giant. He was on his horse, riding through the Wolfswood. He would have recognized that smell anywhere. The weather was cold and clear. Startled, he looked down at himself, at his arms and hands. Everything was fine. His hands were where they should be, wrapped in thick gloves of good dark leather. Robb was beside him on his own horse, a grown man, big and strong and proud. As handsome as his mother, Ned thought. Robb looked ahead at the road in front of them with a serious expression, as he always did when the two of them were riding out together. He noticed Ned's gaze and looked at him, now a small, mischievous grin on his face.

"Whoever reaches the old watchtower first," he challenged him, putting spurs to his horse and galloping off.

Ned had to laugh. His son was a man grown, but when his mother and his siblings were nowhere near to see or hear him, his son allowed himself to still be a boy every now and then. Ned hoped that he would be able to keep this when he himself would no longer be around one day. Robb had a good lead by now, but Ned knew he had the better horse. So he gave his horse the spurs as well, but the horse did not respond. He tried again, but still the horse did not move any faster. Coldness ran through him, coldness and fear. He looked down at himself again. His hands were still there, but where his legs should have been, there were only two stumps that ended just below his hips. Again, he screamed, screamed as loud as he could.

Wildly he was jumping from place to place now. He was on the Eyrie, with his foster father Jon Arryn and a young Robert in front of him, wooing some girl he was planning to bed tonight. He saw Jon say something to him but did not hear the words and yet suddenly, without knowing why, his left arm was missing. He saw himself in Harrenhal, the Lady Ashara in front of him, smiling and flashing her indescribable purple eyes at him, just before their dance for which Brandon had asked the lady on his behalf. One of the most wonderful yet embarrassing moments of his life. He wanted to take the beautiful lady's hand, but now his right arm was missing. Faster and faster he jumped back and forth, sitting in a wide chair in Winterfell, as an old man with a long beard, children on the floor in front of him, who must have been his grandchildren, a book and a thick blanket on his lap, but suddenly he could no longer read the lines, because his eyes were missing. He was in King's Landing, a few weeks after the Battle of Trident, then in the Riverlands, and again in the Vale of Arryn, in Runestone this time. Then Winterfell again, and at the Wall with Benjen. Panicking, he wanted to scream for help, for his father or his brothers, for Jon Arryn or Cat or Robert. With all his strength, he screamed as loud as he could.

Cat put a hand on his shoulder as he jolted up from the bed.

"It's all right, my love," she said, "It's all right."

Astonished, he looked around. He was in Winterfell again, in their sleeping chamber, in their marriage bed with his Cat. Oh, by the gods, how he had missed her. He grabbed her and pressed her against his chest, tightly and intimately, pressing his face against her neck and smelling her hair. Ned felt Cat return the embrace, gently caressing his bare back, up and down. Again and again and again.

"Shhhh, it's all right," she said again. "It's all right. You don't need it anymore anyway."

Ned was confused, letting go of her and disengaging from her embrace as well.

"What... what don't I need anymore?" he asked, coldness running through his whole body.

Cat looked at him now, equally confused, as if he had asked a particularly stupid question.

"Oh Ned, your head, of course," she said, reaching beside her and holding out her precious, Myrish hand mirror to him. He looked in it, but where his head should be was... nothing. His neck ended in a clean, bloody cut.

He screamed again, when he felt another hand on his chest, soft and warm.

"Shhhh, it's all right," a voice said. It was the voice of a woman, though it was not Cat's. "It was just a nightmare, Ned. Everything is fine."

Now he finally recognized the voice. Rhaella. Carefully he opened his eyes. The brightness burned in them briefly, but after a few heartbeats, the pain faded. He was back in the pink room with the dark bed. Rhaella was sitting on a chair next to his bed with some needlework in her hands and a tray of tea and wine and pastries next to her. She smiled at him and Ned couldn't help but smile back.

"It's good to see you awake again, Ned. I'll go and fetch the maester quickly."

"No," he said, his voice weak and raspy. "Please... stay. I don't want to be alone right now. Otherwise I'll fall asleep again and who knows what nightmares will await me there again."

Rhaella looked at him for a moment, tilting her head and pondering on his words, before she smiled at him then, motherly and beautiful as always.

"All right, I'll stay. For a while," she said, with a finger raised warningly. "But only if you eat and drink something. I don't know if pastries and tea are good for you, but they won't be bad either. We'll save the wine for next time," she said, winking at him.

She handed him the cup of tea, which was no longer too hot, and helped him bring it to his mouth. He took a small sip, then another. Rhaella took the cup back and handed him a small piece of pastry. A tiny cake with blood oranges, from the smell of it. He bit off a piece and chewed on it. It felt strange to have food in his mouth, yet pleasant. Only after he had already swallowed the bite did he feel how much his stomach had been craving food.

"So, tell me," she said after he had eaten first the first and then a second small cake.

"About what?"

"About your nightmares, of course."

She looked down at her needlework again, continuing to embroider on a large red and black dragon that appeared to be hunting a wounded falcon in midflight, as far as he could tell. He had to smile as he thought of how Septa Mordane would no doubt have praised her excellent stitches, while the motive would probably have made her swoon.

"My dreams...," he finally began. "I dreamed about Sansa and Arya, but they told me utterly confused stories. Sansa was talking about the war, Arya about marriage. This was how I knew that it was just a dream, thankfully. I don't remember much, but I do remember that after that, in one of my dreams, I was in Winterfell, with my family."

"That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but something was wrong. No matter what I wanted to do, it just didn't work. I wanted to eat something, but my hands were gone. I wanted to ride a horse, but I didn't have legs. I wanted to give my wife a kiss, and suddenly my whole head was missing. My first dream was here, in this room actually. I must have had a fever then. I woke up, but one of my feet was gone."

Ned heard Rhaella exhale deeply. Then she put her needlework aside and looked at him with sad eyes.

"Well, about that..."

The rest of the day, he had wanted to be alone, but Rhaella had forbidden it, saying that he had had enough time for himself in his dreams and apparently this had not done him much good. He had asked her not to tell his daughters that he was awake yet, since he could not yet bear the thought of them seeing him like that. Here she had only nodded and indeed, apart from a very old maester and a few handmaidens, none of whom spoke a single word, no one had come to him throughout the day. So Rhaella herself had stayed with him, seated next to his bed and doing her needlework, and when she had left him to go to bed in the evening, he had indeed been glad and thankful that she had been there.

The next morning she was already back when he awoke, a bowl of steaming soup in her hands. Ned awoke to a strange feeling on his leg and when he opened his eyes, he saw the old maester, busy changing his bandages. Rhaella sat down again on the chair next to his bed and placed the soup on the small table to her left.

"It is healing well," he heard the old maester say. "The stitches look good, nothing is infected. Soon, you should not need soaked bandages anymore."

"Soaked bandages? Soaked with what?"

"Milk of the Poppy, of course," Rhaella said. "What did you think why you don't feel anything, even though Maester Caleotte took your foot off?"

"So you did this?"

"Indeed," said the old man, still inspecting his stump.

"This was not your decision to make, maester. This would have been my decision," he said, barely suppressing his anger and his grief.

"You would have had to be awake for that, my lord. Besides, I did not make that decision, Her Grace did."

Ned looked over at Rhaella.

"Don't look at me. He's talking about Sansa," Rhaella said in a soft voice. "There were only two choices. Your foot or your life. You had to lose one of the two. So Sansa decided for the foot."

For a moment, Ned didn't know what to say. Should he be angry with his daughter for making this decision? No, impossible. She had saved his life with it. It had been the right decision. Hard, but right. Somehow... he was even proud of her. Sansa was a gentle soul, meek and mild. Having to make such a decision must have been a terrible thing for his sweet girl. How could he not be proud of her?

Maester Caleotte then left the room with a deep bow to the Queen Mother. Leaving the two of them alone. Or was she the Queen Grandmother now? Did such a title even exist? Rhaella, whatever title was now appropriate, help Ned to sit upright in his bed, placed a large cushion behind his back and the bowl with soup in his hands. Assuring him that she had taken extra care that the cooks did not spice the soup too much, she then handed him a spoon. The spoon was made of pure silver with a fine, masterful chasing in the small oval that showed the sun and the spear of House Martell. Whatever she had told the cooks, it had not worked. The soup was so spicy that it drove tears into his eyes. He still ate it, though, because he was so hungry that he felt he could have eaten a complete aurochs.

He thought about Arya. Arya had always been different from Sansa. If one did not know them, one could hardly take them for sisters. Would Arya have made the same decision regarding his foot? Would it have been even easier for her? Or harder? He remembered hearing Sansa's voice when he had been asleep. Arya's too, but Sansa's much more often. Had she sung for him? Maybe he had merely dreamed it up, just like her stories about the war and the trip to the north, and Aryas talking about marriage. But he was sure that Arya had been there.

"Where are my daughters?"

"So you're finally ready to entertain visitors again, Lord Stark?" asked Rhaella in a mocking tone with a wide grin.

"Arya is in the pools, recovering. She spent all day yesterday training with Quentyn and took a day off today to give her tired bones a rest and take some care of her bruises."

"Pools? What pools?"

"We're in the Water Gardens, Ned. Can't you hear the water and the laughter of the children?"

He had indeed heard it, but had quickly stopped thinking about it too much.

"Since when?"

"Ten days now. Maester Caleotte thought that the salty air and the climate in the Water Gardens would help you heal, once you woke up. So we left Sunspear about two weeks after Sansa headed north."

"After what?"

It took him more than an hour to calm down again. Rhaella had been patient when he had ranted about how she, Queen Elia and Prince Doran could possibly have allowed this, had answered all his questions and tried to allay his fears and worries as best she could. The ship Sansa had taken north to reach Robb had been the fastest Prince Doran had been able to find in Dorne, she had said, manned with two hundred loyal spears and crossbowmen, and had taken what was supposed to be the safest route along the coast of Essos that one could take in these times. In addition, Ser Arthur Dayne had also been on board as her personal shield.

It somehow surprised Ned that, of all things, it was the mention of this man that reassured him the most. Lesser men might yield, surrender whoever they swore to protect to save their own lives, but the sense of duty, the unwavering loyalty of the white knights of the Kingsguard, with the Sword of the Morning being one of their most famous, was so legendary that deep down it comforted him to know that this man would watch over his daughter. The knowledge that he was one of the best swordsmen of their lifetime did the rest.

"I'm going to get Arya for you. She'll be happy to see you've woken up, and it'll certainly do you good to see her."

"No, please don't," he said, horrified by the mere suggestion.

"Why not?" asked Rhaella, puzzled. "I'm sure you'll feel better when she's with you."

"No, I... I don't want her to see me like this."

Rhaella tilted her head and looked at him as if she could hardly believe the nonsense he had just said.

"Ned, I hate to tell you this, but if you want to wait until your foot grows back, I don't think you'll ever get to see your daughter again."

"No, it's not that. I... I just have to get used to the fact that... I'm a cripple now. I don't want my daughters to see me like this, not until I can stand up on my own again."

Again, she looked at him for a moment, thinking about his words, before bursting into peals of laughter. Ned was startled, couldn't help but scowl at her as she covered her mouth, wide with laughter, with her right hand, wiping away her tears with an elegant movement with the back of her left hand.

"Oh, Ned, don't look at me like that," she said, trying her best to suppress her laughter. "I'm not laughing at your physical condition, just at how you really seem to think how things will be going forward from here on. Standing up? On your own? For weeks you've had nothing but tea, honey water, light fish soup and those ghastly herbs that Caleotte has shoved under your tongue every now and then. You are so weak that you should first see to it that you can sit upright on your own. If you manage that, we can start talking about standing up."

She took his hand with her right, wiped the last tears from her face with her left, still shaken by light laughs.

"Ned, what happened to you is terrible. No one expects you to jump out of bed and ride into battle, your daughter least of all. Doran has already offered to let you use one of his wheelchairs until you regain your strength and are able to use a cane. You won't like being pushed around like this, I know, but this way you will at least get out in the sun and get some fresh air."

He was about to protest, but before he could even say anything, Rhaella had already called for a servant, who promptly came into the room with one of those chairs. He must have been waiting outside the door, then. The chair was made of a reddish wood, with inlays of the dark wood that his bed was made of. The inlays were ornate images of men and women on ships, riding horses over hills and dunes, and fighting in battles.

Nymeria's arrival and her conquest of Dorne, he realized.

The servant reached out a hand and helped him sit up. Then he pulled him off the edge of the bed and lifted him into the chair with amazing skill. Ned had wanted to protest being treated like a child, but the servant had not let himself be deterred and, with a few deft moves, had placed him in the chair. Rhaella thanked him, then turned and began to walk out of the room. The servant positioned himself behind Ned and pushed him out of the room without waiting for an order, following Rhaella.

"Good Ryon does this for Doran every morning, so it's nothing to be ashamed of," she announced as she walked along the corridor, without turning to look at him.

The Water Gardens were truly a beautiful place. They came out of the building he had lain and slept in onto a terrace, all made of pink and white marble, from which a sight presented itself to him as he had never seen it before, could not have imagined it even in his dreams. There were pools of blue water and expertly shaped fountains, depicting dragons and all kinds fantastic creatures, men on horseback, weapons in hand, and beautiful girls and women, dancing in fine dresses – occasionally, however, without any clothes at all, too. Dense bushes covered with blossoms in all colors and wonderfully smelling trees, hanging full with ripe blood oranges, divided everything into smaller gardens, forming dark green walls between the pools in which the children played and those in which grown men and women, lightly dressed, seemed to bathe. Here Arya should be out and about somewhere? On her own? The thought made him uneasy.

The servant pushed him all the way under a canopy, overgrown with vines. The air was warm, but the shade and the salty breeze that blew from the sea and mixed with the scent of oranges, very pleasant. For a moment he closed his eyes and enjoyed the freshness on his skin and in his nose. Rhaella sat down on a bench next to him, plucked some dark, ripe grapes from the vines and began to eat.

"Who are those children there?" he asked after a while, looking down at the naked boys and girls playing together.

"I don't know," Rhaella said, shrugging her shoulders. "Some are children of Dornish lords, some of knights, some of local peasants." She laughed again when she saw his incredulous gaze. "They are children, Ned. No matter who the parents are, they're all the same here. I think it does good for the future rulers of this realm to understand that underneath their expensive clothes, despite the coins and castles and knights and the good food, they're really no different than the people they rule. I wish I could have brought Rhaegar and Viserys here as a children as well. Maybe then the realm would have been spared a lot of misery."

"Why didn't you?" he asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Can't you guess?"

"Aerys didn't allow it."

"No, by the Seven, no," she said laughingly, but at the same time in an almost horrified tone. "To teach his precious sons that they were no better than the sons or worse the daughters of a peasants would have been quite the opposite of what my late husband had in mind. And now Rhaegar believes our entire family to be some mystical weapon of fate, chosen by whatever god he is now praying to, while Viserys…"

She exhaled heavily. For a while they sat there in silence, looking down at the small gardens and watching the children playing. Rhaella passed him some grapes, too, which Ned greedily ate. They were sweet as honey, juicy and crisp. Ned wondered how such wonderfully sweet grapes could make such horribly sour wine as the Dornish Red they were so proud of here. For a moment, he thought, it would certainly be pleasant to go down there and dip his feet in the cool water. His foot, he corrected himself. He put his hands on the armrests of the chair and tried to lift himself up, as discreetly as possible. Should he fail, he didn't want to have to be ashamed of the attempt. Rhaella had been right, however. His arms immediately began to shake and gave way before he had even managed to rise an inch from the seat. Of course, Rhaella had noticed his pitiful efforts, but said nothing, just looked at him half amused, half pitying.

"So, where's Arya?" he then asked after a while.

"Somewhere down there. But don't worry about her, Ned. It's perfectly safe for her here. What happens there, especially between the not-so-young... children, may look wild, but there are enough guards everywhere, even if you can't see them from here. They'll make sure no one does anything unseemly to your daughter... or she to anyone," Rhaella said with a wink, which Ned, however, didn't find amusing at all.

Ned was, moreover, by no means reassured by this. After all, he knew his daughter too well to trust the questionable attentions of a few soldiers. Promising to look for Arya and send her to him, Rhaella then took her leave, rising gracefully from the small bench and leaving Ned alone on the small terrace. It wasn't long before he heard the sound of fast footsteps approaching him. He looked to the side in the direction from which the footsteps were coming, but before he had even fully turned his head, Arya's arms were already wrapped around his neck. He had to laugh, reached for her and hugged her as well. Ned felt Arya's body shaking, no doubt from deep sobs she couldn't suppress. It took quite a while for Arya to calm down to some extent, break away from him and look at him with teary eyes.

"Arya, are you all right?"

"Me?" she asked in wonder, wiping tears and snot from her face with her sleeve. Yes, that was his daughter. He had to smile. Only now did he notice that she wasn't wearing a dress, but a light, Dornish leather armor. "How are you? How's your... that is, how about...?"

"My foot? Well, it's gone. But I'm not in pain, at least." That was just from the soaked bandages, but he didn't really need to tell her that. Arya shouldn't have to worry about him.

"I told Sansa not to do that, but she wouldn't listen, Father. I didn't want her to-"

"It was the right thing to do," he interrupted her. Her eyes grew as big as plates. "If Maester Caleotte hadn't taken my foot off, I'd be dead now. It was the right thing to do. The only one to blame is myself. Had I stayed in Wyl to be treated by the castle's maester instead of being so insistent on accompanying you, the foot might still be there."

For a moment his daughter looked at him in anguish before he continued speaking himself.

"As it appears, you have settled in well in Dorne."

Arya looked down at herself, examining the dusty leather armor that had small rips and cuts here and there.

"It was a gift from Quen... Prince Quentyn. He also practices with me every day."

"I've heard about that. But I thought you were going to rest a little in the pools today?" Surprised, she looked at him. "Rhaella told me."

"Yes, I did, but it was too boring for me. So I was just heading back to Prince Quentyn when Rhaella... Queen Mother Rhaella found me and told me you were awake."

"I think it's fine if you just call her Rhaella, as long as it's not an official occasion," he said with a laugh. "Now tell me all about what I've been missing."

So she told him about how they had spent some time in Sunspear and how boring it had been there. Arya told him about how Sansa had sat by his bed every day, often crying, sometimes singing, but always talking to him, and she told him in great detail about the daily exercises with Prince Quentyn. Rather incidentally, she told of the ship that Prince Doran, Queen Elia, and Rhaella had arranged for Sansa to take her north, before telling again of the exercises with the spear and how unfortunate she thought it was that Ser Arthur Dayne had accompanied Sansa, as she had hoped to be instructed by him as well one day.

You'll have enough to report that will make Bran's eyes glaze over with envy when we get back home, Ned thought, amused.

But would they even go home together again? Some of the words Arya had said to him in his dreams flashed through his mind again. She had spoken of a man, but he could not remember his name. Had it been Quentyn? And she had spoken of marriage, though not with the same rapture and the same light in her eyes as Sansa had always had all her life. Arya's tales sounded anything but romantic, and listening to her tell him about the various parries and attacks she had already learned, none of it sounded like she had any intentions with Prince Quentyn other than to practice handling the spear with him. Still... Arya was taken with the prince in her own unique way, something he had never experienced like this with his youngest daughter. Moreover, Quentyn Martell was a prince in his own right, an excellent match for his second daughter, which besides could significantly strengthen the traditionally rather weak ties between Sunspear and Winterfell and provide for more trade with the deep south of the realm.

Ned pushed those thoughts aside, however. Whatever had developed or would develop between Arya and Prince Quentyn was not something he wanted or needed to think about here and now. Arya was at the right age to be betrothed, thirteen, no, already fourteen name days old. Still, she had two, maybe even three years left before she would really have to wed. He would take her back to Winterfell with him, to Cat and Robb, Bran and Rickon. To just leave her here, no matter what plans she herself or the Prince may or may not have, would have broken Cat's heart. If there were indeed such plans or hopes on the part of both or even just one of them, a trip home to Winterfell would hardly bury them.

They talked for more than an hour, as Ned estimated by the course of the sun, though mostly he just listened to her raving about her new spear – unsurprisingly another gift from Prince Quentyn – the swiftness of the Dornish sand steeds, and the Dornish food, which by now wasn't too spicy for her at all anymore, she said. Since she ate more of it, she sweated less in the sun, she said. A connection Ned found hard to imagine. However, as he heard her talk about food, he noticed how hungry he had become again. This was not surprising. As Rhaella had told him, he had been subsisting on little more than tea, honey, and some broth for the past few weeks. He felt himself how weak and thin he had become.

Involuntarily, Ned had to think back to his youth in the Vale of Arryn. There, he had once met Lord Hogar Redfort, the father of Horton Redfort, Lord of Redfort, many years ago when he had been no more than a young lad of eleven or maybe twelve name days. Hogar Redfort had been a stout man, strong and broad in the shoulders. Then he had fallen ill and when he had finally died, only a few months later, little more than skin and bones had remained of him. In the end, he had not even been strong enough to turn himself to the side in his bed to use his chamber pot. The maester who had examined him afterwards had found that Lord Hogar had small knots and ulcers all through his body, which had quickly robbed him of all his strength, as he had said. He also remembered the sermon of the local septon, who had described this as a punishment of the Seven for the old lord's less than godly way of living – at least until a young Horton Redfort had punched out the man's front teeth in anger.

It won't be like that for me, Ned thought, encouraging himself. I just haven't eaten enough, and I'll soon be on my feet again. On my foot, he then corrected himself bitterly.

He hugged Arya again, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then sent her off again to find Prince Quentyn and practice with him a bit more. Surely she didn't want to disappoint the prince and skip the exercises just to sit here with him and be bored. With a wink, he added that her exercises would certainly be more difficult once her mother found out about them anyway, so she just make good use of her time. She kissed him gently on the cheek, promised to have dinner with him tonight to show him her new favorite Dornish dishes, and then ran down the small steps on the side of the terrace. After only a few moments, she had disappeared from his sight.

After a short call, a servant immediately appeared and, on Ned's instructions, brought him something to eat. He asked for bread and a stew or maybe some meat, but all he got was fruit, another bowl of soup - this time at least with a little bit of garnish - and a large mug of strong herbal tea. Ned wanted to protest, but the servant immediately explained at his disappointed look that Maester Caleotte had decided on this diet for him, because his stomach would have to get used to food again first. Also, the queen mother had apparently forbidden him under threat of punishment not to follow this instruction of the maester. So Ned surrendered to his fate and began to eat. The soup was good, tasting of ripe limes, fish and fresh herbs. But the tea was all the more dreadful and could only be endured by taking a bite of fruit after each sip to get rid of the taste. He was done quickly and it only took a moment before the servant came back, took the try with the empty bowls and the – to his own surprise – equally empty cup and hurried away.

For a long time he just sat there, looking down into the Water Gardens and watching the children at play, splashing and playing in the water, running around and screaming and shrieking with joy. Ned wished to have something similar in Winterfell, but of course that was nonsense. In the cold weather of the North, such a thing would be possible only in the warmest of summers at most, and even then his Cat would be shocked by the mere thought of letting her children - or perhaps someday her grandchildren - play with the sons and daughters of peasants. She was a good woman, a great mother, but just too much of a lady.

The day passed quickly. When the sun had already set completely, the servant Ryon came back, took Ned back to his chambers and brought him a little something to eat, bread and some more soup, fruit and a small piece of roasted meat - snake meat, as Ryon let him know - before helping him back to bed. The following days went much the same way. Ryon helped him out of bed into his chair in the morning and pushed him out into one of the gardens or onto one of the terraces, from which he could then overlook the gardens - sometimes with a magnificent view of the sea and the crashing waves, sometimes with an equally impressive view over the sandy dunes or the beautiful palace itself.

Several times a day Arya came to him to talk or to eat with him, each time with wet hair, either from sweat when she came from her exercises with Prince Quentyn or from water when she had just swam in one of the pools. Every day she had something new to tell him, about the new parries or attacks or poses she had learned or about the boys and girls she was now friends with. But she also told him how much she missed Winterfell, her mother and brothers, Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin and Old Nan, Hullen and Farlen and Mikken. Arya was happy in Dorne and Ned was happy about that, but he was even happier that she longed for her home, for her family.

It took four days before Ned was finally strong enough to struggle out of bed and into his chair on his own again. That same day he had wanted to try to stand up, but had fallen and instead of the success he had hoped for, had only earned himself a sore back and a long, angry scolding from Rhaella. Arya had offered to try with him the next day, but Ned had declined, saying that he would just take an extra two or three days. His daughter had apparently taken that literally, because exactly two days later she had shown up at his chamber early in the morning, a bashfully smiling Prince Quentyn behind her, and presented him with a gift.

The carpenter who made the wheelchairs for Prince Doran and owned a spacious house near the Water Gardens had made a walking stick for him on Arya's – and, as she assured him, Prince Quentyn's – behalf. Ned had briefly wondered why a carpenter was needed to make a walking stick, but after a quick glance at the wonderful gift, it had become clear. The cane was made of fine wood, so dark that it appeared almost black. Artful carvings, which truly only a few craftsmen would have been able to do, adorned the slender but sturdy cane from the pommel in the shape of a wolf's head down to its tip. The cane was a masterpiece.

"It took him over a week to make it," his daughter boasted when she saw Ned's astonished look. "The carpenter said he can make them a new foot, too. If it's well fitted, you'll even be able to walk without a cane again later."

Despite the cane, Ned still didn't manage to stand on his own two feet again that day. The prospect of being able to stand on two feet again - even if one of them was only made of wood - had given him enough strength not to fall on his butt again, but unfortunately not enough to keep himself upright. So after three strenuous attempts, he let himself sink back into his wheelchair and let Prince Quentyn push him out onto his favorite terrace, which he had by now. Here he spent the day again, reading a few random chapters in books Rhaella had brought him, eating and drinking for what felt like half the time, and looking down at the gardens in front of him.

The sun was already beginning to turn red and sink behind one of the trees when he heard soft footsteps behind him. A woman, as he recognized by the gentle sounds. At first he thought it was Arya, but the gentleness of the footsteps did not fit her at all. Then he realized it was two women. He wanted to turn around, but then decided against it because he didn't want to appear nosy. If these ladies wanted to see him, he would find out as soon as they got here anyway. Sure enough, the two of them appeared next to him shortly after.

Queen Elia came into his field of view first. Immediately, Ned bowed his head.

"Your Grace," he said.

"Please, Eddard, there's no need for that. At least not when we're not at court. We are family now. Elia will do."

Flattered yet still a bit uncertain, he raised his head again, only to almost freeze in shock. Next to Queen Elia, her arm entwined in the queen's, stood a woman he knew all too well. He had last seen her many years ago, but she had not lost the slightest bit of her beauty.

If she had changed at all, she had become even more beautiful, he thought, and immediately scolded himself for it. He was a married man whose also beautiful wife was waiting for him.

She was almost a head taller than Queen Elia, slender yet womanly like sin itself. She wore a tight cut dress of white silk that seemed to reveal more than it hid, similar to those he had seen Princess Rhaenys wear at King's Landing – just even more revealing. Dark, wild curls streaked with silver-white strands framed a face so beautiful that no artist could have dreamed it up better, and from that enchanting face two no less enchanting purple eyes flashed at him in merriment.

"It seems Lord Stark has already used up all his courtesy on you, Elia," she said, amused. Ned didn't know how that meant for a moment, until it occurred to him that he hadn't greeted her at all.

"Please... please forgive me, my lady," he stammered. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Ashara."

Ashara then laughed loudly, as clear as a bell.

"Hello Ned, it's good to see you again too."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to stay, so please excuse me," Queen Elia said. "Ser Orwen is already waiting for me, and I do not wish to be late for our... council meeting."

"Yes, that would be most rude indeed," Ashara said, giving her a knowing wink. "Please convey my apologies to Ser Orwen for not joining you until later. I'll stay with Ned a bit longer and then join in."

Elia now winked at Ashara as well. Ned was completely at a loss as to what this game could possibly be supposed to mean, but did not dare to ask either. Elia briefly nodded at Ned and then turned away to leave. Before she left, though, she suddenly reached for Ashara's face, gently pulled it towards her own and gave her a soft kiss. Not on the cheek, though, but on the lips. Ned felt the blush rise to his cheek and the warmth to his ears. It had been a long time since anything had made him blush, but now, unable to take his eyes off the two ladies kissing – however quick and fleeting this kiss may have been – he wished a hole would open up beneath him and just swallow him. After that, Queen Elia left without another word. Ashara walked next to Ned as elegantly as a cat and lowered herself just as gracefully onto the small bench.

"Oh, do not look so terrified now, Ned," she said, amused at his obviously still lingering shock. "In Dorne, we give away our love very generously."

"I can see that," he said, trying his best not to sound too shocked anymore.

Again she laughed, sounding to his ears like she was singing.

"I had heard of the Water Gardens before, but... I hadn't imagined them to be this beautiful," he said after a while, during which they had just sat next to each other in silence.

"They are my favorite place in the entire world. I used to play here as a child, you know. Even today, there's nothing like taking off your clothes and jumping into the water on a hot summer day."

Again, Ned felt himself blushing at the thought of a naked Ashara, desperately trying not to look at her lest he burst with shame.

"So you're doing this too?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I? Pretty much everyone does around here, Ned. And I don't think I have to hide myself, do I? But only after the children are gone, of course." Again they were silent for a while, as Ned didn't know what to say in response and Ashara, just like she had done in the past, obviously enjoyed letting him stew in his own juices. Eventually, however, she continued to speak and Ned was grateful for that. "I came here because I wanted to see you, Ned. To tell you how sorry I am for what happened to you. But also to congratulate you."

"Congratulate me?"

"Your daughter is the new queen, Ned. Sansa is her name, isn't it? You couldn't have slept through that as well, could you?"

"No, I haven't," he said, forcing a wry grin on his face.

"Then smile a bit, Ned. Do it for me. It is horrible what happened to you, losing your foot and all, but you really should not look so sour and sorrowful all the time, otherwise your face might stay that way one day," she jested.

"This is not about my foot. I'm simply worried about Sansa. She's out there all alone. You don't know her, Ashara. She's not made for this. She's a gentle soul, meek and tender."

"She'll be fine, Ned. Arthur's with her. She has probably long since reached your son anyway. If he's just a little like you, Ned, he'll watch over her and do everything in his power to protect her. And maybe Aegon is there, too. Aegon would never let anything happen to her."

"You speak as if you know him."

"Of course, because I do. Elia is my oldest friend. I've known Aegon since he was born, Ned. He's a fine young man, and he will treat Sansa like the queen she now is. I promise you that."

"That may well be, but… I am still a father. The worry never quite goes away," he admitted, but couldn't help but smile now for real.

"He loves your daughter, Ned. And she loved him just as much, from what Elia and Rhaella have told me. To marry someone you love is a blessing that only very few young men and women of our standing are granted. He loves her and will always love her. It is easier to cure a fool of his weak mind than to cure a true man of his love for a beautiful woman. And from all I've heard your daughter is absolutely ravishing."

"That she is. She takes after her mother."

Now they laughed together for the first time, the first time in more than twenty years.

"Ashara…," he began hesitantly after a while. "If I may be so bold, why have you never gotten married? You are one of the most beautiful women in the realm. You were when we first met and you still are. Men must have been dueling for your hand by the dozen."

"A little late for you to be courting me now, don't you think? With a wife and… How many? Five children…," she said with a wink. She then looked off into the distance, toward the setting sun, and became serious, her smile slowly disappearing from her lips. "I am happy, Ned. That is all I can tell you. For many years I wanted nothing more than to wed, to have children of my own with a man I could love and who loved me. But such a man is hard to find. There was one once, but fate destined a different path for him and me. He married another woman, had children with her, and I... I did not. I am here now. But I've made my peace with that, Ned. There's no good in worrying about paths you haven't taken. Don't worry about me. I am happy," she said again.

Then she leaned over to him, caught his hand and took it between hers. They were warm and soft. Her touch, gentle and fleeting, sent a shiver through his entire body. Then she leaned over a little more and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. Ned was silent, unable to say anything.

"Shouldn't you better be on your way? To your council meeting with Elia and this Ser Orwen? Not that you are running late just because of me," he finally said. He didn't want her to leave. He had never wanted that. But she was right. There was no good in worrying about paths you haven't taken.

"Oh, don't worry about that, Ned. I somehow have a feeling this meeting is going to take all night anyway."

Notes:

So, that was it. How did you like it? As I said, this chapter did not bring much storywise but I thought it good to have it anyway, even if just to show that Ned definitely survived, that Arya is doing great although she misses her home and also to have a little guest appearance from Ashara Dayne at the end.

I wrote in a comment about this already that I originally had planned to have the story take a different direction but while writing it, had to change it several times because it just didn't "feel" right. In my original idea, Ashara had a somewhat bigger role but the way this story ended up progressing, I had to cut her out.

So, next chapter should be coming soon, since I already started wirting it while I was still busy with this one. As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think, what you liked or didn't like. I alsways love to read your comments.

Until next time. :-)

Chapter 47: Daeron 9

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. We are back in King's Landing with Daeron and will see how the campaign has progressed so far. Hope you have fun reading. :-)

The air was warm and smelled intensely of rotten flowers, cheap wine and sweat. How anyone could feel lust in such surroundings was beyond Daeron. He trudged down the narrow wooden steps to announce his coming, hoping the girls and women might put on some more clothing then. His hopes were dashed when he stepped back into the large room on the first floor of the building. Young girls and some not so young women sat and lay, slept and lounged on cushioned benches and armchairs, dressed in little more than scraps of cheap fabric and tatty dresses that might have been pretty a decade earlier. Some were even completely naked, except for the cheap jewelry they wore around their necks, on their ears, wrists or ankles, or in places where respectable women would certainly never have hung anything, valuable or not. He looked around and saw, through gaps in the fabric or simply because they were not covered at all, more teats and nipples than he had ever expected to see in his entire life. One of the completely naked girls was sleeping alone on one of the benched with her legs wide spread, offering an unhindered view right into her womanly parts.

Thankfully, he had found no one under the roof of the building, nor had he discovered any access to it that needed to be guarded. So the building was secured. This was now the eighth or ninth brothel they had taken and cleared of Viserys' men in the last three days, and the last one on this street, so the street was now secured all the way up to Copper Alley as well.

Apparently, the whores were the only ones in the city who could still ply their trade without major problems. As they had learned, however, the whores rarely let themselves be paid with coins anymore, but much more often with bread or rusk, meat or fish, fruits or vegetables, skins of wine or the promise of protection for some hours. The only coins the whores still accepted at all, as Daeron had learned from some of his soldiers, were silver stags or gold dragons, fortunes far too valuable for any man to throw out the window for even an entire week, let alone a night of carnal pleasures and clearly too much for his soldiers and thankfully even most of the knights. So it was no wonder that more and more often men – knights and soldiers alike – disappeared for a night and were later found standing guard in front of this or that building, without having been ordered to do so, or more and more food and wine was stolen from their stocks.

A sweating man with a long, red mustache that fell almost to his chest stood in the center of the room, his eyes fixed expectantly on Daeron. He was sumptuously dressed, adorned with a flamboyant golden chain around his hairy neck, and grinning all over his face. His name was Colbat Graves, as he himself had said. Daeron already knew the man, had met him two days ago for the first time when he and Aegon together had already secured another house a little further south, which they had thought was a tavern, but which had turned out to be a brothel as well. Daeron had to suppress a grin as he thought of how Aegon, because it had been particularly stormy that day, had said that the man was so fat that the wind would certainly not blow him over when they had first seen him.

"My prince, I told you that you would not find anyone here who would wish you ill. But we are of course grateful to finally be under the protection of the crown and the one true king again. If you, Prince Daeron, need anything from me or my girls, just let me know," he said with an almost conspiratorial grin.

"Thank you, but that will not be necessary," Daeron said, turning away to leave as quickly as possible. A pretty blond girl, hardly older than fourteen or fifteen, with huge blue eyes and long, slender legs rose elegantly from one of the benches. A woman, about twenty years old, with pitch-black hair, brown eyes, and full breasts, only scantily hidden under a thin linen dress, did likewise. They walked up to Daeron, positioning themselves to his right and left and ignoring the two of Daeron's soldiers guarding the door and their longing gazes.

"For our king, we cost nothing," purred the black-haired woman.

"And for his sweet brother, of course, neither," the young blonde followed up, running a slender finger up and down Daeron's chest. "Can we really do you no good, my prince?"

"I am a married man. And so is my brother," he said firmly. This, however, only seemed to amuse the two of them.

"That has never kept our other customers away, either," the black-haired woman chuckled.

"And what about the king? After such a long, tiring battle for the city, surely His Grace deserves a little rest and relief."

"Tell me, my prince," Colbat now spoke from behind him, "have you delivered my offer to your royal brother? My girls would take care of him free of charge, do for him or let him do whatever he wants, as often and as long as he wants. For you and the lords and knights in His Grace chooses from his retinue as well of course. All I hope for in return is to be allowed to write this in golden letters on the wall of my establishment. To be the man who has kept His Grace entertained in these trying times would be priceless to my business, and the benefits to you and His Grace would be... well, obvious."

"Yes, I delivered the message to him," Daeron said. It was a lie. He didn't have to deliver such nonsense to Aegon to know what his answer would have been.

"So what did His Grace say?"

"Guess."

"He said yes."

"Guess again."

"It would be my greatest wish to be able to serve the most noble House Targaryen with my modest means."

"Well, feel free to hold out your hands then. In one hand go the wishes, in the other hand the shit. Let's see which is full faster," he said, finally detaching himself from the girls and leaving the house quickly.

Out on the street, he could finally breathe freely again. The air was fresh and cool and smelled of the salty sea. In the dimness of the building, Daeron had almost forgotten that it was just shortly after noon. The two soldiers who had accompanied him followed him outside, slowly and reluctantly, with disappointed, longing looks on their faces, barely able to tear their eyes away from the girls and women.

Feeling the hunger in his empty stomach, he decided to ride a short detour to the western end of the harbor and meet Aegon for luncheon. He had eaten very little after getting up this morning and now felt as if he could eat an entire ox. Or even one of those hairy mammoths that were supposed to live in the North beyond the Wall. His soldiers were already about to get a few dozen more men from the nearby square to set up some makeshift barricades and secure the end of the street for good. Daeron mounted his horse, gave the men a few more brief orders on how the barricades should look – completely unnecessary, really, since his men already knew what to do, but it was better to keep the men busy so that as soon as he rode around the next corner they wouldn't disappear right back into one of the brothels – and then gently gave his horse the spurs. His horse, a beautiful gray from a very good breed in the Crownlands, gave a short neigh and then began to move.

After only a short ride he already reached the Street of the Sisters, turned right into the God's Way and a short time later, about halfway to Cobbler's Square, turned left again into the Street of Flour and then into Reeking Lane. He rode in a wide arc around the Great Sept, which was still in the hands of a few but all the more fiercely fighting men belonging to Viserys. He passed a few encampments with wounded men. Most of the men would fortunately recover, while many, having lost hands or feet or eyes, would retain permanent damage, while some were already as good as dead. Again and again he rode through swaths that smelled of sweat and almonds.

Gangrene, he thought bitterly. A hard death. He knew that Aegon had already given the order to end the men's suffering in their sleep, should the maesters decided that there was nothing more they could do for them and when even the removal of complete arms and legs could no longer help. It had been a hard order and he knew how difficult it had been for Aegon to give it. But it had been the right one. The men were fighting for him and even if he couldn't save their lives, at least they shouldn't have to suffer in death.

In the first days in King's Landing, they had still run into a trap in every other street they had marched into and on almost every square they had tried to take. They had lost many men to Viserys' archers and crossbowmen, shooting down from wooden towers spread all over the city. It was Dickon Tarly who, after successfully attacking one of the towers, had noticed that there was a clay pot of lamp oil on top of each of the towers, probably so that the towers could be set on fire in case of retreat. Not a dumb idea, but sloppily executed. They had then proceeded to shoot burning arrows at the towers from a distance until one hit the clay pot and the tower burst into flames like a torch. Most of the time the soldiers had been able to leave the towers in time now, but often enough they had not and had gone up in bright flames just like the towers themselves. Since then, it only took a few burning arrows in the direction of the towers to cause most of the archers and crossbowmen to flee. Whatever it was that caused them to be loyal to Viserys instead of Aegon, most of them did not want to burn alive for it.

They had also lost many horses and men, now lying in sickbeds with broken or splintered bones, when trying to reach to foot of Aegon's High Hill with a quick cavalry charge because some of the wider roads were peppered with hidden crow's feet. Other men had been buried by deliberately collapsing houses and walls. It had been frustrating to keep seemingly doing exactly what Viserys had apparently hoped they would do.

"Being trapped by Viserys is like being tricked by a turnip," Aegon had said one of the first nights after a few cups of strong wine. Daeron had only been able to agree with him, pouring them both more wine.

Only gradually had they been able to change their tactics, so that the traps and ambushes that still awaited them all throughout the city could no longer really surprise them. By now, they could even laugh at some of Viserys' ridiculous attempts to outsmart them. On one of the larger squares a kind of maze had even been built, into which Viserys obviously hoped to lure them. From one of the roofs of the adjacent houses, however, it had been quickly visible that the maze had no other way out, so that fighting through it could only mean losses but no progress.

They had therefore sealed off the only entrance to the maze and posted archers on the roofs around it, who in the following days and nights had shot down in rows the men who had been lurking inside and now, driven by hunger, thirst or simple fear, had tried to flee over the walls of the maze. They had then torn down the maze and used the stones and the wood to build their own barricades all over the city, protecting themselves from nightly counterattacks.

In all, it took Daeron the better part of an hour to reach the harbor. He quickly found Aegon standing near the last ships of the royal fleet of King's Landing they had captured in their attack, inspecting their repairs. Lord Velaryon was with him, along with his cousin Aurane Waters, called the Bastard of Driftmark. Aegon saw him coming toward him from a distance and, though still nearly thirty paces away, could already see the annoyed expression on his brother's face, no doubt because Daeron was riding through the city without an escort. By the time he came within earshot, his brother's words confirmed his suspicions.

"It is too dangerous even in peacetime to ride through the city without protection. And we're at war, Daeron. You can't possibly be that stupid," he called out to him.

Daeron could only laugh at his brother's scolding, even though Aegon refused to share his laughter. He handed over the reins of his horse to one of the soldiers around and then walked the last steps. Aegon just thanked Lord Velaryon and Aurane Waters for whatever they had informed him about. The men then bowed their heads and walked away quickly.

"I am quite serious about that, little brother."

"I was going to ask you if we might have lunch together, but since your mood is so bad right now, maybe we'd better not," Daeron said with a wry grin.

"My mood was just fine until I witnessed once again that my little brother and heir seems to be having nothing but hot air between his ears." Still Aegon looked serious and scowling, but Daeron knew him well enough to know that he wasn't really angry with him anymore. It took only a moment for Aegon to stop holding back as well, an equally wry grin appearing on his face. "Well, something good to eat will certainly lift my spirits."

"Hmm, I'm not sure whether we can get something good, but from the smell of it, there's definitely something."

A short time later, they were sitting on the pier next to one of the chopped up pollards, looking out over the Blackwater and eating a strange tasting stew from two shallow bowls. It was supposed to have the meat of one of the horses that had died two days ago in it. Neither Daeron nor Aegon, however, found any evidence of even the slightest bit of meat.

"Probably some soldiers traded it to some brothel for a little service," Aegon mused. Daeron grumbled in agreement and popped the next spoonful into his mouth, where he could at least detect the overcooked remains of some leek and a carrot. Or was it a parsnip? Either way, the stew tasted burnt, but at least it was warm and made him feel full. But that might also have been due to the large crust of bread they had both eaten with it. Suddenly, Aegon conjured up a wineskin from somewhere after they both were done with the stew. At first Daeron was skeptical about what noble drop might be in it, but after an encouraging nod from Aegon he finally put it to his lips.

"This is Arbor Gold," he exclaimed, immediately looking around to see if anyone had heard him. They shared much with their soldiers, the weapons, the food, the camp, and always fought alongside them at the front, but this wine, by the Seven, he would share with no one but his brother. "Where did you get that from?"

"Let's just say the owner of one of the whorehouses was very interested in doing me a favor. And since his other... goods didn't appeal to me, he offered me something else. I have three more of those," Aegon said with a wink.

"Don't let Oberyn hear that, or you'll certainly have no more than three empty ones soon."

"Oh, let him keep drinking that sour goat piss we found at the tavern on River Row. He seems to like it."

They laughed heartily at this, drank more wine, and laughed some more. It had been a long time since they had sat together so boisterously, and it did them good. Suddenly Aegon took out a small box that he had apparently kept hidden under his doublet and handed it to Daeron. It was made of light wood, with hinges and small fittings of bronze.

"First a wineskin and now this… What else do you have hidden under there, brother?" Daeron joked.

"Go on, open it."

Daeron didn't know what that was all about. Frowning, he opened the box. He looked inside and recognized a dagger on a bed of soft red cloth. He took out the dagger and inspected it. The small pommel on the end was a dragon's head made of beaten copper, the finely decorated handle carved from dragon bone, but what really caught his eyes was the thin blade was made of Valyrian steel.

"It... it's wonderful."

"It's a gift."

"For me?"

"No, for grandmother," Aegon scoffed. "Of course it's for you. Don't you know what today is?"

"No, what is it?"

"Today is Warrior's Day. So, all the best, little brother."

Daeron leaned over to Aegon, taking his broadly grinning brother into a tight embrace. It was true, today was Warrior's Day. He had totally forgotten about it. It was customary among men following the Seven to give a weapon to another man, the father, a brother, a cousin or a particularly close friend, on Warrior's Day as a small gift – usually only a symbolic one. Apart from the sword at his side, however, Daeron had nothing with him that he could have given to Aegon.

"Thank you. Honestly, thank you so much. It's wonderful. But... I don't have anything for you now."

"Doesn't matter. Just make sure you don't ride around town without an escort from now on. That's enough of a gift," he said with a wink.

"I promise," Daeron said with a wide grin. "The dagger is wonderful. Where on earth did you get that?"

"From one of the forges in the Street of Steel."

"Stolen? Oh, Aegon. That's not at all befitting the king."

"No, not stolen," he snapped back in feigned dismay. "The owner was still there, holed up in the cellar with his family. I gave him a skin of good wine, enough bread and cheese and dried blood sausages for him and his family for over a week and a silver stag in return."

They sat there for a while longer, looking out into the harbor and drinking the remaining wine. They didn't talk much anymore, but they didn't need to either. They both smiled contentedly, passing the wineskin back and forth until Aegon let the last, small sip run down his throat. Daeron could already feel the wine numbing his senses and making him dizzy in the head. Fortunately, there was no more attack planned for today, so it didn't matter if he was no longer completely in control of his senses as long as Viserys wasn't doing anything stupid. Their efforts to get the city under control had been progressing worse and worse of late. It wasn't that they weren't making any progress at all. They had already taken about half of the city and were taking more parts every day, managing to minimize their losses, while the losses among Viserys' men were getting larger and larger. However many soldiers their uncle might have had at the beginning, there could not be many left. Still that was far from enough.

Daeron knew that Aegon didn't talk about it, but he clearly saw how his brother was growing more restless with each passing day. He could feel it. It had already taken them far too long to take about half of the city, and even though there was no sign of Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn so far, it was only a matter of time before they would show up here and try to wipe out two Targaryens in one fell swoop. It was only logical that they waited a while so that Aegon and Viserys could wear their forces out on each other, only to be left with two weakened enemies to face. But no matter how patient the two of them were, they would not sit and wait in Storm's End forever. So something had to be done to take King's Landing once and for all, conquer the Red Keep – or what was left of it – and after whatever Aegon was up to with Viserys and their father, face Stannis and finally end this war.

"Say, what do you think about sparring a bit?" Daeron asked.

"What?"

"Sparring. You and me? Are you up for it?"

"Haven't you had enough to do with your sword lately?" asked Aegon with a grin. "If that's the problem, I'd be more than happy to make sure that changes."

"No, but I would simply like to practice against my brother again. I think I've seen most of your little tricks by now, so this time you wouldn't beat me as easily as you did last time."

"Little tricks? Impudence," Aegon said in mock protest. "I learned from the best sword masters in the known world. The water dance from a master from Braavos, the art of the singing blades from Volantis, and even the secret of the swordsmanship from Yi-Ti."

"Yi-Ti? Seriously?"

"Yes, well, a little. The water dance wasn't for me. You have to be small and nimble for that. I was too tall and too broad for it."

"You mean too slow."

"Oh, shut your piehole. In water dance, you fight with those tiny, thin swords that look like knitting needles. It looks nice and elegant at first but really, it's just silly hopping around, if you ask me. The singing blades suited me better and I actually learned a lot. "

"That was what you surprised me with when we were sparring together in Winterfell, wasn't it?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Well, you certainly won't be so lucky again. I promise you that."

"We'll see about that when the time comes, little brother," Aegon said, again broadly grinning. "It goes back to an ancient Valyrian art of sword fighting, did you know? They still do it in Volantis, though mostly only on ceremonial occasions and not in real fights. You should have seen Viserys' face when he found out I was being taught Valyrian swordsmanship and he wasn't."

"Didn't Viserys demand to be taught this as well? I can't imagine he just accepted it."

"And how he demanded it. The swordmaster even let him audition, but he was so bad that he turned him down. Viserys almost exploded with rage," he said laughing out loud. Daeron couldn't help but laugh with him.

"And the master from Yi-Ti?"

"Oh, that was a bust. The man was as small as a mouse but roared as loud as an angry lion. Unfortunately, he spoke neither the common tongue nor any form of Valyrian, so I never understood what he was yelling at me about in the first place. After two weeks we ended the little experiment. Or rather, he ended it."

"How so? It's not like he could have gone to our father and say he didn't want to teach you anymore."

"No, he didn't. One day he was just gone. Got on a ship in the middle of the night and sailed away. Without a word. So in essence, I managed to put a sword master from Yi-Ti to flight," he said again with a wide, wry grin.

"You can look at it that way, of course."

Again, they had to laugh together. A messenger finally interrupted their conversation, a young lad named Eyan Massey, who hoped to become the new squire of Prince Oberyn, reporting that the prince waiting for them in one of the few taverns near the old fish market that had opened again with a message he had received by raven. Aegon thanked the boy, who then immediately turned on his heel and sprinted away as if the Stranger himself was on his heels. They rose then, took some horses and went on their way. Noon was long past, and since the next meeting with his lords was coming up soon anyway, they decided not to waste any time.

They quickly reached the tavern with the meeting room inside. When they entered, only Prince Oberyn was waiting for them inside. He was sitting on a chair, leaning far back, with a small letter on the table in front of him and a cup in his hand. His eyes were glassy, as Daeron immediately recognized, so even if he was far from drunk – he had witnessed before how much wine it took to get Oberyn Nymeros Martell really drunk – he obviously hadn't washed down his luncheon with mere water either.

"Uncle, you wanted to see us?" Aegon asked, immediately sinking down on a chair opposite him. Daeron positioned himself next to him, his arms folded behind his back.

"Indeed, dear nephew, indeed. I have received word that I wanted to share with you before the others arrive here."

"Because it is so good or so bad?"

"Hard to say."

"Aha. So, what is this word?"

"We received a raven from the Vale with a message for the king. Runestone has fallen."

"Fallen to whom?"

"I don't know. The letter doesn't say."

"Which king was the message for, then? There are several that come to mind right now, I'm afraid."

"No idea. The letter doesn't say."

"So... Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know. The letter doesn't say," Oberyn said, by now obviously annoyed to always being able to answer the same thing only.

"What did it say at all?"

"That the king must know that Runestone has fallen. Nothing more. The maester must have sent the raven off in a hurry at the last moment before the castle fell."

"Well then, too bad, I guess..."

"That was the important news you wanted to share with us?" Daeron now asked.

"Well, actually, I wanted to spend some time with my nephew and my nephew's brother," Oberyn said. "Also, I wanted to tell you about a couple of young ladies whose savior I recently became and who now want to show me their utmost gratitude."

Aegon just snorted a short laugh when he heard this. Daeron could literally hear him rolling his eyes.

"Thank you, uncle, but we've cleared a few whorehouses of Viserys's men ourselves, and each time we've refused their offers of… utmost gratitude. I'm happy for you that Ellaria apparently doesn't seem to have a problem with you taking other women to your bed, but Sansa and Talla would certainly see it differently."

"First, they're not whores, dear nephew. They're dancers."

"Of course. Dancers, then," Aegon repeated in an incredulous tone.

"And besides, there are not only women there who want to express their gratitude. So if you or Daeron would prefer one of the boys-"

"No," they both said at the same time in a decided tone.

"No," Aegon followed up shortly in somewhat softer tone. "Thank you, but we certainly have no interest in that, uncle."

"Very well, your loss. This only means that more of the gratitude remains for me," Oberyn said, a broad, satisfied grin on his face.

They only had a short time to wait until the lords arrived for the meeting with their king. The Massey boy must have told them where they would find Aegon. Lord Tarly was the first to enter, followed by his son Dickon. The lords Velaryon, Allyrion, Jordayne, Crabb and Redwyne followed. The last to join them were Ser Duncan Brune, Gerris Drinkwater and Symon Santagar. They all took seats around the large table where Aegon and Oberyn were already seated. Daeron took a seat to Aegon's right, who had moved himself to the head of the table, while Oberyn had taken the seat to his left. Silence quickly fell among the lords and Aegon only had to nod quickly in Lord Velaryon's direction for him to begin speaking.

"Thank you for this meeting, Your Grace. I know there is naught to discuss regarding the conquest of the city, as the plans for the next few days are already in place, but there are other matters that require His Grace's attention."

"What exactly?" asked Aegon. "News from Storm's End?"

"No, Your Grace. But numerous foreign sails have been sighted."

"Where?"

"Everywhere, my king. Ships of mercenary companies have been sighted in the Narrow Sea, on the edge of the Sea of Dorne and the Summer Sea, and even in the Sunset Sea, off the coast of the Reach and the Westerlands. Presumably on their way to Lannisport, Your Grace. Apparently, several small fleets of pirates from Essos have also settled in the Stepstone. Most seem to be fighting each other at the moment, but it won't be long before only one victor remains."

"And that victor will then be a threat to all our sea trade."

"Yes, Your Grace. In addition, the sails of the ironmen have been sighted."

"Where?"

"Mainly in the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones. So far they seem to be behaving quietly. There are no reports of raids or attacks."

"As long as the krakens don't do anything stupid, they shouldn't concern us," Ser Gerris said. Daeron could tell from Aegon's face that he was less at ease about this.

"They might want to join the fighting for the Stepstones, set up their own pirate kingdom," Lord Redwyne said. "That would suit these cowardly dogs."

"Possible," said Aegon, "but unlikely. I don't know what the Greyjoys are up to, but if they leave their miserable islands voluntarily in great numbers, it can't be good. I think it's better to actively protect the seas and coasts of my realm than to wait for anything to happen."

"Undoubtedly, Your Grace. However, I would like to suggest a different approach. Perhaps Euron Greyjoy could also be persuaded to assist you in your struggle if he could be reached. A ship with an emissary might-"

"Absolutely not," Aegon interrupted him. "Euron Greyjoy was ordered to come to King's Landing before this war began, along with his brother's children, so that my father would confirm his claim to the Iron Islands by that silly kingsmoot they staged there. His response was to send us the severed heads of his niece and nephews. Since that moment, the Iron Islands have been in open rebellion. Whatever the ironmen are up to, it certainly isn't supporting me."

"That is treason," blaffed Lord Jordayne.

"I am aware of that, my lord. Thank you. And that is precisely why we should not let the ironmen have their way, whatever they may be up to."

All the men present nodded in agreement, but did not say a word. It took a few heartbeats before Aegon began to speak again.

"Even though there are others at the moment who falsely claim this title, I am the Protector of the Realm, and I intend to do justice to this title. Lord Velaryon, Lord Redwyne, you have reported to me that the repairs to the majority of the ships have already been completed."

"Yes, Your Grace," said Lord Redwyne.

"Good, then my orders are as follows. You will divide all the ships at our disposal into separate fleets. Each one large enough to be divided into smaller fleets again if needed. One fleet will protect the Arbor and the southern coast of Dorne, a smaller fleet will patrol the Sea of Dorne, and a larger fleet will sail to the Stepstones and put an end to the pirate plague there. The remaining ships of the royal fleet of King's Landing will guard Blackwater Bay all the way up to Dragonstone. The order is to protect the seas and coasts of my realm and to confront and destroy the ironmen's ships wherever you can get hold of them."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Lord Redwyne said, his head bowed deeply.

"The royal fleet of King's Landing is down to twenty-two ships, Your Grace. None of them particularly large. The capitol would be very weakly defended," Lord Velaryon said.

"I am aware of that, my lord. However, I do not anticipate an attack of the ironmen on the capitol. The ironmen must know that the city is nothing but a battlefield, and so there would be nothing to gain for them here."

"Who then will command these fleets, Your Grace?" asked Lord Redwyne.

"In this regard, I expect proposals from you, Lord Redwyne and Lord Velaryon, by tomorrow morning. The fleets should then depart as soon as the captains are decided upon and the ships are manned and loaded with supplies. That will be all."

It did not take long for the room to empty again. The lords Velaryon and Redwyne were already talking about the division of the fleets on their way out, Oberyn muttered something about going to the alleged dancers and the rest slipped out as silently as if they had swallowed their tongues. Only Aegon and Daeron remained behind. They were silent for a while until Daeron spoke up.

"Do you really think we are safe from the ironmen here? Who knows what they're really up to."

"I don't know. But as I said, there's nothing for them here. The ironmen are raiders and pillagers, nothing more. Even if Euron Greyjoy were seriously trying to break away from the Iron Throne and establish his own kingdom, whether in the Iron Islands or the Stepstones, there would be nothing for him to gain here. It would do him no good to get involved in the war between us and Viserys. So why should they ironmen come here?"

"What if he had allied himself with Stannis? Then he might well have something to gain by getting involved here, even if only to weaken us and allow Stannis an easier victory."

"That would be true, but for the life of me I can't imagine that Stannis Baratheon, the purest stubbornness made flesh, would grant independence to the Iron Islands. And that, after all, is what Euron seems to want. Gods, I'm getting a headache from all this crap. I'd rather not have to deal with that right now. But I guess I have no choice," Aegon said with a faint, wry grin.

"For what it's worth, brother, I think your decision is definitely the right one. You're the king, and it's good that that you take the responsibility and want to protect the realm and its people."

"Maybe so."

"Definitely, Aegon. Who knows if that won't get you more knights and lords on your side when they see you not only claiming to be their king, but actually acting like it?"

"You're probably right. Still, this is all coming at the worst possible time. We haven't defeated Viserys and father yet, Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn are probably lurking in Storm's End waiting for an opportunity to stick a knife in our backs, and at this very moment I have to deal with those damned ironmen, too."

"We don't need the ships right now anyway."

"No, but we're losing several thousand men to the fleet that we need here."

"But the ships are already manned."

"With sailors. But there must be soldiers on board if they truly are to protect our seas and coasts. We're losing ten, twelve thousand men to this, maybe more. And even with that, the ships are only weakly manned."

"That may be so, but we have no choice. You can't leave the realm unprotected from the ironmen, and frankly, our superior numbers have done us pretty little good in King's Landing so far. So I don't think losing these soldiers will really hurt us. Our problem is not the numbers, but the tactics that don't work. We will defeat Viserys, even without the men who now have to board the ships."

"From your lips to the ears of the gods." Aegon rubbed his face then and gave an exhausted groan. "I could use some distraction, brother. Feel like sparring now?"

Notes:

So, that was it. The chapter was not too long but hopefully you still liked it. :-) The next chapter is almost done already so it should come this week.

As always, I love reading your comments, so feel free to let me know what you liked or did not like ... or simply say hello :-) See you next time.

Chapter 48: Aegon 8

Notes:

Hi peeps,

the next chapter is here. We see Aegon and some companions taking back the Great Sept, Aegon has a little encounter with a man of the Faith and at the end, he and the others make plans to not lose any more time in King's Landing. :-)

Pain exploded in his shoulder as he blocked the heavy blow of the sword from the man in front of him. The man wore the armor of a Gold Cloak – most parts of it, anyway – but since he was so completely unable to correctly handle his weapon, he obviously wasn't one. What he lacked in skill, however, he made up for in size and brute strength. His massive sword was little more than an iron rod with a handle but still made his shield ring like a bell and quiver like an aspen leaf. The man was at least seven feet tall, as strong as a bear, but thankfully as slow as a snail. Aegon feigned to move to the right, then quickly dodged to the left stroke with his own sword in a wide arc, aiming at the man's right knee. He hit it perfectly between the armor protecting his thigh and his lower leg, cutting it clean off. The man went down, screaming, thudding to the ground like a wet sack, but a quick stab of Aegon's sword to the man's throat finally silenced him for good.

He ran on quickly, jumping to the side once to avoid a fortunately not very well shot arrow, pressing himself close to the wall beside the dark wooden door. Finally, he was save from the arrows shot from the flat roof above him. Gerris Drinkwater and Dickon Tarly were right behind him, pressed themselves against the wall next to him only a moment later. Eight more soldiers followed them, three in red and green of House Tarly, five in yellow and green of House Toland. One of the Toland men was hit in the thigh by an arrow as he ran, but at the last moment managed to drag himself just far enough to get under the overhang to avoid being hit again. A soldier of the Tarlys, a man named Darran Flowers, was already tending to his injured comrade. Aegon looked to the rest of the men, all breathing heavily. They gave him a quick nod, then Aegon took a step to the side in front of the door and gave it a hearty kick.

The wood, old and badly damaged by a fire, gave way like a slice of stale bread under the hoof of a horse. He quickly held his shield in front of him, stopping the arrows from the men who had already been waiting for him at some distance behind the shattered door. He rushed into the room, running and jumping over the overturned benches, his soldiers close behind him. He killed the first man with a thrust of his blade in the throat, and severed the left arm of another with a powerful blow before he had been able to send another arrow on it ways. The archer went down screaming, but was then quickly silenced by Dickon Tarly's sword. Ser Gerris, along with the last Toland man, had killed three more archers, while the two Tarly soldiers had cornered the last three and made short work of them before they had even had a chance to draw their own swords or grab their wooden maces.

Aegon gave quick hand signals to his men. Ser Gerris would storm the rear room with the soldiers, Dickon Tarly and he would run up the stairs that led to the roof. Without a word, they understood what to do. Aegon ran ahead, struggling up the steps despite the burning in his thighs. At the top was another small room with a flat bed, but abandoned. A dozen or so steps up was the last door, leading out to the roof, where the last archers were waiting for them. Dickon was just behind him, taking only slightly longer to climb the stairs. A small window was next to the door, barely larger than the oil lamp dangling from a chain inside of it.

Aegon looked through it, but could make out only shadowy shapes through the poorly cast glass. What he saw, however, told him all he needed to know. Nine men were on the roof, waiting for them. No doubt they had agreed on a signal with their comrades, who were now lying dead on the ground, to know if they had managed to repel the attackers. They had not received that signal, so they were dead and the attackers – Aegon and Dickon – were on their way up to them.

"There's too many of them," Aegon whispered, from below them already hearing the sounds of battle that indicated the end of the last defenders. He had hoped that the roof had been a little narrower so that they could have rushed out and taken on the archers one by one. The roof, however, which unfortunately could not be seen from the ground, had turned out to be quite wide and would not have offered them any cover. They would surely be able to quickly cut down two or three of them, maybe even four, but then they themselves would be pierced by a sword or an arrow or two.

"Let me go first, Your Grace," Dickon whispered back.

Aegon shook his head. With boldness, you could dare everything, but not do everything.

"That's very courageous, Dickon, but it won't do me any good if you get yourself killed."

"So what do we do? Wait for the others?"

Undoubtedly, the better idea would have been to wait for the others and then storm out onto the roof with their combined forces instead of trying anything with just the two of them. But Aegon wanted to end this fight, here and now. And even with all the men now fighting the last defenders on the ground floor, it would have been difficult to clear the roof without losing at least some of the soldiers. Their position, having to rush out individually through a low and narrow door into an open space that offered no protection facing a prepared and waiting group of enemies, was simply too weak.

Aegon looked around for a moment, thinking. The best thing surely would have been if they had archers or crossbowmen shooting at the roof from the ground, distracting or already killing some of their enemies, while Aegon and his men were then rushing out through the door. He couldn't call for reinforcements, though. Whoever would have had to run back, would have had to pass through the hail of arrows from the men on the roof behind the door again. Besides, he could not rely on their enemies being so polite as to wait motionless on the roof until Aegon had more soldiers available to kill them. No doubt the men already expected them to be standing right behind this door.

Then he had an idea. He quickly gave Dickon a few hand signals so as not to reveal his idea to the men behind the door, should they be able to hear him. Dickon got into position, Aegon as well. At his nod, Dickon yanked the door open and jumped backwards against the wall, Aegon likewise, just far enough not to be hit by any of the arrows and crossbow bolts of the men waiting ready to shoot. Before the first enemy could rush forward and attack them, Aegon hurled the oil lamp in his direction out on the roof, which shattered resoundingly on the old wood of the shingles. The oil splashed in all directions and immediately caught fire. At once Dickon slammed the door shut again and locked it with the heavy iron latch. Aegon knew that one of the men had already caught fire. The others had not, but the shingles of the roof were made of wood, old wood, and so they would burn like tinder within moments. So either the men died in the flames or jumped off the roof, breaking at least their legs, maybe their necks. He could already hear the burning man's cries of pain and the panicked shouts of the others.

Aegon hated having to do such a thing, but he had little choice. The battle to get into the city had gone well. They had lost men when storming the city walls, of course, but far fewer than had been expected from an attack without siege engines. The city walls had been only weakly defended and at first they had wondered why, but then it had become clear to them.

They had hoped that by attacking in two places at once – the River Gate and the King's Gate – they would have been able to overrun the city in three or four moves, taking and securing it swiftly. Aegon had intended to have marched up the Hook two or three days after their arrival and to be at the gates of the Red Keep. Four or five days, a week at most, after that, the Red Keep – partially refortified, but overall still heavily damaged and hardly defensible against a massive attack – would have fallen and Viserys and their father would have dangled from the gallows that very evening. After a short break for the men, they would then have left King's Landing again and marched on, hopefully with more fresh soldiers from the lords and knights, who would then have bent the knee to him, to face Stannis and his knights from the Reach, defeat them in a decisive battle and force them to surrender. Had they been particularly quick, they might have even been able to get to Stannis and his army before they left Storm's End, trap them in the fortress, and starve them out to end the war with a siege rather than another battle and more bloodshed. It had been an ambitious plan, a bold plan, but doable.

They had arrived at King's Landing twenty days ago – or was it twenty-one by now? – and had so far taken and secured the south and west of the city, apart from the Great Sept, which they were now fighting over, but almost the entire city wall and all the gates, apart from the Iron Gate to the far east at the foot of the Hill of Rhaenys, leading to the Rosby Road, and the Old Gate to the north, yet had not even come close to the Red Keep.

They had hoped to swarm into the city through the King's Gate and secure the harbor area and fish market through the River Gate, from where they then would have been able to march quickly and directly either along the Hook or the King's Way – preferably both – towards the Red Keep. However, a new wall now cut off the harbor quarter from Aegon's High Hill, too high to climb over easily and at the same time so unstable that it could be brought down at any time by the defenders on the other side. So anyone who tried to get over the wall would either be peppered with arrows by the archers on the roofs behind it or buried under tons of loose rocks. So the wall had to be bypassed, down the Muddy Way and then along the eastern end of the King's Way right through the best fortified and most heavily defended part of the city. And even if this could be done, little progress had been made, for the Hook and the upper end of King's Way no longer existed. At least not as continuous roads.

The defenders had erected a ring of palisades, small walls and watchtowers at short distances, making the already problematic climb up Aegon's High Hill almost impossible for any host less than four or five thousand strong – a force that could hardly be amassed in the street of a city like King's Landing. At least if one wasn't planning on sacrificing most of the men in the attempt. The roads leading up to the Red Keep had become a new fortress in front of the fortress and so far none of his men, just like he himself, had come up with an idea to overcome this obstacle with acceptable losses.

Lord Velaryon had suggested early on to avoid the roads and instead storm up the southern flank of the hill. They had sent out scouts then, but the results had been rather discouraging, to say the least. They had reported countless traps and obstacles just waiting for them on the south side of Aegon's High Hill. Nests for archers and crossbowmen, trip traps that would send many of his men to their certain deaths, mounded rubble that could bury hundreds of men at a time in landslides. To storm the hill could easily cost them ten thousand men, perhaps more if they were unlucky. And after that, they still wouldn't be in the Red Keep, let alone Maegor's Holdfast. They would completely wear out their army to get their hands on Viserys, and then, with a battered army and no reinforcements, they would be sitting ducks for Stannis, who then would only have to come over with fresh, rested men and take what he wanted without much resistance.

Viserys had easily given away the city walls, because he knew that one way or another they would have to come through the middle of the city to reach him. The westernmost parts of the city were hardly changed, many parts still standing as if there was no war at all. Only Visenya's Hill with the Great Sept on it was more heavily defended. Probably because from there one had the best view over the city, could see most of the traps and dead ends and plan the conquest better. Or maybe it was just about the symbolic value of the building. But the closer they got to Red Keep and Aegon's High Hill, the worse it got. Obstacles and ambushes wherever they looked. The following weeks had therefore been anything but successful. After a swift advance in the western part of the city, they had quickly lost their momentum when they had run into the first ambushes. They had had to fight their way forward street by street, house by house, losing considerably more men than in the battle for the city walls. And for every two houses they captured in one place, they were pushed back one in another.

After a particularly unsuccessful day about a week earlier, Lord Tarly had brought up the idea of simply burning the city down piece by piece until they arrived at the Red Keep. Paxter Redwyne had agreed to the idea, saying that whoever was still in the city now was certainly on Viserys' side.

"Mercy," he had said, "is wasted on these traitor."

Aegon, however, had vehemently rejected the idea. For one thing, he didn't want to condemn the townsfolk to death, who were holed up here and perhaps just didn't know where they could flee to, and for another, this city was still his capitol, and after the war, he certainly didn't intend to rule his kingdom from a burned graveyard.

"In paradise it is easy to be a saint, Your Grace," Lord Tarly had said, "but the world is no paradise and people are not saints. Especially not in war. In times of war, things must sometimes be done that would be a hideous abomination in times of peace, in order to win."

For a while, this had confused Aegon. It had reminded him of something his father had once told him when he had been a boy, at a time when his father had still taken the time to talk to him really and not just scolding him for anything. It had been one of the few times his father had talked about the rebellion. Otherwise, he had hardly ever done so.

"Lord Connington could have ended the rebellion in Stoney Sept," he had said. "He had Robert Baratheon trapped there. If he had just burned the damned town to the ground, Robert would have burned with it and the war would have ended. Thousands would not have had to lose their lives after that. But Lord Connington didn't do it. He didn't do it because he didn't want to be a butcher, he wanted to be a hero. But war does not make heroes."

Since then, his father's words circled around in his mind. The idea of being able to end the war quickly was, of course, tempting. The thought of the largest city in the realm in flames, with all the men, women and children in it, though, caused him sleepless nights ever since. Sure, that way the battle for King's Landing would be over within a day. He would prove to the world that he was a king who was willing to do what needed to be done. However, he would also prove something else to the world, namely that Stannis was in the right and House Targaryen should be removed from the throne immediately and forever.

Halfway walking down the steps again, followed by a silent Dickon Tarly, he already heard the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground and the short cries of pain from the men before his waiting soldiers brought them to a quick end. The building and the square in front of it were secured now, even though it didn't feel like a victory at all. This had been the last of the buildings surrounding the Great Sept. The palisades that had blocked their way towards the Sept had already been torn down or set on fire yesterday, the Street of Steel had been secured as well as the streets, alleys and narrow paths around and leading to the Great Sept, cutting the men inside of it off of any possible reinforcements. The Street of the Sisters, leading there from the Guildhall of the Alchemists, of which only a gutted ruin was left anyway, had been the last one.

The Guildhall would not be rebuilt, Aegon had decided after having seen the ruin for the first time. The alchemists, as well as his family's almost manic fixation on raising dragons, had brought nothing good to the realm and its people. He could not say what his descendants would one day do, if they would one day try to awaken dragons again or finally bury this nonsense once and for all, as he hoped they would, but at least he himself would certainly not follow that path.

Now the battle to finally take the Greta Sept was on the horizon, but from what they already knew about it, this battle would neither be too long nor too difficult. They had been carefully watching the Great Sept for some time now and the men inside had not received reinforcements and new supplies for at least ten days, were probably hungry and thirsty, weak in body and morale. Every now and then his scouts had even reported sounds of fighting from inside the Great Sept, without his own men attacking it.

"If they're already fighting each other, the attack is just a formality," Oberyn had said, but had caught a scolding from Ser Duncan Brune for it.

"An attack is never a formality. People will die, Prince Oberyn, people who may not have gotten another chance to make their peace with the gods before they die."

"Well, they hold the Great Sept. If they didn't make peace with the gods in there, I don't know where they could," Oberyn had scoffed.

Aegon had stepped in and put an end to the discussion before Ser Duncan, whose head had already turned fiery red, would have burst. So instead, Aegon had turned the conversation to the impending attack and, after a brief discussion, had decided to begin the rush on the Great Sept before sunrise the next morning. Five streets, the Street of the Sisters and four smaller alleys, led in a star shape towards the Great Sept, crossing the squares and gardens they had fought clear over the past few days. They would rush toward the Great Sept on all five of these streets simultaneously, entering through various doors and portals. Although this meant that they had to divide their forces, it also made it more difficult for the defenders to fight them off, since they could not face a single approaching front but would have to defend themselves against attacks from all sides.

Aegon and his men – Ser Willam Wells, twenty Tarly soldiers, twelve in the colors of House Brune, another twelve men of House Crabb and thirty men from different Houses from Dorne – would take the main entrance, fight their way through the Hall of Lamps, and join forces with the other groups in the Great Sept's nave, where they suspected the main force of their enemies, to quickly finish the fight. In addition to the nave, the central dome with its seven crystal towers, the Great Sept also consisted of smaller annexes, which Aegon knew contained the High Septon's chambers, small rooms for Silent Sisters and lower septons, even smaller rooms for servants and some storage rooms and kitchens. Through these the other groups would have to fight their way. However, they had been keeping a particularly close eye on these annexes over the past few days and it appeared that they were not inhabited at all. The men holding the Great Sept probably believed they could defend it more easily by concentrating their forces and confining themselves to the central dome that had only a small number of entrances, rather than spreading over the smaller buildings with their numerous doors and windows.

A tactical mistake, but not one for which he was not grateful. Small rooms and narrow corridors were easier to defend against a force of superior numbers. Moreover, there were cellars and catacombs under the Great Sept, accessible only from within those annexes, with tombs of some of his ancestors, the scriptorium in which thrice a year the septons had drawn the masterful illustrations for the White Book of the Kingsguard and a treasury for chosen riches of the Faith, to which they would have been able to withdraw in case of need. It was still possible that their enemies would entrench themselves down there once they realized that the Great Sept had fallen, should they be unwilling to accept their defeat, but that would be fine for Aegon as well. In that case they would simply wait and starve them out.

Aegon slept little that night. Half the night he spent thinking about Sansa. How was she doing? Was she safe and sound? Was she thinking of him as well? He did not know, all he could do was to hope for the best. Aegon lay in his bed, flat and hard and cold, and couldn't help but think of Sansa's smile, the sound of her sweet voice, and the way she had caressed his face with her gentle hands after their first night together as husband and wife. It was only a short time before his thoughts began to wander, until in his mind he saw Sansa lying in front of him in their bed, naked and covered in sweat after a long night of lovemaking, her wonderful auburn mane spread out beneath her like the wings of the most beautiful bird. He thought of the shape of her soft breasts, the feeling of her hard nipples between his fingers or lips, the roundness of her beautiful bottom and the sweet taste of the lips between her legs. Quickly, he tore himself away from those thoughts, however, as hard as that was. Sansa was not here and such thoughts would only distract him from what lay ahead of them and what he had to do.

I will have to take the Great Sept with a sword in my hand, not a spear in my pants, he scolded himself.

So instead, he sat up and decided to use the time until the attack more wisely. He had to make better use of his time if he wanted to win this fight, wanted to win this war, wanted to see her again. So for the rest of the night he sat brooding on his bed, massaging his aching shoulder and cooling it with a damp poultice and some pestled herbs for the pain. It had turned completely red and burned terribly whenever he raised his arm higher than his chest.

So I better not let myself get attacked from above, he thought grimly when he got up an hour before sunrise, donned his black armor – by now covered with small scars and scratches everywhere – and joined his men on the Street of the Sisters, along which they would rush to the Great Sept at an agreed signal. They had at first wanted to agree on a horn signal, but had then settled on the beating of a drum. Aegon had ordered three drum beats, but at Ser Duncan's request – and because he had already seen his uncle beginning to smirk during the knight's almost sermonic speech and had wanted to avoid another clash between those two – had agreed that it should be seven drum beats.

"This is a good omen, Your Grace. You shall see," Ser Duncan had exclaimed joyfully.

Aegon had been less convinced, and had, after reluctantly tearing his mind away from thoughts of his wife's naked body, spent at least an hour or two pondering whether he should rescind the order and command only three drumbeats after all. Seven beats took an unnecessarily long time, delayed the attack and gave their enemies too long a warning, should they understand the meaning. In the end, however, he had left it at that. To change anything so close to the attack would only have caused confusion and would undoubtedly have resulted in at least one or two of the groups joining the attack too late, waiting for the remaining four drumbeats. Also, even if he had not agreed with Oberyn that the attack was a mere formality, for all they knew it would not be an uphill battle either. The outcome was already determined, and if the men in the Great Sept were at least a bit wise, they would quickly surrender as soon as they noticed the massive attack from all sides. If not, there would be a slaughter, but just as short and decisive.

The drumbeats came quickly. The sky was just turning a faint purple in the east, but the streets were still as dark as in the deepest night when the seven beats surged in waves through between the houses and along the streets. Immediately, they charged ahead, down the street and toward the Great Sept. Even in the darkness, some of the scorch marks on the great dome were visible, the lack of many of the colorful leaded glasses, and the damages to the brickwork. The Great Sept had been fought over and whoever had tried to protect it against Viserys' men had certainly not made it easy for him. In the distance, Aegon could see one of the other groups, led by Ser Gerris, just running through one of the devastated gardens. He reached the main portal just before his men, waiting only a moment. Then he gave a signal to his men and together they threw themselves against the mighty portal. Whatever it was blocked with didn't offer much resistance and quickly gave way. Four times they threw themselves against the portal, and then it was open.

At once they ran on. They had already reached the middle of the Hall of Lamps when the first enemies appeared in their way. About a dozen in number, most with swords and two with axes in their hands, but without a chance against Aegon and his men. Within a heartbeat they were cut down before one of them had even been able to warn their comrades further back in the sept with a shout or a scream. Aegon ran on, followed by his men. A wide corridor led to another portal that would take them into the nave. Aegon waited a moment outside the closed door until his men had caught up to him, listening into the darkness. Nothing could be heard behind the door.

He waited for a heartbeat, two, three, four. Then finally, in the distance, he heard the sound of doors slamming open, the clang of metal on metal, screams of men, dying or wounded, the sounds of a battle. So the other groups had almost made it into the nave as well now, fighting their way through the annexes.

"Now," he said in a hushed voice, grabbing the handles of the door and yanking it open. The massive portal, its hinges well forged and just as well oiled, swung open to both sides in absolute silence. With Ser Willam next to him, he charged forward. At least five or six dozen men had gathered in the middle of the nave, waiting for an attack from the other direction with their backs turned to them. Some wore only rags, others ill-fitting suits of armor from the Gold Cloaks, still others parts of the red armor of the Flameguard. Aegon ran at them, decapitating the first with a powerful blow and plunging his sword into the back of the next before the others had even realized what was going on. From the Father's Door and the Mother's Door the groups led by his uncle Oberyn and Dickon Tarly now rushed into the great hall as well, wild battle cries on their lips, immediately beginning to cut down their completely surprised enemies. Only a moment later, Ser Gerris' group came storming up the Stranger's Steps, shortly followed by Ser Duncan and his men, storming in through the Maiden's Door.

The fight was bloody and brutal, but there was no doubt about its outcome. Almost always two or even three of his men were fighting against one, cutting off heads or limbs or stabbing the men with swords or spears, making short work of their enemies. Aegon had given the order to leave alive anyone who surrendered, but the slaughter was so fast that the men did not even get the chance to surrender. In the midst of the carnage, he saw the blue armor of Lady Brienne shining in the first, dim light that fell through the brightly colored windows, saw her just cutting down a big guy with a blond ruffled beard with a skillful swipe of her sword. Aegon did not know to which group she had even belonged, but was nevertheless glad to see her here.

Aegon himself had just killed a short, scrawny man with the face of a rat and a skewed sword of bad steel in his hand, when suddenly, one of the Brune men next to him was hit in the throat by a crossbow bolt. Blood shot from the wound, splashing Aegon in the face. Hectically, he looked around and spotted another group of about twenty men, ten of them armed with crossbows, the rest with clumsy maces and nail pierced flails, who had taken up a position between the altars of the Warrior and the Crone. Where they had come from so suddenly, he did not know. Overturned benches offered them feeble protection.

"Look out," he shouted to warn his men of the attackers. Seven more had been hit by now, three dead, one hit in the stomach and now lying on the ground screaming in pain, the rest with heavily bleeding wounds on arms and legs. Those who were no longer engaged in a fight turned around, looking for cover. Before the next crossbow bolt could be shot at any of them, Aegon suddenly heard loud yelling and screaming. With a crash, the Warrior's Door behind the men flew open and another group rushed in, men and women, in an even more miserable state. With wooden clubs, hammers, kitchen knives, iron pans, and even candleholders of solid gold, they thrashed at the men with such fury and force that the fight was over within a few heartbeats. After only a moment, their enemies lay on the ground, arms and legs wildly twisted and heads smashed into little more than a bloody mass.

When it was all over, the two groups stood facing each other in silence for a moment, unsure who the other was and what was to be done now. Aegon took off his helmet and immediately the eyes of the men and women grew wide. A man pushed his way through the crowd of dingy, blood-covered people, dressed in the dirty garb of a septon, with bare feet and the broken remnant of the High Seton's crystal crown on his unwashed head. He walked up to Aegon, looked at him with widened eyes, and then stopped in front of him at a respectful distance. He had no weapon in his hands, Aegon noticed.

"Is that you, Prince Aegon?"

"King Aegon," Oberyn, Lady Brienne and Ser Duncan corrected him from the side in chorus.

"I am," Aegon said. "And who are you?"

"I used to be known as Septon Grasson, Your Grace, but now I am only known as the High Septon, Father and Shepherd of the Faithful."

"The Most Devout have elected you as the new High Septon?" Aegon asked, his voice sounding much more unbelieving than he had intended.

"The Most Devout no longer exist, as I must inform you to my deep dismay. Your uncle had them brought to the Red Keep weeks ago. He had them all hanged because they refused to submit to his false god."

"So you have declared yourself High Septon."

"Only reluctantly, Your Grace. I care nothing for power, but for the salvation of every true believer I do care. The herd of the faithful simply cannot be without a shepherd. Therefore, though unwillingly, I have accepted my fate."

Aegon decided not to pursue the subject any further for the moment. This septon could walk around with the broken crystal crown and call himself High Septon all he wanted. Once this war was over – one way or another – and the order would be restored in the realm, the cards would be reshuffled anyway. Highly respected septons from all over the realm, though probably mostly from Oldtown, would arrive to become the new Most Devout and Aegon had his doubts that they would elect this man of all people as the new head of the Faith. The tattoos on his arms, visible now and then through the holes in his filthy robe, made Aegon doubt anyway that the man was even a septon in the first place. And if he indeed was one, he certainly had an anything but holy past. The man was not particularly tall, seemed completely hairless, thin as a spear from hunger and starvation, but with the broad shoulders of a man used to hard labor. Perhaps of a man who was used to handling weapons? He had a scar on his cheek and one on his neck, both of which looked as if they have come from a jagged knife, and he was missing at least half of his teeth. Things he had seen often enough in the past with sailors. And pirates.

"So what are you doing here?" he asked then.

"Your uncle had begun to have all the septs in the city torn or burned down. We holed up here to prevent that fate from befalling this most sacred building as well."

"So it was you when we heard sounds of fighting from within?"

"Yes, indeed, Your Grace. For weeks we have tried to drive the heretics out of the Great Sept, but only now have we succeeded."

With a little help from my men and me, Aegon thought, but said nothing. Again they looked at each other for a while, but when this self-proclaimed High Septon said and did nothing, Aegon again took the word.

"Well, it's good to know that the Great Sept is finally back in the hands of the faithful. I don't mean to seem pushy, but now would be the time for you and your people to kneel before me."

The man looked at him with a smile on his face that seemed almost a little pitiful, but made no move to drop to one knee.

"I'm afraid we cannot do that."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some of the soldiers immediately tense up again, readying their shields and weapons.

"And why not, if you don't mind me asking?" Aegon said quickly, not wanting this to immediately turn into a bloodbath.

"We are devout followers of the Seven, Your Grace. True believers. I address you by that title because it is your due, but neither I nor any of the faithful gathered behind me will bend their knee to a king who worships a false god."

"I do not worship a false god," Aegon said.

"Your family has turned away from the Seven. Everyone knows that."

"My father and uncle have turned away from the Seven in their madness, but I have not, nor has the rest of my family. I was anointed and crowned king by a septon in the sight of the Seven, I took a maiden to wife in the sight of the Seven, and before I go into battle I pray for protection and strength and wisdom to the Seven."

The last part wasn't exactly true. It had been quite a while since he had last prayed seriously, but Aegon thought he didn't have to rub that in the man's face. The High Septon's smile, which had previously been pitying, now turned into an honest laugh. He quickly glanced at Aegon's men, who nodded in affirmation.

"Praise be to the Seven. All is not lost then," he exclaimed, hands raised to heaven as if speaking to the Seven directly. The doubtful, stern faces of the believers behind him now brightened noticeably as well. "Then let us pray together, Your Grace, for this is truly a day to remember."

If there was one thing he didn't feel like doing at the moment, it was praying. However, to bring the situation here to a good end, he agreed and, kneeling beside the self-proclaimed High Septon, prayed first to the Father for protection, then to the Smith for strength, and finally to the Maid to keep their loved ones save. The High Septon had initially wanted to pray before each of the seven altars, but Ser Duncan's argument that there was still plenty of blood on the ground and numerous corpses lying around in front of the other altars, absolutely unworthy of a prayer to the gods, fortunately discouraged him from this idea.

"The dead must first be buried and this sacred hall cleansed of the blood by some good the septons and septas before we can truly pray here again," the High Septon found to Aegon's relief.

So after the three prayers, both stood in the center of the dome again, surrounded by mostly Aegon's men. Again the man looked at Aegon, but now with completely different eyes, it seemed, and sank to one knee. The believers, still waiting close to the Warrior's Door as if they feared they would have to flee at any moment, did the same.

"King Aegon, Sixth of His Name, long may he reign," he said, his face turned to the ground.

"Long may he reign," the faithful repeated, also addressing the marble below them.

Shortly thereafter, the High Septon – Aegon still didn't believe even for a heartbeat that he would remain this for long, but decided for the moment to just go with it – led them all through the catacombs of the Great Sept. In addition to the nearly two dozen men and women who had rushed in and bludgeoned their enemies to a pulp and beaten them to death, there were still way over a hundred men, women and children in the catacombs. They were all naked or wrapped in scanty rags, dirty from head to toe and as haggard as if they hadn't eaten in weeks. That was probably even true. In one corner he spotted a pile of at least thirty or more corpses, naked and even thinner than the men and women around him, no doubt starved to death.

"What about the dead?"

"Since we were locked in here," the High Septon explained, "we couldn't bury them properly. So we kept their bodies here, to be released into the hands of the gods once this nightmare is over."

"You could have burned them," Lady Brienne said from behind. "It would have protected you from some diseases."

"No way, my lady," the High Septon said indignantly. "The dead were good, devout people, deserving of a godly burial. Should we have desecrated their bodies by burning them like garbage just so we wouldn't have to worry about them?"

"Well, you are no longer locked in here," Aegon quickly said, ignoring the fact that this High Septon seemed totally unaware of the fact that the royal family, following their Valyrian tradition, also burned all their dead instead of burying them in the ground where bugs and worms could feast on them. "So you can bury the dead now if you wish. I will provide you with some men who will help you dig the graves."

"We are very grateful for that, Your Grace. Thank you."

Aegon doubted that this would do them much good, however. He had already given orders to have food brought in from his army's supplies to save these people from starvation. However, many of them seemed so weak and sick that any help could only come too late. Many of the men and women who lay motionless and moaning in the corners and on the cold floors, dead-eyed and as feeble as dry grass, had sullied themselves, too weak to even rise from their own filth, their stools of deep brown and red.

The bloody flux, Aegon thought.

The bloody flux could be treated, Aegon knew, if one had the time and the necessary ingredients for the teas and ointments. For these people here, however, there was not much that could be done anymore. Neither did the maesters in his host have enough of the right materials at their disposal, nor enough time. He did not even want to think about how little time these people had left.

Most of them won't even make it out of this damn cellar. They'll shit themselves to death before sundown, he thought bitterly.

It was good to be out of the Great Sept again shortly thereafter and breathe fresh air. The High Septon and a handful of his men had accompanied Aegon and his men outside. Aegon stood in silence for a moment, looking at the large statue of Baelor the Blessed, illuminated by the orange and red light of the early sun. He had never held that one of his ancestors in particularly high regard, had always thought of him as a confused man whose madness had thankfully and by great good fortune simply been steered in a direction where he had not been able to cause too much mischief.

Baelor's sisters would probably disagree with me now, Aegon thought and had to smile.

"The sight of such a great king has brought joy to many souls," the High Septon then said from his side, noticing but misunderstanding Aegon's smile. "It is delightful to see that this is the case with you as well, Your Grace." Aegon decided not to correct the man. "Your Grace… May I assume that you will support my claim to continue to be High Septon once new Most Devout are found?"

I thought you don't care about power?

"I am pleased that a man as good as you has taken on the burden of leading the faithful through these difficult times. However, what the Most Devout will decide once the war is over, I have no say in that. I have always felt that the Crown has traditionally had far too much influence over the internal doings of the Faith."

The last sentence brought a satisfied smile back to the man's face that the barely concealed refusal had robbed him of earlier. While Aegon by no means felt that the Crown had exerted too much influence on the Faith in the past – the election of a High Septon was always more a political matter than anything else, after all, and politics belonged in the hands of the king – he had already sensed that this man would like the prospect of allowing a stronger, more independent Faith after the war. A Faith he apparently really hoped to lead.

"Then may I ask you how you intend to deal with the Warrior's Sons?"

"The Warrior's Sons?" asked Aegon, confused. He knew the order by name, of course, but he also knew that it had been disbanded by the High Septon at the insistence of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator more than two hundred and fifty years ago.

"Yes, some of the faithful men who so valiantly defended the Great Sept in the name of the true faith asked me some time ago for permission to revive the Noble and Puissant Order of the Warrior's Sons. We needed protection, so I agreed. And now, of course, these brave and faithful men would like your word that their order will be allowed to continue to exist after the war."

"Then why didn't these men fight with us to free the Great Sept?"

"Oh, but they did. They were the brave men who rushed to your aid."

That ragtag, club and candleholder wielding mob? If anything, they are more like the new Poor Fellows.

Aegon knew that the Warrior's Sons had been made up of particularly devout knights and sons of lesser as well as higher lords – sometimes even of sons of kings in the time before Aegon's Conquest – and these men, before the war certainly no more than peasants, were far from being any of those things. For a moment, Aegon pondered whether he should just agree to this. This half-starved bunch, even if he decided after the war that he would not want to allow this order to exist any further – and he had absolutely no intention to do so – would not be able to cause him any problems. On the other hand, there was no telling how quickly the news of the reestablishment of this order would spread through the realm, how quickly it would find new followers who would then probably no longer be wearing only rags, with bare feet and wielding clubs and candle holders, but would be clad in steel armor, on horseback and wielding true swords. He wanted to refuse then, but if there was anything he didn't have any use for at that moment, it was men and women who might stab him in the back at the crucial moment because they believed Aegon would betray either his word or their faith. Or both. With Viserys' men, he already had enough enemies in this city and he certainly did not need new ones.

"You have put me in a difficult position with this, Your High Holiness," Aegon then said trying to sound as diplomatic as possible. "I never agreed to the reestablishment of this order, but I of course see the good you and your followers have done. So I can hardly make a just and wise decision here and now. I hope you understand that."

The best way to keep your word was not to give it in the first place, Aegon remembered his grandmother saying. As always, his grandmother was right.

"Of course, Your Grace," the man said, but it was clear that he thought the opposite.

"What I can tell you, however, is that you are important. All of you. Therefore, I ask you to fight by my side against my enemies, our enemies, the enemies of the one true faith, whenever and wherever you can, to restore peace and unity first in King's Landing, then in the entire realm. You and the godly men behind you must stay alive and stand by my side, Your High Holiness. If one of us falls, we all fall."

This was nonsense, of course, but it certainly couldn't hurt to build up a little pressure to keep this tomfool and his so-called Warrior's Sons from doing something stupid. The High Septon, however, seemed to be truly taken in by his words, grinned broadly all over his face like an idiot and bowed deeply to Aegon.

At least that.

About an hour and two large bowls of oatmeal later, they were back in their meeting room. The High Septon had asked permission to ring the bells of the Great Sept to let the good people of the city know that the center of the one true faith was finally back in the hands of a true and godly king. Aegon had agreed and so loud bell ringing had accompanied them on their way back to their meeting room. He had had to admit that it felt good to be announced like that. They had chosen a tavern in the northwestern part of the city, the Flouncing Foal, which had already been secured for some time now, as their meeting place instead of the command tent or the changing taverns they had used earlier. The rooms were large and clean enough, there were tables and chairs as well, and in the cellar they had even found some small barrels of cheap wine behind some crates with old clothes and broken dishes. The wine tasted awful, sour on the tongue and scratchy in the throat, which Oberyn, however, seemed to find surprisingly pleasing.

No wonder, when he is usually only choking down Dornish Red.

There were even a few rooms with soft beds under the roof of the flat building as well, but Aegon would rather not sleep in them. The dirtiness and suspicious width of the beds, unusual for the chambers of servants or tavern wenches, had been a clear sign of what had regularly been going on in those beds for good coin before the war.

Oberyn and Daeron were there, seated next to Aegon in some of the chairs, while Lord Tarly stood beside the card table, listening with a satisfied expression to his son's account of the battle for the Great Sept. The Lords Jordayne, Vaith, Uller, Crabb and Allyrion as well as the Sers Duncan Brune, Roger Hogg representing his liege, the infant lady Ermesande Hayford, and Symon Santagar, were also listening, but with distinctly more indifferent faces. Gerris Drinkwater had disappeared somewhere behind the counter, once again searching the cabinets and drawers for something drinkable other than the ghastly wine Oberyn was enjoying so much. Lady Brienne was just coming in through the front door, greeting all the men with a short nod and Aegon with a bow, when Ser Willam Wells came in as well, fastening the laces of his trousers as he walked. Apparently he had just come from the privy.

So this is my court, Aegon thought amused, as he rocked back and forth in his chair. The king's throne is a wooden chair in a tavern while the court is rummaging in the drawers for cheap wine. Why not? A chair in a tavern is the throne of the common man, after all. And without the Iron Throne and the rest of the realm to call me king, I am hardly more than a common man.

"We finally have the Great Sept in our hands, so Visenya's Hill and the entire southwest of the city are secured at last. What else is there to report?" Aegon then asked after Dickon had finished his telling.

"The Old Gate we will take today," Daeron said. Daeron had not participated in the attack on the Great Sept, as he would lead the attack on the Old Gate later in the day. "After that, all we need is the Iron Gate and we will have the entire city wall and all the gates in our hands."

That was good. They needed control of the gates if they really wanted to control the city. Those who did not control who entered or left a city could not claim to actually control it, no matter how many houses and streets they had already taken. Not that they expected Viserys and their father to flee or to still get support from somewhere, but it couldn't hurt to expect anything.

"Do you need more men for that?"

"No, two thousand is enough. We'll attack simultaneously from inside and outside the city and from both sides over the wall we already control. More men would just stand on each other's feet."

Aegon nodded, though he would still have preferred had Daeron taken more men with him, if only to make it easier to keep his brother out of the wildest thick of the fighting. He accepted it though. First of all, he knew that his brother was correct about too many men standing each other on the feet – the streets and houses around the Old Gate were mostly still intact and offered way too little room for a larger host – and second of all, the last thing he wanted was to make Daeron feel like he didn't trust him or his abilities. He did, so there was no point in arguing.

"We have made progress in the city itself as well. The north is also ours all the way over to Street of Seeds and the neighboring whorehouses. We have come hardly any closer to the Red Keep though," Ser Symon said.

"That will change soon," Daeron said. "Today we take the Old Gate, tomorrow the Iron Gate. Once we have all the gates under control, we can increase the pressure on the northern part of the city from multiple sides. The Dragon Pit should then be ours two, maybe three days later."

"Then let's hope nothing goes wrong. Your uncle has really done a great job of preparing the city for the attack. I'll give him that."

"Viserys? Hardly," Aegon said, unable to stifle a short laugh.

"What do you mean, Your Grace?"

"Simply put, he's an idiot. He knows about as much about war and fighting as I know about forging Valyrian steel. I take it you have never met my uncle, ser. Otherwise, you'd know that he couldn't tell an archer from a lancer, even if the man stuck that lance up his ass."

Such a choice of words was unbecoming of a king, he knew. When it came to Viserys, however, he was losing his patience more and more. Fortunately, none of the men seemed to take offense, either grinning to themselves or not reacting at all. The city's defenses were indeed excellent, as he reluctantly had to acknowledge. In any other situation, he would have congratulated Viserys on it, even if he knew that nothing of this was really his uncle's doing. In this case, however, it only strengthened Aegon's burning desire to finally break Viserys' scrawny neck.

"Maybe I should have just marched past King's Landing after all and taken care of Stannis first," Aegon said, groaning and sinking his face in his hands. "After that, we could have taken all the time in the world with King's Landing and my damn uncle."

Time was indeed running out. They'd been here far too long already, and even though Stannis hadn't seemed to make any move in the south so far, it was only a matter of time. It was already unusual how long it took him to show up here.

He probably waits until Viserys and I have torn each other apart and then just picks up the scraps like a vulture. Or his reinforcements from the Reach arrive much later than he had hoped.

Until some days after their first attack on King's Landing, they had still received word that Lord Franklyn Fowler had been very successful in causing trouble in the Reach with his Dornish host, even if he had not won any major victories. However, they had not received any news for a while now, which was never a good sign. Chances were that his host had either been completely crushed and the man captured or killed or that the host had at least been so severely weakened that he had had to retreat to Dornish ground, giving the rebelling Reacher lords the chance to push them back further along the Prince's Pass, blocking it from the north with a small host, and to then march out of the Reach themselves with all their remaining men.

They had sent scouts south to be warned of the approach of Stannis' army more than a week ago already, because they expected an attack to happen practically every day by now. Since they had not been able to march on as quickly as they had planned and hoped, they had now instead begun to rebuild the outward defenses of the city to withstand a siege if necessary while at the same time fighting their way through the inside. However, as long as the Red Keep was not under their control, even the best city walls would not help them much. Any city wall, especially one as long and difficult to protect as that of King's Landing, could only hold off an enemy for so long, until either the enemy was routed by a sally, until reinforcements arrived, routing or defeating the enemy, or until the defenders were forced to give up the city and retreat into the castle. This last option, however, was still not available to them and reinforcements were nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, their scouts had so far reported no sign of a hostile army coming the Stormlands.

Still, it was only a matter of time, and Aegon was growing more restless with each passing day. They had to finally take the damned Red Keep in order to be able to leave King's Landing and face Stannis. Every day that passed only made their situation more dangerous.

"I say Prince Viserys was and is a danger to you, Your Grace," Lord Tarly finally said, snapping Aegon out of his thoughts. "Through his men and his claim to the throne, he is a danger, however few men he may have left and however false and weak his claim may be. Had you left him unblooded, he would only have grown stronger while your own forces would have diminished in battle. Stannis would hardly have been defeated in a day, and by the time you would have been done with him, your uncle might have been as strong as you... or stronger. So attacking Stannis first and then take care of Prince Viserys would not have been any better, Your Grace. No need to dwell on the past. The attack on King's Landing was the right thing to do, and I for one would advise you to do the same thing again any time."

The other lords and knights agreed, some just by nodding, others by raising their cups.

"I thank you, my lord. I am glad and grateful that you see it that way. Nevertheless, something must be done. We must find a way to end this mess here, to finally deliver a decisive blow to Viserys. You said it yourself, Lord Tarly, the longer we take for one enemy, the stronger the other will become and the harder it will be to defeat him afterwards. So, I'm open to suggestions."

"I'm glad you asked, nephew," Oberyn said as briskly as if he had only been waiting for this. "I see it the same way. At the rate we're moving through the city now, our enemies are more likely to die of old age than in battle. What it needs now is something surprising, something unexpected, a bang so loud that even the wildlings beyond the Wall will hear it."

"We know that," Lord Tarly barked from the side. "If you have such an idea, out with it, but stop blathering like an old fishwife."

For a brief moment Oberyn looked miffed like a petulant child, but thankfully continued to speak anyway.

"It's obvious, actually."

"Apparently not obvious enough, considering how long we've already been here," Aegon said. "So what's this idea of yours, uncle?"

"Aegon's High Hill."

"Excuse me?"

"Aegon's High Hill. We'll refrain from fighting our way through the entire city. Instead we attack Aegon's High Hill directly."

"We have already thought about that, haven't we. The defenses on the northern and the western flanks are untouched and too strong and the way up the southern flank is impossible. Nests for archers, crossbowmen, trip hazards, landslides... That would cost us half of our soldiers to even reach the Red Keep, not to mention take it."

"Exactly, dear nephew. That's why I'm talking about the eastern flank."

The eyes of everyone present widened, Aegon's eyebrows shot up in utter disbelief. The eastern flank of Aegon's High Hill, immediately bordering the sea below, was indeed unfortified apart from the Red Keep's out wall with its two, normally weakly manned towers. There was a simple reason for this, however, and that was that the cliffs there were so steep and rugged that they could not be climbed.

"Now don't look like that," Oberyn said after a moment, apparently enjoying the startled faces around him. "The plan is good."

"It's not a plan, it's madness," said Ser Roger. "The cliff cannot be climbed."

"Just because no one has ever tried it doesn't mean it's impossible. Besides, you don't have to climb the entire cliff at all, just half of it. There are caves, natural entrances there that lead to the catacombs and tunnels under the Red Keep, aren't there?" he asked, looking at Aegon and Daeron.

"Yes, there are. In the past young dragons sometimes nested in these caves and some do indeed lead to the catacombs under the Red Keep," Aegon said. "But even halfway up is impossible to get to without getting yourself killed."

"Even if someone could miraculously do it," Daeron added, "we don't know if the tunnels are even there anymore. After the explosion that happened in the Red Keep, I have my doubts about that."

"And how many men do you intend to send up there anyway? Enough must arrive at the top to make an attack possible in the first place. Five hundred, a thousand, five thousand? Of which at best only one in a hundred would even make it," Lord Tarly said.

"I will go alone," Oberyn then said. "I'll go up alone, and when I make it, I'll throw down ropes so more men can follow me."

"This is crazy," Lord Tarly said.

"If anything, this is bold," Oberyn said.

"I appreciate your effort, uncle, but Lord Tarly is right. Climbing up the eastern flank of Aegon's High Hill would already be nearly impossible if you were an experienced climber, but as far as I know you're not even that. You can't climb up the eastern flank. That's suicide, and if you fall to your death there, it won't do us any good. That's crazy."

"It's not crazy, just... daring. Let's just call it a grand adventure."

"Men die on grand adventures," Ser Gerris said from behind the counter, now holding and drinking from a tankard, though Aegon had no idea what might be in it.

"I'm sorry, uncle, but I can't allow that. I'm sure Uncle Doran would quickly forgive me if I told him about your heroic but downright insanely stupid death, but mother certainly wouldn't and I absolutely don't want to incur that wrath upon myself," Aegon said in a tone that he hoped would end the discussion without sounding too harsh.

"I think the best course of action would be to do a number of focused, coordinated attacks," Dickon said.

"What are you suggesting?" Lord Tarly asked his son, though Aegon guessed from the proud look on his face that the old man already knew very well what his son was getting at.

"Right now, we're fighting our way across the city on a broad front. That was a good plan as long as we didn't know how the city was defended. But now we know better. We're hitting Viserys in the face with a flat hand, but if we really want to defeat him, we have to hit him in the chest like the tip of lance."

"And how are we supposed to do that?" Ser Gerris asked.

"By concentrating our forces in a few, selected places and launching attacks so fast and fierce that the defenses at those places must immediately collapse. Once we break through in one or more of those places, we advance so quickly with a large force that it becomes impossible for Viserys' men to stop us afterwards."

They all pondered Dickon's words for a moment. With each heartbeat, the serious faces became more cheerful, some heads beginning to nod in agreement. Only Oberyn seemed reluctant, but he suspected that this was less because he didn't like the plan but rather because his own idea had been so flatly rejected. Aegon looked over at his brother, who – like he himself – seemed most pleased with the idea his good-brother had proposed, nodding in agreement.

"Well, that sounds like a good plan," Aegon said with a smile. Immediately Dickon's chest swelled with pride and a slight but satisfied smile spread across his face as well. "Then we must now consider exactly where to begin these attacks. They must be places where we can gather at least a few thousand men each without attracting the attention of Viserys' men too soon. For the first time, I'm actually grateful that Viserys has had so many buildings torn down. Otherwise, we would never have enough space for something like this. Moreover, it should be possible to quickly reach Aegon's High Hill from there. A breakthrough won't do us much good if our forces then get lost in hundreds of narrow streets and alleys."

Aegon stood up and walked over to the large table, on which various maps of King's Landing were spread out. All were marked crisscross with black, green, blue, and red lines and symbols wherever they now deviated from reality due to Viserys' doing. The maps were barely readable anymore and looked more as if a child had been messing about with them. A particularly stupid child. He looked at the map on which the current front line was marked and immediately a few places caught his eye that seemed suitable. Preparing for a series of coordinated attacks as massive as he had in mind would require at least one or two days of preparation, but then they would finally have a real chance to advance all the way up to Red Keep and deliver the death blow to Viserys and their father.

"This might be a good place," he said, pointing to a large square that was now where parts of the Valyrian Quarter had been just some months ago. "If we rally our men there before sunrise, coming from here, here and along this road, Viserys' men should not be able to spot us until it's already too late. We could attack here and here, push through the defenses, then rally behind the lines here and fight our way up the King's Way in one swift movement. No matter how the road is defended now, if we can break through quickly with three or four thousand men, we should be able to easily overrun the defenses at the foot of Aegon's High Hill."

"Here wouldn't be bad either," Lord Tarly said, placing his finger on one of the ruined markets behind Fishmonger's Square. "This part of that damned new wall has to go, but that should not be a problem. We fake a major attack right here," he said, pointing to a spot further north, "then the idiots on the other side will let the wall collapse all by themselves. That almost happened to them a couple of times in the past already. Here, here and here I would suggest a few hundred men on horseback. One of these spots should already be enough, though. Once the wall is down, we can quickly advance along Coppersmith's Wynd and-"

"Excuse me, Your Grace, my lords," they suddenly heard a voice. Aegon turned his head and saw a soldier standing in the door, his head pulled between his shoulders as if he feared being whipped for his intrusion.

"What is it?"

"The scouts overseeing the northern Kingsroad are back, Your Grace. Two armies are approaching."

Immediately all heads wheeled around, Daeron and Oberyn now jumping up from their chairs as well.

"Two armies?" Aegon asked.

"Yes, Your Grace. Two armies, marching next to each other."

"Under what banners? From the Vale of Arryn?"

"No, Your Grace. One is marching under the banners of the houses Targaryen and Darry, the other one under the direwolf of House Stark."

Notes:

So, that was it. As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think. :-)

See you next time.

Chapter 49: Sansa 7

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. We will follow Sansa on the road to King's Landing with Robb and their mother in this, so here you can see how the state of affairs is. Have fun. :-)

They had been sitting together in the carriage for nearly a week now, talking little and spending their time instead on needlework. The Kingsroad south of the Neck was wide and well maintained, but due to the bad weather of the last days and weeks, it was nevertheless muddy and the puddles in it deep. Their carriage swayed incessantly from side to side, back and forth, so that even her usually perfect stitches were off more often than not.

Whatever this ends up being, it won't look like a dragon. There's no way I'll be able to show that to Aegon when it's done, Sansa thought, amused.

In the beginning, after their departure from Darry, she and her lady mother had spoken more, but by now she was content to smile dreamily all the time and stare at Sansa's belly whenever she thought Sansa didn't notice. Her lady mother had not looked well at all when she had arrived at Robb's camp. She had been pale, had obviously eaten too little and slept even less. Two nights in a proper bed, however, had quickly cured her of that. After Ser Arthur had ridden the short distance to Castle Darry to announce the new queen's arrival, she had been received by Lord Darry so kindly and attentively that it had almost been effusive. At her request, Lord Darry had allowed her lady mother to come to the castle, had offered her bread and salt, and had then let her sleep in a proper bed inside Plowman's Keep for the two nights until they had marched off south. However, he had refused to extend the same kindness to Robb and his lords. To welcome the queen under his roof had been an honor, as he had said. To welcome the mother of the new queen had still been a pleasure, but Robb and his lords were nothing more than traitors in his eyes, which he had in no case wanted to tolerate under his roof, at his table and in his beds.

She had not wanted to order Lord Darry to let Robb in and had therefore accepted his refusal. She had already not ordered her lady mother to be granted the guest right, but had merely asked the old lord for it, as sweet and as polite as possible. Lord Darry had only smiled warmly at her then and said that he could hardly refuse anything to such a beautiful young lady, but certainly nothing to his queen.

"You obviously know very well how to get what you want, Your Grace. I can see you will become a great queen," the old man had said with a wink.

A hole in the road caused her next needle prick to miss as well. By now, the proud red dragon had turned into a very strangely twisted looking worm, a snake at best. With each passing moment, she was losing more and more of her pleasure in her needlework. For a moment she considered grabbing one of the books Lord Darry had provided her with for the trip. Most were books about the history of the Riverlands, about House Darry itself, or the life stories of the greatest Targaryen kings. On the third day of their journey, she had also found a collection of children's stories in the small box of books that sat on the floor between her and her lady mother in the carriage. She had taken it out and leafed through it, roughly skimming some of the stories she had loved so much as a child.

"Are you already picking out the stories you want me to read to my grandchild?" her lady mother had asked. Sansa had only smiled, but quickly put the book away afterwards.

Aside from the fact that she could hardly imagine her lady mother staying at King's Landing with her and her child for a long time, she had quickly grown tired of talking to her about her unborn child. Something that she could not have imagined even in her dreams just a few days ago. However, it was still so early that there wasn't much to say about her child at all anyway, and the many hints and advice regarding the upbringing from her lady mother, as welcome as they had been at first, had after a few hours become more and more like admonitions, which Sansa had taken less pleasure in.

During their journey, her lady mother had instead let her tell the story of what had happened to her in King's Landing in great detail, after Sansa had only given a very abbreviated account of the story in front of Robb and his lords. She had told her how hard it had been for all of them after Aegon and Daeron had left the city to hunt for the mysterious Smiling Knight. She had told her how Viserys had threatened her, torn up her dress, humiliated her, and had had her beaten, and that it had been her friendship with Rhaenys and the kindness of Rhaella that had saved her from a worse fate. This alone had brought tears to her lady mother's eyes. She herself had had tears welling up in her eyes, and it had been difficult for her to speak further when she had begun to tell of how she had been locked up during the riots at King's Landing, how she had lain awake every night hearing the screams of people fighting and dying, and fearing all the while that at any moment someone might come into her chambers to seize her… or worse. When she had finally come to how she had watched Rhaegar and Viserys try to burn her lord father, Rhaenys, Rhaella, and Ser Jaime alive, her voice had finally failed her. She had taken a sip of water and breathed deeply a few times before continuing to speak. Afterwards, she had told her of how Boros Blount had caught her alone in an alley after their escape from the Red Keep and had nearly raped her, had Aegon not come to her rescue. At this point her mother had burst entirely into tears and sobs, had scarcely been able to utter a word, but only to kiss her cheeks and her brow again and again and press her to her chest.

"My girl, oh my poor girl," she had murmured to herself, crying and sobbing for nearly an hour, until she had calmed down enough for Sansa to continue.

She had then told her of how Aegon had taken crossbow bolts to the chest to protect her life, nearly sacrificing his own. She had told of their journey to Dorne, their stay on Tarth and in Wyl, and finally of Aegon's coronation and their simple yet wonderful marriage in the Dornish mountains. At this point, as she had mostly talked about her dress and the feast, the ceremony in front of the tree and the dancing and the music, her mother's expression had finally become more cheerful again, though still saddened at not having been present at her wedding.

Although her lady mother had been smiling all over her face again after she had told her how wonderful the wedding and how happy her lord father had been for her, Sansa herself was still somewhat heavy on the heart. She had not yet had the heart to tell her lady mother or Robb that her lord father had lost a foot. Robb had been anything but amenable before their departure when she had tried to talk to him again and convince him to bend the knee to Aegon. Telling him that it was not Aegon's, Daeron's, Rhaenys' or Rhaella's, but Viserys' and Rhaegar's fault that their father was not now crippled – even if not dead – would hardly have helped her in the matter.

Instead, she had rather told her lady mother – and Robb, as far as he had wanted to listen to her – about Arya, how well she had been doing since they had arrived in Dorne, even if she had of course tried to minimize the extent of her anything but ladylike behavior. Above all, the fact that Arya no longer just occasionally watched the sparring of squires and knights – something that had often been too much for her mother at home in Winterfell already – but now took part in it herself every single day, she had better not told her. She would leave that responsibility to Arya herself or to their lord father, Sansa had decided. She did, however, tell as fully as she could, without revealing too much of Arya's activities, of her very close, but of course honorable relationship with Prince Quentyn.

"I always knew my girls were destined for greatness. My oldest is married to a king and my youngest is going to have a prince," her lady mother had raved.

After that, she had spent the rest of the day already planning the wedding, considering if Prince Doran had to make the offer of betrothal or if House Stark could take the initiative in the matter, and if such a marriage would necessarily have to take place in Dorne or if it wasn't also possible in Winterfell.

"Why not both?" Sansa had asked. "A wedding in Sunspear in the face of the Seven, and one in Godswood in Winterfell in front of the Weirwood Tree. I'm sure father would be delighted with that as well."

"That's an absolutely lovely idea, Sansa," her mother had beamed. When she had started talking about whom to invite, who would be given a place of honor at the feast and who would have to sit on the lower ranks, Sansa had stopped listening to her.

She knew Arya would hate her from the deepest depths of her soul for not only telling their lady mother about Prince Quentyn, but for also encouraging her in the matter of a possible marriage. Her little sister's anger, however, was a problem she would face when the time came. For the moment, she found the thought of Arya's face – no doubt flaming red and grimaced with rage and shock – when she herself would have to listen to their lady mother raving about a possible betrothal with Prince Quentyn so amusing that she couldn't help but grin at every other word her lady mother said.

The few times they had finally talked about Robb had unfortunately been unfruitful. Her lady mother had told her about Robb's battle for Dragon Shield, how few men he had lost when taking the castle and how eager the lords of the North and the loyal bannermen of Robb's and Sansa's grandfather, Lord Hoster, had been to bend the knee to him. However, she had hardly been able to talk to her about how things would proceed now. Her lady mother seemed to cling to the idea that Robb should keep his crown and that Aegon should accept being the king of six kingdoms instead of seven from now on. The fact that their lord father had already bent the knee to Aegon did not seem to be an argument for her either.

"Your father is a wise man, Sansa. He will surely see what a great opportunity this is for House Stark and the entire North," she had only said.

After her third attempt, she had finally given up and avoided the subject. They were on their way to King's Landing now, where she knew Aegon and his allies were fighting to defeat Viserys and Rhaegar. If they wanted Aegon to even consider, let alone accept such a thing, then they would have to say that to his face instead of hoping that Sansa would just accept it on Aegon's behalf. More than once she had wished Rhaella were with her to tell her what to do, what a queen should do at such a moment. She was not, however, and all she could do was to give her best and to hope that whatever she did was the right thing.

Shortly before sunset on the ninth day, they finally reached Castle Stokeworth. The lady of the castle, Lady Tanda Stokeworth, a woman with sagging cheeks and sunken eyes, received them in a cold and reserved manner, yet the gates of the castle were wide open. To everyone's surprise, Lady Tanda made no secret of the fact that she had sworn allegiance to House Targaryen and did not intend to change anything in this regard, even with a Northern army at the gates of her unprotected castle. She proudly reported that, except for a handful of old men, all the knights and soldiers of her house were at King's Landing to fight for House Targaryen. However, she did not seem to mind that there were currently two factions of House Targaryen fighting each other to the death and for which one her men were fighting, she either did not know or did not care. As long as a dragon sat on the throne in the end, Lady Tanda obviously saw herself on the winning side. She invited both Sansa, whom she more or less willingly accepted as her queen, along with Ser Arthur, as well as Robb and their lady mother, along with some of Robb's lords, into her castle and served them a small feast, probably hoping to prevent a sacking of the castle. The castle, though defenseless, was indeed spared when they continued their journey the next morning.

Around noon, Sansa decided not to travel in the carriage with her lady mother for a while, but to ride herself. So shortly after the midday rest, she asked for a horse and rode down the Kingsroad alongside Ser Arthur. Her eyes kept falling on the men all around her. Two armies were marching down the Kingsroad in front and behind of her. One, whose vanguard today was led by Rickard Karstark, consisted of men from the North and the Riverlands, the other exclusively of men from the Riverlands. Yet, despite the fact that even the Kingsroad was actually too narrow for such an exercise, the two armies were as sharply separated as if they had been cut with a knife. While some of the men from the Riverlands belonged to her grandfather, loyal to House Tully, the bulk of these men – lesser lords, landless and landed knights, as well as common soldiers – were loyal to House Targaryen. Although Robb had not liked this at all, a box of books had not been the only thing Lord Darry had given her on the journey to King's Landing.

Ser Raymun Darry had apparently never arrived in Darry, but whether he was dead or in captivity, both she and Lord Darry had preferred not to speculate on. However, after she had told him that his son had set out from Dorne some time ago already, shortly after her and Aegon's wedding, to call the banners in Aegon's name, the old man had insisted that Ser Arthur take command of his men to march to the capitol alongside the new queen and support Aegon in his fight for the throne. So it had come to pass that of the sixteen thousand strong force with which they were now marching south, some seven thousand men were marching under a Targaryen banner and were under Ser Arthur's command instead of Robb's.

The day was already advanced when her uncle Edmure joined her on his horse. She had had little opportunity to speak with him in recent days, unfortunately, and was glad to have him join her. Ser Arthur immediately took his leave on a pretext to give them some space and rode ahead a short distance, allegedly to pick up a report from the vanguard.

"Your Grace, it is good to be able to speak at last," Edmure said with a smile.

"Please, uncle, when it's just us, you don't have to address me like that."

"That's good to hear, Sansa," he said, emphasizing her name, and his smile became a wide laugh.

For a moment she looked at Edmure's thick, red beard and thought about whether Robb would grow a similar beard if he allowed it to grow. Robb had the same hair and blue eyes as her uncle, which he had inherited from their mother, as had she. No doubt it would look good on her brother. The question was probably whether Robb's wife would like him with a beard or not. She had met Lady Wynafryd only thrice in her life, and the last time had been years ago, when they had both been no more than children. Her lady mother had already told her that Lady Wynafryd was already expecting a child as well. As much as she missed her Aegon, she longed for Winterfell, her home, her brothers, to finally get to know Robb's wife better and of course to one day meet her nephew or niece. When she had arrived in the Riverlands, she had hoped to at least see her brother Bran again. After all, he was the squire of her great-uncle Ser Brynden. Her lady mother, however, had told her that Bran had returned to Winterfell when Robb had called the banners and marched south. Her lady mother herself had not been able to see Bran for more than an hour after her own arrival at Riverrun before he was put on a horse and sent back to Winterfell with thirty armed men at his side. There always had to be a Stark in Winterfell and this Stark apparently was her little brother now.

"Are you sorry we left Castle Stokeworth so soon?" Sansa asked. At first, she had been glad to be able to talk to her uncle Edmure, but if she was honest with herself, she didn't really know what to talk to him about. He was a kind and friendly man as far as she could say, but at heart they barely knew each other and there wasn't much in common between them. She had considered for a moment asking about her grandfather's health, but she already knew from her lady mother that Lord Hoster was in bad health and, moreover, that this was a sore point for her uncle.

"Not really, why?"

"Well, at the feast Lady Stokeworth seemed not averse to the idea of bringing you and her daughter closer together."

"Excuse me?"

"You are still unwed, uncle, and you would certainly do Robb a great service. Family ties to the Crownlands can't hurt, after all. And Lollys is also still unwed, so..."

"Oh, by the Seven..."

"I was only joking, uncle," she laughed, whereupon the startled expression on his face gradually disappeared again.

For a while they rode side by side, talking about meaningless trifles, but avoiding any word about their two fathers or the war into whose heart they were riding. After what felt like almost an hour, Sansa looked around and suddenly saw about two dozen paces behind them some of the men on noble horses her lady mother had introduced her to as her uncle's friends. Lymond Goodbrook, Patrek Mallister, and Tytos Blackwood, whom she knew was also a close friend of her family. They all watched her anxiously, pretending but failing miserably not to do just that.

"Good friends of mine," Edmure said as an explanation.

"Yes, my lady mother has already told me that much. Why are they looking at me like that?"

"I don't know. Either they don't trust you because you married our enemy, or they mourn your marriage because you are no longer on the market. You're a beautiful woman, Sansa."

"Aegon is not the enemy, uncle," she said, ignoring his flattery. "Rhaegar and Viserys are, and the lords Baratheon and Arryn are, but not Aegon."

"If he will not accept my king's crown, then he is my enemy."

"How can you say that? We are family and he is my husband."

"My king is also family and my loyalty to my king is greater than to any one married in."

After that, they just rode side by side in silence until Sansa finally excused herself and took her leave to return to the carriage to her lady mother. There was no talking there either at first, even though her lady mother tried everything to begin another conversation about her unborn child again and to convince her that Hoster, Rickard or Brandon were quite excellent names for a king.

Hoster Targaryen. Rickard Targaryen. Brandon Targaryen. One name sounded sillier to her ears than the other. She said nothing about it, however, only smiled at her mother's attempts to make these names more appealing to her. No, her child would get a Valyrian name, befitting a royal prince or princess of the Seven Kingdoms. She loved the names Maekar for a boy and Valaena for a girl. She of course had not talked to Aegon about it, but surely he would agree.

About a day's march from King's Landing, they finally set up camp just before sunset, the two camps just as neatly separated as the armies had been during their march. Lord Darry's men had even insisted on securing their camp to the west, in the direction of Robb's camp, with some shallow ditches. Sansa had initially wanted to forbid it, but it was Ser Arthur who had convinced her not to do so.

"Your Grace, I know we have no attack to fear from your brother," he had said. "I trust many of his bannermen less, however. I know what men look like who are out for blood. I can see it in their eyes. Even if they're not planning anything, we still shouldn't invite them to do anything stupid. And your men would feel better about it, too."

That evening Robb had invited her to supper. For the occasion, she chose an elegant dress of red silk and precious, Myrish brocade with elaborate black embroidery at the hem and around her neckline in the shape of dragons and wyverns. It was one of the best dresses she had taken with her from Dorne, noble enough to be worn at the royal court even. The dress literally screamed out the name Targaryen. Undoubtedly, she could have appeared a little more reserved – wearing different colors or at least not being covered everywhere with the heraldic figure of her husband – but by now she had no longer any desire to do so. When she arrived at his tent after a short walk first through the camp of her, then through the one of Robb's host, she was surprised to find that they appeared to be alone for the supper. She had expected Robb's lords to be present, maybe their uncle, her lady mother at least, but no one was there when she entered.

Robb was standing next to the broad table that had been placed in the middle of the tent. He wore a dark doublet with a light grey wolf embroidered on the chest, light grey woolen pants and high black leather boots. If he were not her brother, she might have suspected he was trying to court her. On his head rested his crown, an open circlet of hammered bronze incised with the runes of the First Men, surmounted by nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of long swords. Sansa couldn't help but acknowledge that her brother truly looked like a king. For a moment, she regretted not wearing her own crown. However, she had not expected to have to do so in the presence of her brother. A roasted, wonderful smelling pheasant, a bowl of steaming hot soup, two bowls of stewed vegetables, mushrooms, turnips, beets, carrots, and beans, fresh bread with nuts, and a bowl with a dark, almost black sauce that smelled strongly of red wine, waited on the table for them. Four fire bowls burned in the corners of the tent, spreading a pleasant light and comforting warmth. Ser Arthur entered the tent after her, took Sansa's cloak from her shoulders, and without a word took up position in the corner near the entrance. Robb pointed to one of the two only chairs at the table. It did not escape her notice that the wide chair was draped with wolf pelts.

"Please, do take a seat, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said with a smile, though she wasn't sure Robb had meant it as a tease.

A servant came in, a carafe of wine in his hands. She recognized the boy, eleven or perhaps twelve name days old, as one of the boys Arya had always played with in Winterfell, but could not remember his name. He poured wine into the silver cups for both of them. Then he gave first Sansa, then Robb, some of the pheasant and vegetables, covered in way too much of the dark sauce, then bowed deeply to Robb and hurried wordlessly out of the tent again. They began to eat in silence. The pheasant was good, the dark sauce delicious, but Sansa only sipped the sweet wine. Robb was almost finished with his plate, Sansa not even halfway through, when she finally spoke up for the first time.

"If you don't want to talk to me, why did you even invite me? Not that I'm not happy to eat with my brother, but I thought we'd talk, Robb."

"If you want to talk, talk."

"Well, thank you," she said in a mocking tone. "Why am I here if you don't want to talk to me?"

"If it had been up to me, you wouldn't be here at all, not in my tent, and certainly not in the field camp on the way to King's Landing. If I could have, I would have sent you back to Riverrun. Or better yet, straight to Winterfell."

Sansa felt anger rising inside her. Even if she had not been wed to Aegon, she was no longer a child, a little girl who had to do what the others wanted, she was a woman grown, a woman married, married to a king even.

"Then why didn't you?" she asked, herself wondering at her flippant tone.

"I guess apart from Ser Arthur, Lord Darry's seven thousand men would have objected if I had locked you in a carriage and simply sent you north."

"I would never have allowed Lord Darry to attack you. You cannot seriously believe that."

Sansa's anger grew worse. Robb couldn't really believe she would allow him to be harmed, could he? The expression on his face, however, made her anger dissipate as quickly as it had come. She saw uncertainty in his eyes. At that moment, he no longer looked like a king, but like her brother again. The brother she had idolized as a young girl. Robb placed his fork and knife next to his plate, looked at it for a while, then his gaze wandered to the ceiling of the tent as if to avoid Sansa's eyes.

"I know that. It's about some of the riverlords, Lord Frey most of all."

"What about him? He swore fealty to you, didn't he? At least that's what mother said."

"Yes, he did. But my confidence in his loyalty is... weak, to say the least."

"Why is that?"

"Well, it starts with the fact that he has over four, almost five thousand men at his disposal, but he's only given me a little over one hundred."

"That's almost nothing."

"Exactly. I've only been allowed to cross his bridge with my host, and he's only given me those men for a promise, and mother says old Lord Walder won't go to war for an unfulfilled promise. So to get the rest of his men I would have to fulfill that promise first."

"What kind of promise is that?"

Robb looked at her for a while, the uncertainty in his gaze now almost becoming something like anxiety.

"A marriage," he finally said.

"But you're already... Oh, I see."

"You or Arya. One of you two has to marry a son of House Frey."

"But I'm already married, Robb. And Arya is in Dorne."

"Yes, exactly. Arya's gone, and so I was afraid for you if I'd just sent you north. Uncle Brynden and Uncle Edmure told me about old Lord Walder. Lord Frey is a... headstrong man. Difficult. Cold. I was afraid he wouldn't care for your marriage to Prince... to King Aegon. Uncle Brynden warned me that he probably would have come up with some explanation as to why your marriage was meaningless."

"How would he have done that? A septon has joined Aegon and me in marriage, in front of witnesses, in the eyes of the Seven."

"I am in open rebellion against House Targaryen, Sansa," he said, his voice now serious again. "Uncle Brynden said that in old Walder's eyes this probably could only and permanently be solved with the death of all the Targaryens, so he would most likely claim you to be a widow, or at least a soon-to-be widow. Then he would have sent one of his sons or grandsons to... force himself on you, make you a child, and thus create a fait accompli."

Sansa froze in shock. Before Lord Darry had given her his seven thousand men, she had seriously considered traveling back to Winterfell. That was, of course, if Robb had agreed to bend the knee to Aegon. For the first time, she was glad he had not. Not yet. The very thought that this might actually have been possible almost made her heart stop.

"But...," she began in a shaky voice, "but I'm already expecting a child."

"Old Lord Frey would certainly have taken care of that with moon tea before one of his sons would have come to you then."

"That's terrible, Robb."

"He has done no such thing, Sansa, so no need to worry. But Uncle Brynden thought it possible, at least. He's known Lord Frey a long time, and he says he'd believe the man capable of almost anything."

Her mind raced, sending hot and cold shivers down her spine and goose bumps all over her body. The thought of losing Aegon, of losing her child, their child…

"I would never have let that happen, Your Grace," Ser Arthur said from behind her in the corner. Sansa turned, forcing a smile onto her face.

"I thank you, Ser, but I suppose against an entire castle full of Freys, even you would have been powerless."

"I would never have let you go in the first place, Sansa," Robb said now. She looked back at him. "Or do you think I would have let-"

"No, of course not, Robb," she interrupted him. "The idea is just so… so…"

It took Sansa a few moments to regain her composure and get her thoughts back in order. Robb stood up, came around the table and put a hand on her shoulder. It was warm. Immediately, Sansa felt her heart begin to beat normally again and the cold disappeared from her guts. It felt good to have her brother back with her.

"Why did you even ally yourself with such a man?" she finally asked, her voice still shaky.

"What was I supposed to do? I had to cross his damn bridge to get south. And he's one of our grandfather's most powerful bannermen. I couldn't just ignore him."

"But to make such a promise to such a man... Do you really want Arya to marry one of his sons or grandsons?"

"Of course I don't that, but I gave him my word."

"But it wasn't your decision to make."

"The head of a family decides such things, Sansa. You should know that."

"But you're not the head of our family, Robb. Father is alive."

"We didn't know that at the time. Our mother was with Lord Baratheon to negotiate with him, and from all she had learned and written to me in a letter, we had to assume father was dead. Just like you and Arya and also Daeron and Aegon."

Robb went back to his chair, sinking into it with a heavy sigh. He took his cup and emptied the rest in one go. He looked at the table for a moment, but the boy had taken the carafe of wine back with him.

"That might be good," Sansa finally said in a sad voice, half to herself.

"What might be good?"

"That our father is alive. I mean, of course it's good, but it might help us here."

"In what way?"

"Well, if father is alive, then you never had the right to negotiate this betrothal. So once father is back, he can declare the betrothal between Arya and one of Lord Frey's sons or grandsons null and void, since he never agreed to it in the first place. And since Lord Frey has given you so few men, you don't owe him anything either."

Robb seemed to think about it for a moment. His expression alternated so quickly between surprise, disappointment, uncertainty, joy and doubt that her brother looked like he had a cramp in is face.

"As soon as father is back, he'll do the right thing. I'm sure," he finally said, which pretty much meant nothing really. Sansa left it at that, though, thanking Robb for the evening and the good meal, and then retreating, followed by Ser Arthur.

Sansa wanted to go to her tent and get some sleep. The evening with Robb, slow as it had started, had been exhausting and she felt dull and tired. She walked through the camp, looking into the faces of the men around her. Some nodded kindly at her, others bowed, still others stared at her as if they wanted to see her hang. They had almost reached the exit of the camp when her lady mother suddenly stepped beside her.

"Do you have time for a short walk, my daughter?"

Sansa didn't really feel like it, she was tired and exhausted and her thoughts were confused. Still, she didn't want to refuse and so she agreed. Ser Arthur, in whose face she could see every time how little he liked it that her lady mother and Robb did not address her by her title, kept some distance as they walked side by side between the barriers of the two camps in the light of the moon. It was not long before her lady mother spoke up.

"How was your supper with Robb? He wanted me to be there, but I thought it would be better if you had some time to yourselves."

"It was... interesting."

"That bad?" she asked, laughing. Sansa didn't feel like laughing, but forced herself to smile as well.

"I was a little startled when Robb told me about how I almost got betrothed to a Frey."

"Don't hold it against him, Sansa. Robb didn't want to do that. He had no choice."

"Yes, he already told me that. It was still a shock."

"We have to support him, Sansa. You and me."

"I must support my husband, mother."

"Of course you must, dear. I know. But does it really have to be just one or the other?"

"That's not up to me, mother. Nor is it up to Aegon. Whether or not Robb and Aegon will be able to support rather than fight each other, is solely up to my brother."

"But you can exert some influence over your husband, Sansa. I always could over your father, anyway."

"I can, but I don't know if I want to. Perhaps you'd do better to exert some influence over your son, mother. The crown is Aegon's by right. Robb just took his for no other reason than he wanted it."

"You know that's not true, Sansa. The lords of the North and the Riverlands proclaimed Robb king."

"Not all the lords of the Riverlands. And even if, he still could have refused the crown."

"In whose favor? As far as we knew at the time, the choice was between either Viserys Targaryen or Stannis Baratheon."

For a while her mother was silent, looking at Sansa, her gaze wandering from her face to her belly and back again. Then she shifted her gaze into the distance as if hoping to find something there that would help them.

"Don't blame him, please. Robb... He's afraid," she said, and her voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Afraid? What do you mean, mother?"

"Robb is afraid of doing something wrong. He's afraid his bannermen will turn their backs on him."

"No way. The North stands with House Stark," she said firmly. Her mother only brought out a short laugh. "Don't they?"

"They do, but House Stark's position in the North is not as untouchable as you think. And some of his bannermen are... not very pleased with Robb. He swore to bring Viserys and Rhaegar to justice back when he still thought you and Arya and your father had died by his hand. And Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn were no option to bend the knee to after abandoning you all in King's Landing."

"Abandoning us? Are you saying that they were in King's Landing?"

"Indeed, Lord Stannis at least. Just before that explosion in the Red Keep. He came to your father's cell in the dungeons but left him there, when he could have gotten him out because he refused to support his claim to the Iron Throne." Sansa was silent, not knowing what she could have said to that. "Without his bannermen, Robb can't fulfill his oath to bring all those to justice who have wronged us, can't protect your grandfather's lands... can't support King Aegon, should it come to that."

"Do you think he will?"

"He is your brother, Sansa. He would never abandon you. So he'll have little choice. His problem is that he can't just give in, can't just declare himself for a Targaryen after calling the banners against House Targaryen in the first place. And at that, for a Targaryen who will surely demand that he lay down his crown."

"That he will."

"That doesn't make things any easier."

"Even if, the lords of the North will not turn on him or father. I cannot believe that."

"Sansa, you are a queen now. You can no longer afford such naivete," her lady mother scolded her. "Robb's lords, your father's lords, are fiercely loyal, but in the end they are also men of conviction... and ambition. Some have more of the one than the other, but they always have both. The Boltons have never been shy about challenging House Stark's power, and I'm almost certain that even if they wouldn't commit outright treason, the Karstarks would have no objection to becoming the rulers of the North themselves if the opportunity presented itself."

"The Karstarks...," Sansa repeated incredulously.

"Yes, unfortunately. I've already heard Lord Karstark whisper to Jon Umber that Robb should no longer call himself King in the North but rather King Who Lost the North should he actually bend the knee to Aegon. He thought no one heard him. Rickard Karstark whispers nowhere near as quietly as he thinks, though. Especially when he's drunk."

Shortly after, they said goodbye with kisses on the cheeks, wished each other a good night and then went separate ways, both heading for their tents. Ser Arthur followed her like a white shadow through the camp of Darry soldiers, her soldiers, soon Aegon's soldiers, and took up position beside the entrance to her tent as she entered.

"Sleep well, Your Grace," he said with a faint smile on his lips. She wanted to wish him the same, but knew he would not sleep, but watch over her all night. She thanked him with a sincere smile and then went inside. Once in her tent, she quickly undressed, drank a cup of the already cold tea that was waiting for her next to the bed and buried herself under thick blankets and furs. As tired as she was, however, she found it difficult to sleep. What she had learned today from Robb and her lady mother just wouldn't let her rest. The possibility that, had things gone just a little differently, a man could have forced himself on her, the mere possibility of feeling another man inside of her other than her beloved Aegon, still sent chills down her spine. The thought of the possibility of even losing her child, their child, inevitably brought tears to her eyes. And then there was the matter of Robb's bannermen.

No, our lord father's bannermen, she corrected herself.

The very possibility that the North could turn against House Stark, betray it, had seemed completely outlandish, even absurd, to her until recently. Now, though… She laid in her bed then, trying to think of something else that would not make her weep and cry. She thought of Aegon, of how wonderful it would be to finally be back together once they arrived in the capitol, trying to think of how to tell him that she was with child. Caressing her belly, she eventually fell asleep after all.

When she awoke the next morning, the sun had not yet risen but the camp around her was already bustling, filled with life and the sounds of working men. The soldiers were preparing for the march that would take them to King's Landing in just a few hours. Sansa washed, combed her hair - not very extensively but enough to be presentable - dressed for the day in a simple dark blue dress that she would be able to wear both in the carriage with her lady mother and on horseback, slipped into high, soft boots of brown leather that disappeared almost entirely beneath the long dress, and left her tent. She greeted Ser Arthur, who still stood as if turned to stone beside the entrance to her tent, keeping guard, and then went with him to one of the small fires nearby to have some food given to her by a young Darry servant who had accompanied her since their departure.

She sat down on a small wooden stump that served her as a chair and ate some oatmeal, but hardly got down more than three or four spoonfuls. It tasted of nothing at all, was not flavored with honey or fruits, nuts or vegetables, which she usually liked to eat, but for which she was grateful this time. She had no appetite, as she hadn't had for weeks in the morning. Her lady mother had told her on one of their days together in the carriage that she had always known exactly when she had been with child because of the severe morning sickness, even before Maester Luwin had been able to confirm it. Her lady mother had then apparently not been able to eat at all in the morning, after that had kept little food with her for half the day, and had not really begun to eat sufficiently until in the evening. She knew that other women fared less badly, however, this seemed to be one of the things that she had also inherited from her lady mother, along with her coloring and her delicate features. Thanks to the herbal tea that the maester of Castle Darry had prepared for her and given her in sufficient quantity, she had at least been able to control her morning sickness as long as she drank some of it every evening before going to bed. So even if she felt no appetite, she could at least keep the little food with her.

Less than an hour later, she already sat on her horse again, Ser Arthur riding next to her. Her white knight looked horribly tired and so exhausted that she feared he might fall from his horse every moment. Most of the time during their ride, his eyes were closed and only opened whenever he heard a noise somewhere in the distance or she said a word, either to him or to herself. She then avoided doing so, however, after realizing that Ser Arthur was currently trying to get the sleep he had missed the previous night. Sansa thus tried to stay as quiet as possible to allow her white knight as much sleep as possible while riding on a horse.

Against Robb's express will, but without him having had the opportunity to do anything about it, their two armies were again marching side by side instead of behind each other down the Kingsroad. Robb had demanded before their departure that the knights and soldiers from Darry should line up behind his army so that he and his lords could lead the host. The Lords Karstark and Hornwood in particular, as well as Smalljon Umber and Ser Wendel Manderly, had protested the loudest at having to march alongside and not in front of the Darry men. Daryn Hornwood, Lucas Backwood and Owen Norrey, now close friends of Robb's and all of them young men of which she knew that their fathers had once sought her hand in marriage for them, had also been there, saying nothing but glowering at her as if she were the enemy. Only Robin Flint of Widow's Watch looked at her kindly, apparently unimpressed by the rift that had opened up between her and her brother. Before any of them could say anything to Sansa that they surely would have regretted afterwards, they had already engaged in an argument among themselves about who would have the honor of leading Robb's vanguard when they approached the capitol. Sansa, without allowing any discussion, had refused to let her own men march behind Robb's army. As they approached the capitol, the Targaryen banner should be visible so that Aegon would know that friends and help were on the way. What they didn't need was a misunderstanding about the intentions of their approaching army. A glance to the side told her that it was the Smalljon who was now leading the vanguard with his men and a chest swollen with pride.

The sun was just rising as King's Landing came into view in the distance. From here, as a surprisingly awake Ser Arthur let her know, it would take them about three more hours to reach the gates of the city. Still about an hour away, they could already see plumes of smoke rising everywhere in the city and it smelled of fire and dust, on the city wall and its towers they could see, tiny in the distance but unmistakable by the colors, the banner of the three-headed dragon waving everywhere, red on black. For a while she even thought she heard bells ringing in the distance.

"Hopefully we won't be mistaken for enemies," she said.

"They already know that we are coming. No doubt we have long since been spotted by some scouts and reports have been made. It is a good thing that the Targaryen banner is flying ahead of us. That way His Grace will know that support is on the way."

"Ser Arthur, what are those banners on the Red Keep? That's not the Targaryen banner, is it?"

"No, it isn't. I can't make it out. We're too far away, but the colors don't match."

"You think anyone else has already taken the Red Keep?"

"Impossible to say. Someone must be holding it, after all. We won't know for sure until we get closer, but at least those are not the colors of the Houses Baratheon or Arryn."

They made good time, so that it took them less than the estimated hour to reach the gates of the city. On the walls and towers on either side of the massive Dragon Gate, hundreds of soldiers could be seen in a variety of colors. She recognized on the doublet and some of the shields the coats of arms of houses from Dorne, the Crownlands, the Riverlands and the Reach. The three namesake dragons were artfully carved into the stone of the two mighty round towers and over the gate itself, looking down terrifyingly and watchfully at anyone approaching the gate. The gate itself was made of thick logs of oak and covered with elaborate heads of dragons, basilisks and all sorts of other nightmarish creatures. Looking up at the massive gate, Sansa could not imagine how such an imposing obstacle could be overcome by sheer force.

At a short distance from the gate, about thirty paces and thus well within the range of the archers, they took up their positions on horseback to be received and allowed in. This was important, Ser Arthur had told her, to show that they harbored no hostile intentions. It was good to have the Targaryen banner carried in front of them, but such a banner could, of course, be falsely carried by an army that harbored no noble intentions. Ser Arthur took up position to Sansa's right, with Robb, her lady mother, her great-uncle Brynden Tully and Howland Reed to her left.

"Your queen is here," Ser Arthur called to the men on the wall. "Open the gate and summon King Aegon!"

They received no answer. They waited for almost a dozen heartbeats, but received no reaction. She heard Ser Arthur draw breath to call out once more, when they finally heard the rumble and rattle of the heavy latches and chains holding the Dragon Gate closed and pulling the portcullis up behind the portal's wings. Only a moment later, the heavy wings of the gate swung open, slowly and creakily like the bones of some ancient beast.

A group of seven riders came toward them, also on horseback, and it didn't take Sansa a heartbeat to recognize who was riding in the middle of this group. Even from a distance she recognized his silver-blond hair and his magnificent face, saw the mixture of surprise, shock and joy on it as he also recognized her. She saw Aegon giving his horse the spurs and dashing towards her then, leaving the rest of his group behind. She did the same and only a moment later the distance between them was overcome. She jumped off her horse, anything but befitting a lady, let alone a queen, but at that moment she couldn't care less. Aegon jumped down as well when they were only six or seven paces apart, elegant as a dancer.

They ran toward each other and when they finally reached one another, she jumped into his arms. He grabbed her, pressed her to him with his strong arms and spun her around. She wanted to say something, anything, but before even the first sound could leave her mouth, she already felt his warm lips on hers. Immediately she opened her mouth, granting his tongue entrance to perform its delightful dance with hers. She returned the kiss so passionately that it surprised herself. Her hands ran through his silky silver hair, while his hands and arms still held her in the air, pressed tightly against him.

Sansa wanted to pull her away from her lover, wanted to tell him how much she loved him, wanted to tell him how much she had missed him, and wanted to tell him how sorry she was that she was here in the first place and hadn't stayed in safety in Dorne, but all she could do was enjoy his touch and his kiss, the feel and the taste of his lips on hers. All she could do was think about how good he was at this.

She could not say how long it took until they finally let go of each other's lips. Then, when they parted, they still could do nothing but smile at each other, radiant as the sun. Aegon still held her in his arms, her feet not touching the ground, as she looked into his ravishing purple eyes, taking in the sight of his smiling, beautiful face.

The others, meanwhile, had caught up to them, surrounding them on all sides.

"What are you doing here?" Aegon finally asked, confused but smiling. His kiss had been a clear sign of how much he had missed her and how glad he was to have her with him again. Nevertheless, she also heard the worry in his voice. Sansa was just about to reply when she heard Robb's voice behind her.

"You can thank me for bringing your... wife back to you," he said. "Actually, I was going to send her back north to-"

Faster than Sansa had been able to react, Aegon had set her down, broken away from her and taken a step toward her brother. Before he could finish his sentence, Aegon's fist had already crashed into Robb's face.

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think? As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you think, like, dislike... all of it. :-)

The next chapter should come quickly (I hope) and it will be an Aegon-chapter again. See you there (hopefully) :-)

Chapter 50: Aegon 9

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. As promised, we have an Aegon-chapter here again and will see how he will deal with his little "mishap" at the end of the last chapter. Hope you have fun. :-)

His jaw hurt as if a horse had kicked against it and he had more bruises on his body than teeth in his mouth. Robb had a decent punch, he had to give him that. Apart from that, however, there hadn't been much he'd been willing to give him credit for. How could Robb be so foolish as to take Sansa, his own sister, right into the heart of this war? Apart from whatever was going on in the Vale and parts of the Reach, there was only one city, one single city in the entire realm where battles and fighting took place and that was exactly where he had brought her with him. After all, he himself had intentionally left her in Dorne, far enough away from the war where she was safe. In hindsight, though, Sansa had probably been right in that – partly because of her status as queen but certainly more because of the seven thousand Darry men who would undoubtedly have protected her – Robb couldn't have ordered her to do anything else, even if he had wanted to. So just putting her in a carriage and sending her on her way had been out of the question for Robb. Maybe, just maybe, it hadn't been such a good idea to punch him in the face before he'd even been able to finish his first sentence. Aegon had to admit that to a small, tiny extent it might have been his own fault that the situation had escalated like that. It had indeed been a little embarrassing that meeting with his good-brother, from whom he had hoped and still hoped to receive support, in the middle of a war had turned into a brawl within a few heartbeats, started by the king himself, of all people.

On the other hand, it had gone relatively smoothly, considering that Robb was in open rebellion against the crown, against him. It could just as easily have ended in a battle with hundreds, if not thousands, of dead on both sides. In the past few weeks, they had received a number of reports about which of his kingdoms had not already declared independence. They had received conflicting reports of a new King in the North, of the supposed independence of the Vale, of a so-called High Holy Kingdom in the Reach that was supposed to consist of no more than Oldtown and a few surrounding villages, and even of the alleged independence of Dorne, which was of course nonsense. Not least because of this, they had decided not to take such reports at face value and ignore them for now. Not the most farsighted course of action, that had been clear to Aegon, but as long as they were tied up in King's Landing and couldn't do anything anyway, there would have been no advantage to them in dealing with rumors and stories.

So now it had turned out that Robb had indeed been crowned King in the North and was thus not only, albeit unwittingly, in open rebellion against him but had also turned against his own father until he would bend the knee to Aegon again. Aegon could only hope that this would happen quickly. More than a few of his men had demanded after their... encounter that Robb be imprisoned immediately. A traitor to the crown should not be allowed to walk free, they had said. The reasons for his coronation, that he believed his father, Sansa and Arya to be murdered, as well as Aegon and Daeron dead, were not at all convincing in the eyes of those who had argued for having Robb put in chains.

From that point of view, it had been almost fortunate that after only a few moments they had rolled on the floor brawling and beating the crap out of each other. After that, the situation had been so tense that imprisonment had been out of the question without risking an outright battle between Robb's and his own men. But even if it had been different and he had been willing to imprison his own good-brother, which he hadn't... what good would it have done him? Lord Stark had already bent the knee to him, but Aegon could hardly have referred to his loyalty to demand the North's obedience and at the same time imprisoned his son. Threatening his own good-brother with death would probably also have been recognized by most as the empty threat it would have been – at least as long as they did not see his father or grandfather in him, which he hoped they did not – which would only have weakened his position further. And whether the northerners would have let themselves be ransomed by it at all was another matter entirely. If not, he would have lost their loyalty once and for all after such a move. Seen in this light, the decision to directly punch Robb in the face had been exactly right.

Now he sat on the chair in his new bedchamber under the roof of a smithy and rubbed his aching jaw. After Sansa's arrival, she and Aegon had looked for a new, shared residence in the city, so that even if not during the days at least at night they could be alone. Along the Street of Steel, on the top of Visenya's Hill, a little south of the only recently pacified Great Sept, they had chosen one of the larger smithies as their lodging. The owner's name, as he had learned from some of the books still lying around in his study, was Tobho Mott. His house was larger than all other buildings on the Street of Steel, its upper stories towering over the street. It was huge, nobly furnished and, to Aegon's own surprise, had still been untouched when they had taken it a while ago. There had been no money or valuables left in the house, but the house itself – although abandoned – had obviously not been plundered. So it stood to reason that Tobho Mott had escaped in time before King's Landing had become what it was now. At first, Aegon had not known why the name had sounded so familiar, until he had discovered books and tomes in High Valyrian on some of the bookshelves. Then it had suddenly come back to him. Aegon knew the man at least by name, since he had been a famous master armorer and the only man in King's Landing and one of the very few in the world still capable of reforging Valyrian steel. He could not make new steel, of course, but when Valyrian steel was brought to him, he was able to forge something new from it using great craftsmanship and almost forgotten magic.

Several years ago, after learning that there was a armorer in King's Landing who was capable of reforging Valyrian steel, Aegon had made every effort to gather as much of it as he could. His idea had been to find enough steel to have Tobho Mott forge a new family sword for House Targaryen, since both Blackfyre and Dark Sister were lost forever. He had been able to muster a little dagger, not unlike the one he had given Daeron, a single knitting needle, a clasp, a small comb in the size of a toy, and even a spoon. It was strange what kind of items one encountered when trying to acquire anything made of Valyrian steel. What anyone would ever have needed knitting needles or a spoon of Valyrian steel for was beyond Aegon.

When he had made this plan to have a new family sword forged, he had been little more than his child, eleven name days old, and had not really had any idea how precious and difficult to obtain Valyrian steel really was. Now he knew better. He would even have banished the idea to the realm of childish dreams and fantasies when it had come back to him, had it not occurred to him who else was roaming this city at the moment. About a week ago, some mercenaries had arrived in King's Landing, swearing their swords to Aegon for a little silver now and the promise of a lots of gold later once the war would be won. One of the men had been a Dothraki named Caggo, who was a captain of a company called the Windblown. Apart from asking a question or two about his origin, Aegon had not paid any further attention to the man at first until he had seen what kind of weapon he was wielding. Caggo was swinging an arakh, the sword of the Dothraki. It was a strange weapon that looked as if someone had forged a sickle onto the blade of a broken sword. What had caught Aegon's attention, however, had been the fact that the entire weapon was made of Valyrian steel. With this amount of Valyrian steel and the items he hoped were still waiting for him in the small stash in his chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, it would indeed be possible to have Tobho Mott forge a new family sword for him, should the man still live and one day return to King's Landing. It would easily suffice for a bastard sword, perhaps even a longsword. Of course, Aegon would do nothing dishonorable to come into possession of this arakh, but if by some chance this Caggo did not survive the battle for King's Landing, Aegon would do his utmost to come into possession of this weapon. Such precious material in the form of a weapon of these wild screamers and on top of that in possession of some mercenary was a waste anyway.

A short pain in his cheek snapped him out of his thoughts again. There was no mirror in the room, so he couldn't see if his eye was likely to turn black. It sure felt like it. He had to grin at the thought of what Daeron's face would look like today or tomorrow. Even though it wasn't really a laughing matter. His brother, without a moment's hesitation, had jumped into the scuffle behind him, throwing punches and kicks and taking almost as many. Daeron had dealt some hearty blows to one of the Umbers that he could be proud of, but had taken quite a beating from Wendel Manderly in return. If more than half of Robb's and his own men had not used their last strength to separate them from each other like squabbling children, it probably would have turned out worse for all of them. In fact, they had to be thankful that no one had drawn a weapon.

For a moment he considered opening the small window on the gable end of the room to let in some cold night air. It would certainly do his jaw and aching ribs some good. But then he decided against it. It was already cool enough in this room and he didn't want Sansa to freeze under her blanket. Besides, he was naked except for a small bandage on his shoulder, so he didn't really want to stand at the window and possibly be seen by half the city.

He looked over at her, at the form of his sleeping beauty, and his thoughts abruptly began to roll over again. It had been her voice that had brought him – after Robb and he had been separated – back to the here and now.

"I am with child," she had merely said, turning his whole world upside down.

Sansa, his Sansa, was expecting a child. It had hit him harder than any punch from his good-brother. A child. A child of Sansa's and his. He would be a father. Still he could hardly believe it, could hardly believe his luck. He would be a father! At the thought alone, his head started spinning again and he couldn't stop grinning like an idiot.

Now she lay there, under the thick blanket in his – in their – bed and slept so peacefully as if this damn war didn't exist at all. She was as naked as he was and the contours of her ravishing body were softly outlined under the blanket. He looked into her sleeping face, her thick hair spread out under her like the wings of the most beautiful bird, and thought he saw the hint of a smile on it in the weak shine of the two candles on the small table next to his chair. Sansa was stunning, gorgeous, no matter what was going on in her face. But when she smiled, the world was at her feet. And so was Aegon.

Sansa was beautiful, perfect in his eyes. But there was something else, something he could not really grasp or explain in any words known to him, not in the common tongue, not in High Valyrian, not in any of the languages he had had to learn in his youth. There was something about her, something other than her mere beauty, that made her absolutely irresistible to him. He had grown up in King's Landing and had spent a lot of time in Dorne as long as his father had allowed him to, always surrounded by beauty. He had seen the prettiest, most elegant ladies of the entire realm and beyond in King's Landing and Sunspear. All his life they had literally swarmed around him like bees around a pot of honey. His own family was famous, almost legendary for their otherworldly beauty. His grandmother, though older, was undeniably beautiful, and Rhaenys, his own sister, was considered by many to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Something he himself found hard to disagree with. Still, Sansa was... special. Aegon could find no words for it. He had been at a loss for words back in Winterfell, on the night of the feast in his honor, when he had seen her standing there in that enchanting blue dress before they had danced for the first time. And still he found no words for it. Her blooming lips, the shape of her nose, her flawless skin, the blue of her eyes, all of it was absolutely perfect. But so were Rhaenys' lips and nose and skin and eyes, he knew. With Sansa, it was just different. Somehow. Aegon just had to look at her to forget the world around him.

His eyes traveled along the forms of her body, up and down, over her face to memorize every detail of it as if he feared she might vanish into thin air like a dream as soon as he awoke the next morning, along her slender neck and over her full, soft breasts. His eyes wandered further, over her still flat belly, in which their first child was already growing. Nothing could be seen yet, it was too early for that, but the thought that she would soon be heavy with child, their child, only made her even more enticing in his eyes, made him want her even more. His eyes traveled further down, along the curved shape of her hip and along her legs.

Only now did Aegon notice how hard he already was between his legs again. For a moment, he considered trying to think of something else, trying to distract himself from the tempting form of his sleeping wife and let Sansa sleep, but quickly decided against it. They had been apart for far too long, he was far too longing for his wife, her wonderful warm soft body, to bring himself to give it up now.

So he got up from his chair and walked the few steps over to the bed. He squatted down, reached out a hand and gently stroked over the blanket over her belly, further along her hip and down her legs. One of her feet peeked out from under the blanket. Aegon took it gently in his hands. It was cold. He bent down and kissed it gently. First her toes, then the ball of her foot, then the heel. He moved his kisses along her foot, then up her leg. With one hand, he lifted the blanket slightly and slipped his head and shoulders under it as his lips found their way along her slender, delicate legs. He kissed his way along her lower legs, her knees and her thighs, eliciting a slight groan from her as she slowly awoke.

He smelled the wonderful wetness between her legs even before his lips reached it and the scent made him even harder. He tasted the sweetness of the lips between her thighs and placed a gentle kiss on her pearl. Aegon heard her murmuring his name before continuing to kiss his path up her body, over her soft belly. Still half asleep, but aware enough of what was going on, Sansa began to spread her legs for him. Aegon lowered himself between them as he continued kissing her magnificent body, arriving at her breasts. He took them in his hands, kneading them and sucking briefly on her nipples. His lips reached her collarbone, then her neck and finally her mouth. Sansa's eyes were still half closed, but her mouth, adorned with a knowing smile, was wide open for him. With one hand, Aegon steadied himself against the head of the bed, the other still clasping one of Sansa's breasts, kneading it and caressing her hard nipple with his fingers as he kissed her greedily. Only a heartbeat later, Aegon felt Sansa's slender legs wrapping themselves around his waist, pulling him closer. He was only too happy to give in to the pressure and when he felt the warm wetness of her crotch against his manhood, he entered her with a powerful thrust.

Sansa moaned into the kiss.

Quickly Aegon found a rhythm, out on her wetness and back in, getting stronger and more dominant with each thrust. Further and further he slid into her and out again, kissing her and kneading her full breasts with one hand. The feeling of being inside her again was indescribable and there was nothing he wanted more at that moment than for it to never stop. He could not say how much time had passed when he let go of her breasts, the only indicator being her wonderful moaning, getting louder and louder with each thrust, and the rising sensation he felt in his cock. He sat up then and grabbed her legs, placing them right and left over his shoulders. Immediately he leaned forward again, reuniting with his beautiful wife in a deep kiss. His manhood quickly found her entrance again and immediately he lowered himself into her, pressing in as far and as deep as he could. A short cry escaped Sansa, but it immediately turned into a lustful moan. Sansa reached for his head now, pulling him tighter against her as she willingly and greedily returned his kiss, moaning more and more and louder and louder into his mouth. Aegon thrust, again and again, feeling her wetness and warmth envelop him willingly and welcomingly. A loud, wet clap was heard as they thrust their hips against each other again and again, him letting his manhood penetrate her as deeply as he could. He was now pounding her faster and harder, faster and harder, fucking her really. There was no other word for it anymore. Her body began to tremble under him, her hips, her full breasts, her legs and arms. Her face was contorted, so beautiful, and almost looked like she was suffering.

Suddenly she broke away from the kiss, throwing her head to the side, pressing it into the pillow. Aegon, close to the end himself, saw her try for a moment to stifle the cries of her pleasure before finally giving up and shouting out her ecstasy with loud moans and cries with each hard entry of his even harder cock. Aegon couldn't hold back any longer. The feeling of penetrating her and the sight of his ravishingly beautiful wife in complete ecstasy were too much for him. With a loud moan, he came inside her with what felt like an explosion, rushing through his entire body. He thrust a few more times, waiting for his seed to find its way deep into her, and then lowered himself down on top of his wife, exhausted.

For a while he just lay on top of her, breathing heavily into her full, sweet-smelling hair. He then rolled off her and immediately pulled her on top of him. With one hand he stroked a few strands of her full hair out of her face. Sansa was breathing heavily as well, her entire body covered with fine drops of sweat. Aegon could not imagine a more beautiful sight. She smiled at him so wonderfully, so indescribably beautiful, that he would have loved to take her again right away. But his body was so exhausted that he did not even make the attempt. His hand rested on her cheek, his thumb gently following the shape of her exquisite cheekbone. He reared up slightly and immediately Sansa leaned down into the kiss.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you," she replied. Then she laid her head on his chest. He kissed her one more time on her hair, smelling her scent, and shortly after fell asleep. When he awoke again, Sansa was gone. The sun was bright in the sky already and Aegon had to squint his eyes when he first opened them as not to be blinded. After quickly donning a pair of high boots, black trousers and a simple black doublet, he found his wife downstairs sitting at a wide table in the large dining room. Servants she had brought with her from Darry and Dorne had prepared a breakfast for them, which thankfully consisted of something other than oatmeal for a change. Aegon gave his beloved a kiss, stroked her full hair, and sat down next to her at the table.

"Good morning, my love," he said.

"Good morning," she returned, smiling, her voice as soft and gentle as the most precious silk. The way she sat there, in a simple yet beautiful dark blue dress, she was the very image of virtue and modesty. If he had not experienced her between the sheets, naked and wet and willing, he could not have thought her anything but the most chaste of maidens.

There was fresh bread that smelled wonderful, old cheese - the gods alone knew where they had gotten that from – some dried sausages and stewed fruit. In addition, there was strong tea, which smelled bitter but was mixed with honey, which made it taste surprisingly good.

Ser Arthur was already there as well, standing in a corner of the room behind his wife, immobile and stoic as if cut from stone. His white armor and white cloak were such a harsh contrast to the bright colors of the pillows and curtains and the dark wood of the table and chairs and cabinets and shelves that it almost hurt the eyes. Aegon noticed how Ser Arthur struggled to keep his gaze fixed stubbornly forward, trying not to look at him. It was clear that the man wanted to say something, talk to him, ask him something. Whatever that might be. Aegon, however, decided not to ask him about it. If he wanted something from him, he – a seasoned knight and one of the greatest names of their time – should be able to open his mouth.

"What will happen now?" Sansa asked abruptly. Her voice was soft, almost shy. Aegon didn't have to ask to know that this wasn't about their meal.

"We have a plan to end the battle for King's Landing soon. After that, we'll leave the city behind and face and Stannis as soon as we can. It still takes a little preparation, but it's only a matter of days now."

"Is it a dangerous plan?"

"Not more dangerous than anything else we've tried so far, my love." He looked at her, recognizing genuine fear in her eyes that even his smile wouldn't dispel. "Sansa, it's war, and war is dangerous. But I promise you that nothing will happen to you or me or our child," he said, gently placing a hand on her flat stomach.

She smiled briefly as well, but as quickly as her smile had come, it disappeared.

"Please, don't worry too much," he said then. "It may be dangerous, but to stay here and go on as before would be even more dangerous. You don't get out of danger without putting yourself in danger."

"Is there no other way?"

"No, none that I know of. It is dangerous. Of course. I don't want to lie to you. But there is no other way. You don't win a war by avoiding all danger. Danger is something you have to face, Sansa. If you try to run from danger, you'll die in it."

"Aegon, my love, please stop saying danger all the time," she said, and at last a gentle smile crept back onto her face.

"As you wish, my queen," he said and had to laugh. "But more important than our plan for King's Landing is getting you back to safety now."

"What, no, absolutely not. I'm staying with you," she protested.

"Sansa, you can't. I left you in Dorne to be safe there. Far away from the war. Now you're here and I'm happy beyond measure about it, but you can't possibly stay. I can't fight if I have to fear all the time that something might have happened to you. I will confer with my lords today about how many of the men from Darry we really need here."

"All of them, of course!"

"More is not always better in war. With the rest, I'll send you back to Darry. And with Ser Arthur at your side, as your personal shield. You'll be safe there, and in case of an emergency you can take a ship from there, either to White Harbor or back to Sunspear, should the city be attacked."

"Very well," she said resignedly. "But I want your word that you will come back to me, safe and sound. Promise me, swear me."

"I swear, Sansa," he said, kissing her again on her soft lips that tasted of honey.

Before Aegon had been able to empty his first mug of tea, the door was opened and another servant in the Darry colors announced Daeron, showing him in. Aegon had not yet looked at himself in the mirror, but hoped he looked better than his brother. Daeron's left eye was as black as his hair, a neat swelling was growing under his right, and his lower lip was split. At least his nose seemed to still be in one piece, though he was sure he had seen it bleeding at the end of the brawl yesterday. He was limping slightly and Aegon could see the slight swellings on his right hand. Daeron had really dealt out quite a bit with it. Most importantly though, it was good to see that his brother could still smile all over his face, regardless of how he might have felt. Aegon had to grin as he offered him a seat at their table.

Daeron sat down, accepted a plate and a mug of tea from a maid, a lanky girl with dark skin and pitch-black hair who had probably accompanied Sansa here from Dorne, and began to eat. They talked little while breaking the fast, but Aegon already had an idea why his brother was here. Either he wanted to talk to him about Robb – he was pretty sure that his brother had talked to Robb already, trying to pour oil on troubled waters – or they had received word by another raven from somewhere, though he could not tell from the expression on his brother's face whether this word would be good or bad.

"I know that expression. So, what is it?" asked Aegon finally after taking the last sip of tea from his mug.

"A raven has come," Daeron said. That was what Aegon had feared. Then it was not good news. Otherwise, Daeron would not have been so secretive about it.

"And what did the message say?"

"House Hightower has called the banners."

"I know that."

"Yes, but you don't know yet that they have declared for you."

"What?" Aegon asked in surprise, his eyes so wide he feared they might fall out of his head. "Well, why didn't you say so? That's great."

"Yeah, it is..."

"Sounds like there's a but to follow."

"True enough. They've called the banners and have indeed declared for you, but... they're not marching. The letter says they first need to secure Oldtown against possible attacks from the ironmen. When that danger is over, they would be at your disposal, of course."

"What, pray tell?" Aegon asked in disbelief, feeling anger rising within him. "When the danger of the ironmen is over? When is that supposed to be? When their damned islands sink into the sea?"

"Do you want to read it yourself? I have the letter here."

"Throw it in the fire or wipe your ass with it. That's all it's good for anyway," Aegon said, ignoring the slightly shocked expression on his wife's face.

If there was one thing that Aegon could not find any sympathy for, it was cowardice. And the greatest cowardice was to believe that one could simply stay out of a war for the future of the entire continent, just to avoid risking one's own prosperity. Sure, House Hightower had called the banners and ultimately – albeit reluctantly – declared themselves for him. They would not send knights and soldiers, however. So what was this declaration really worth in the end? Nothing, nothing at all. Should Aegon win this war, they would claim to have supported him – if not with men, then at least politically – and should one of the other sides be victorious in the end, they could still say that they had not really supported Aegon at all. The Hightowers wanted to wash their fur, but did not want to get wet. It was the middle path which they seemed to think was particularly wise, not to stay out of it entirely, but not to risk anything either. In the end, it was nothing but cowardice. Even granting that they needed to protect Oldtown from the ironmen, the Hightowers had nearly fifteen thousand men – knights and soldiers – under their command. A fraction of that would have been enough to reinforce Oldtown's already strong defenses so that they could have sent the rest of their men to him without leaving Oldtown unprotected or taking any excessive risk. But they didn't do that. Instead they holed up in their town and their tower behind their walls, doing nothing but symbolically waving a banner, hoping that this storm would just pass them by.

If Ser Gerold were still alive, he would certainly have sunk into the ground in shame, Aegon thought grimly. He felt Sansa put her gentle hand on his arm to comfort him, light as a feather.

"Have the Tarlys left already?" he finally asked, trying to change the subject and distract himself.

"Yes, two hours ago. Shortly after sunrise."

That was good. After Sansa's arrival, they had learned from Ser Arthur that an army from the Vale was close on their heels. Something between twelve and fifteen thousand knights and soldiers who had battled the loyalists in the Vale, fought their way through the Bloody Gate and along the high road through the Mountains of the Moon, and were now on their way to support Stannis Baratheon, either by joining him in Storm's End or by attacking King's Landing directly.

So they had decided to give Lord Tarly and his son command of most of his cavalry and a few thousand foot soldiers, twelve thousand men in total, to march north as quickly as possible to intercept the army from the Vale. One thousand men on horseback had remained behind in the city, which they would need for their assault on the last defensive lines and the Red Keep, while the rest were now marching north under Lord Tarly's command. He would not even have to defeat the army from the Vale, merely hold them off long enough for Aegon and the rest of his army to decide the battle for King's Landing and to then leave for the south to confront Stannis. If in the end Lord Tarly were surprisingly successful and actually able to defeat his enemies, all the better. There were only a few men whom he trusted to accomplish this task at all, but the Lord of Horn Hill certainly was one of them.

He was also glad to have given this task to Randyll Tarly for an entirely different reason, but one that he had not wanted to share with his brother. It was not easy for a lord to earn a reputation as a commander and tactician beyond some warlike moniker, yet Lord Tarly possessed a name like a thunderclap. However, for many things away from the war council, he was about as well suited as a giant to crawl into a mouse hole. The man was a genius on the battlefield, hard and unyielding to himself and his men. Unfortunately, however, he was equally hard with words, sometimes almost brazen, and was woefully out of place in situations where caution, restraint, and at least a little subtlety were needed. So it was fine for Agon not to have him here at the moment, since he had already had to intervene far too often to prevent his men from going at each other's throats for a wrong word here or a childish sass there.

"Will you meet with him today?" Daeron asked, pulling Aegon out of his thoughts. He didn't have to ask who he meant to know. Sansa knew as well, as he could tell by the way her head was quickly whirling around.

"Of course. If he wants to see me, that is."

"Sure he does," Sansa said, her hand still on his arm. Aegon could only hope that this was true.

After they had all finished breaking their fast, he said his goodbyes to Sansa, gave her another kiss and then went to the remains of Fishmonger's Square with Daeron along the Street of Steel first and, after a short detour to the few smithies working again at the foot of Visenya's Hill, along River Row. It was good to see that despite the ongoing fighting and the uncertain situation, life was already returning to some parts of the city. Around Cobbler's Square and near the Street of Sisters, the townspeople who were still there had even begun to repair buildings and even rebuild some of them again, as he had been pleased to note yesterday. Apparently the folks of King's Landing were confident of the future, even if Aegon could not yet share that level of certainty.

Ser Arthur, on a white steed that matched his white armor and cloak, was close behind them, his back straight as a spear and Dawn at his side. Aegon had initially wanted to send him with Sansa, but the assurances of his beloved that nearly thirty northerners coming with her mother and another forty Darry men, including the Sers Hendry Bracken and Bryce Hawick, would be enough to protect her when she handed out alms to the poor and starving, while he himself would be far too close for her liking to the front lines at the foot of Aegon's High Hill, had left him no choice. Sansa's lovely gaze and her sweet kiss, after which he could not have refused her anything in the world anyway, had, however, undoubtedly also contributed their part to his decision.

Sansa would spend the day with her mother, tending to the poorhouses of the city with the supplies of food and clothing they had brought with them or bought from some Essosi merchants. She was the new queen and even if Aegon didn't think much of her roaming around the city while it was still embattled and not fully secured, it was undoubtedly a good idea to secure the love of the common people. Then in the afternoon she would retire together with her mother to some private place, probably the spacious living rooms attached to Tobho Mott's smithy, where they now resided anyway, and devote herself to needlework, as she had told him. Of course, this wasn't something that would really help them, but Sansa was sure it would calm her mother's nerves. And she would be safe there, which was why Aegon generally liked the idea.

When Daeron and he arrived at the harbor, they found it almost completely empty. After his entire fleet had already set sail to protect the Arbor, the coast of Dorne and Blackwater Bay, and to free the Stepstones from the pirate plague, the capitol's harbor was as empty as Aegon had ever seen it in his life. Only two ships of his fleet that they had been unable to get seaworthy in time were still lying at anchor, along with a handful of ships belonging to Essosi merchants and mercenary companies. They rode their horses further along River Row, crossing the remains of Fishmonger's Square and inspecting the preparations for the assault on and the breakthrough through Viserys' defensive lines, even though there was not much to inspect and even less for Aegon and Daeron to do there. The preparations were progressing well, due in no small part to the Darry men, rested, well fed and ready for battle, who had arrived in the city with Sansa. One more day, maybe two, and everything was prepared for the assault to begin. If everything went well, tomorrow evening they would already be at the gates of the Red Keep, or perhaps they would have even overcome them altogether.

Noon was already over when Aegon, after a short meal in one of the open taverns at the harbor, fish soup and roasted bread, finally decided that it was time to do what had to be done.

"We should get going now," he said.

"Indeed," Daeron agreed.

His brother knew him well enough to know that their so-called inspection of the preparations had been nothing more than Aegon's attempt to buy some time before he would inevitably have to meet with Robb. Daeron gave him a knowing nod, a faint, wry smile on his face as they turned their horse and rode toward the Muddy Way, Ser Arthur behind him. It was the shortest route through the city to reach the northwestern wall in front of which Robb's army had set up camp. Luckily, they no longer had to reckon with any resistance. The remaining soldiers, who had still held the Old Gate in Viserys' name, had surrendered at the sight of the two armies approaching via the Kingsroad and handed over the gate to them without a fight. Daeron had thus attacked the Iron Gate yesterday with the two thousand men instead of the Old Gate, but had found the defenses so weak that the battle had ended victoriously after less than an hour. Now they finally had control of all the city gates, even if that would do them little good during the assault on the Red Keep.

They crossed the city swiftly, but silently. Aegon could literally feel Ser Arthur's gaze at his back, but never heard him say a word. Daeron had his faint smile on his lips the entire time, but was as silent as if he had swallowed his tongue. His uncle Oberyn, the lords Jordayne and Santagar as well as Ser Duncan Brune were already waiting for them at the Old Gate on their horses and lined up wordlessly behind Aegon. They left the city through the Old Gate and thus rode directly into the camp of Robb Stark's army, which had been raised a short distance outside the city gates.

Aegon knew that many of Robb's men had tried to persuade him to set up camp farther away from the walls, out of range of Aegon's archers. Robb however had, probably due to the good counsel of his mother, Sansa and Daeron, refrained from making his presence look like a siege. Aegon, for his part, had ordered the Old Gate and Dragon Gate to be left open, as a clear sign that he did not regard Robb and his men as his enemies. It still surprised him that after their first... rather physical meeting, the two of them had still been able to make such rational decisions, albeit physically separated from each other and only communicating via short messages that Sansa, Daeron, and Ser Arthur had carried back and forth between the city and Robb's camps. Now, however, no one would carry messages back and forth for them. Aegon would have to speak to Robb personally, hoping to somehow convince him to bend the knee to him. As if that wasn't difficult enough after the beating they had given each other, for which, Aegon had to admit, he himself was to blame, he already knew from Sansa that this was unlikely to happen. His wife had not given him any details, but had made it very clear that it was not so much Robb's hunger for power or a crown as much as their family's position among their bannermen that was a problem. Aegon didn't know exactly what that meant, but believed Sansa that this was going to be a hard piece of work for all of them. Nevertheless, he had to and wanted to try to come to an agreement with him, and he already had an idea how he would do it too.

They had ridden only a few steps into the camp of the Stark army when soldiers approached them, took the reins of their horses and squires scurried up to offer them bread and salt. Two knights came up to them, big men with backs as broad as oxen, according to the coats of arms on their doublets a Manderly of White Harbour and a Blackwood of Raventree Hall, and escorted them through the camp toward a large tent that had been erected in the center, over which flew a huge banner bearing the direwolf of House Stark.

The air in the tent was warm, almost sticky, as he entered. Robb stood on a small dais at the head of the tent, dressed in black and gray with his iron crown on his head. His face was just as red and blue and swollen as Daeron's and probably his own. As much as Robb had dealt out, he had also taken quite a beating, especially from Aegon. Aegon had to fight with himself for a moment to suppress a proud grin. It was silly to think that way, but Aegon just couldn't help it. To Robb's right and left his bannermen had taken up their positions, joined immediately by the knights from White Harbour and Raventree Hall. Aegon recognized the coats of arms of the houses Karstark of Karholt, Umber of Last Hearth, Reed of Greywater Watch, Mormont of Bear Island, and Glover of Deepwood Motte among others. His own men also to his right and left, he took up position opposite Robb, who stepped down from his dais to greet him.

He meets me at eye level. This is good, Aegon thought.

"Your Grace, welcome," Robb said, his cheek red and swollen and with a small cut under his left eye.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Aegon returned. He needed Robb's support, needed him to kneel, needed his loyalty and needed his men. Not to finish off Viserys, but having already lost a significant number of men in the battle for King's Landing, ten thousand dispatched on ships to guard the coasts of Westeros and twelve thousand more sent north with Lord Tarly, he would need Robb and his men to be able to face Stannis Baratheon in battle soon. Conquering King's Landing and the Red Keep and dominating the seas around his continent did him precious little good if he then, with a far too small and totally exhausted army, was simply overrun by Stannis Baratheon. Robb's men were fresh, eager to fight and willing to go into battle for their king, even if that king was not Aegon. He needed Robb on his side. So even if he did not intend to do this more often, at this moment he had to address Robb in the manner proper for a king.

"Why are you here?" Robb asked.

"You know why."

"Do you want to punch me again?"

"No," Aegon returned.

"I will not kneel to you."

Aegon was just about to reply something, try to make it clear to Robb why there was no other way, certainly no better way, than to accept him as his king and bring the North back into the rest of the realm, when one of the Umbers, so heavily drunk that it seemed hard for him to keep standing on his two feet, suddenly stepped forward and spat on the ground in front of Aegon.

"We are Northerners. We don't bend the knee to a southron brat just because he has white hair."

Within a heartbeat, all hell broke loose. Ser Duncan was the first to cry out indignantly while Oberyn spewed a volley of insults in the northerners' direction that would even have brought blushes of shame to the face of a whore from Flea Bottom. The northerners didn't waste any time and responded with similar insults. He heard Lady Stark's voice somewhere in the background, calling for some soldiers who rushed in and placed themselves between the two groups, working hard to keep them apart and prevent another bloody brawl. Aegon tried to calm his men down while Robb was trying to do the same with his own, unsuccessfully though. As soon as he had silenced one of his men, the next one would start shouting insults. Robb was obviously struggling with the same problem, as he could tell by the seemingly never-ending chain of insults against himself, Daeron, Oberyn, or just about anyone who prayed to the Seven instead of a tree.

"It stinks of Dornish goat-fuckers in here," he heard someone yell in his uncle's direction.

"The only thing that stinks in here is your hairy breed, wildling," his uncle replied immediately.

Aegon had known it would be heated, but this was not at all how he had imagined this meeting. The shouting grew louder and louder and the two groups could hardly be separated by the completely overwhelmed soldiers anymore, when Aegon turned around and left the tent without another word.

Outside he stopped, tried to ignore the angry shouting from the tent behind him and took a deep breath. The air was fresh, cold and smelled of the salty sea air. It only took a moment before he heard footsteps behind him and someone else taking a deep breath. He came to stand next to him and Aegon didn't have to look to the side to know it was Robb who had joined him.

"Well, that escalated quickly," Aegon said.

"Like little kids. You'd think it was their crown at stake, not mine."

Aegon snorted out a short laugh, but otherwise said nothing. For a while they stood side by side in silence, enjoying the cool air and staring in the direction of King's Landing as if turned to stone.

"Shall we walk a bit?" Aegon finally asked, for the first time turning his gaze to Robb. Robb merely nodded, turned towards him, and walked at his side through his camp. They wandered wordlessly side by side until they left his camp on the eastern edge. Robb gave a quick signal to his soldiers who were hurrying behind him, whereupon they stopped and stayed back in camp. They continued walking up a slight slope until they came to a halt on a small hilltop from which they could look down on the Kingsroad, see the Rosby Road in the distance and even beyond it the waters of Blackwater Bay.

"I will not kneel," Robb said, his voice calm.

"You will have to."

"You can't make me."

"No, I can't," Aegon admitted. "Not at the moment."

"I want independence for the North and the parts of the Riverlands that have sworn fealty to me."

"I can't accept that. You know that I can't."

"Of course you can. Accept it, and I promise you that I will support you in your fight. I will support you with all my power and all my men to win your crown and throne if you accept to be king of six kingdoms in return, not seven anymore. That is a good offer."

I'm sorry, but it's not, Aegon thought. Not at all.

"That's impossible," Aegon said firmly.

"I know we don't know each other well, but I would never have thought of you as such a person."

"What kind of person?"

"One to whom power is so important. Daeron certainly painted a different picture of his brother whenever he talked about you during his time in Winterfell," Robb said in a calm voice, his gaze fixed on the distance.

"It's not about power," Aegon said after a moment of silence.

"Then what is it about?"

"The North is and has to be a part of my realm. It's as easy as that. If I were to grant the North its independence, what right would I have to demand allegiance from the other kingdoms after that? From Dorne, which has resisted the might of the Iron Throne for nearly two centuries? By what right could I still demand loyalty from the Reach, the Vale, or the Iron Islands? The realm would fall apart. So no one, absolutely no one, sitting on the Iron Throne will ever accept the independence of the North or any other part of the realm for that matter. Stannis won't, Viserys certainly won't, and neither can I."

"Then why should I support you at all?"

"Because I'm your best alternative, Robb," Aegon said, forcing a weak smile to his lips. "Your sister is my wife. She will be my queen, and you will one day succeed your father as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And with me on the throne, you'll have nothing to fear about this King in the North-thing either. Stannis and Viserys would hardly look the other way on that."

"So your offer is a crown for my sister and otherwise everything as before?"

Aegon could tell by his tone that he wasn't even close to having Robb convinced.

"Your father has already bent the knee to me."

"That's what you say."

"That's what everyone says, your own sister included, because it's the truth. To turn on me would be to usurp your own father. You can't possibly want that."

"Of course not. Yet I cannot kneel, Aegon."

Aegon noticed that Robb had just addressed him by his first name for the first time since they had been standing here talking. That was good, he felt. It meant that Robb was getting closer to him, opening up to him. And aside from the fact that they were here potentially negotiating the future of his reign, the future of the realm and the future of both their families, it made him happy to be getting closer to his wife's brother. No matter how this whole thing would turn out in the end, he would be happy to call Robb his friend.

"Sansa has already told me that your situation is... difficult," Aegon then said. "She didn't go into any details, but she was very insistent."

Robb answered nothing, but not denying it was enough of an answer. Aegon waited a few moments before continuing, just in case Robb did want to say something after all. He didn't, though.

"You don't have to bend the knee to me, then," he said.

"You accept my crown, my kingship?" asked Robb, looking at him with a furrowed brow.

"For now, yes."

"For now? You want me to help you win your crown, and once you've consolidated your power and are strong enough, you want to take mine away again? Is that what you're saying?"

"No, of course not. Let me ask you a question, otherwise all this talk is going nowhere anyway. Do you want to be king?"

"What?"

"It's an easy question. Do you want to be king?"

"I am king."

"I know. But do you want it?"

That was the crucial question. Perhaps he had mistaken Robb and being the King in the North, a North that was no longer ruled by the Iron Throne, had always been his childhood dream. But if not, there was another way. Aegon counted the heartbeats waiting for Robb to answer. Five, six, seven, eight…

"No," he then said, his voice low and calm, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "I never meant for this to happen. It just did."

"And now it seems like there's no way out."

"Yes. So what are you suggesting?"

"What I am suggesting is a way out."

"How?"

"I will accept your crown. Once your father returns from Dorne, he will be the head of your family again, so your kingship will pass to him. Your father can then bend the knee to me again, lay down the crown, and it won't fall back on you. He's already bent the knee to me, and we both know him well enough to know that he doesn't do that kind of thing lightly, that he'll do it again. Your bannermen may then also be discontent about this, but no one will dare to challenge your father about it."

They were both silent for a while as Robb seemed to think about it.

"Your father will of course be Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North again and your sister will be the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but there's more," Aegon said after a while. "After the war is over, your family will receive a second seat as a reward for their support and their loyalty."

"A second seat? We have enough empty castles in the North, Aegon. We don't need another one."

"No such castles," Aegon said with a grin. "As soon as your father has bent the knee to me, I will allow a new branch of your family to be established, either by one of your brothers or one of your sons once they are born and of age, a strong seat of power not in the North but in the Riverlands. House Stark of Harrenhal."

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think of it? As always, feel free to let me know in the comments what you liked or didn't like or what you think generally. I always love to read your comments, so don't hold back. ;-)

See you next time.

Chapter 51: Catelyn 5

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. We are - not very surprisingly - back in King's Landing, seeing one more chapter through Catelyn's eyes. The chapter is not too long, but I hope you will still enjoy it. Have fun. :-)

She found Rickard Karstark lying face down in the dirt beside the entrance to his tent in a strangely discolored puddle that she could only hope was the remains of mead. She doubted it, though, looking at the man's condition. Last night, after Robb had announced that he had reached an agreement with King Aegon to support him in his fight for the Iron Throne, the latter in return accepting Robb's crown and the independence of the North, the man, along with Mors and Hother Umber, had nearly drunk himself to death celebrating this. Robb had only ended this excessive revelry late in the night when Hother Umber above all had begun singing loud, impudent slurs about House Targaryen and insulting King Aegon, after all the good-brother of his king, in such a way that Catelyn still shuddered even at the memory of it. Fortunately, neither King Aegon nor any of his men had been present. Otherwise, the evening would undoubtedly have ended in bloodshed.

"My lord. My lord, wake up," she said in a louder growing voice. "Your king is calling for you."

Robb had wanted to send out Lord Karstark and his son with two hundred men to scout for movement in the West, coming from the Reach or the Westerlands, but it seemed as if Robb would have to find someone else to whom he could bestow this honor. She tried to wake him up again, this time even louder. The man, however, did not move. Had he not been snoring so loudly, he might have been thought dead. She briefly considered waking the man with a gentle nudge of her foot, but as dirty as the man was, she would only have messed up her boots. So she decided against it, waved a squire to her and instead gave him the task of making sure Lord Karstark was made addressable again and, after an extensive bath, sent to Robb. And all this within the hour. Ignoring the boy's helpless look and stammering, she moved away from the pitiful sight.

She certainly wasn't going to let a man like Rickard Karstark spoil her excellent mood this morning. It was amazing how everything had turned out for all of them. The gods, whether the Seven or the nameless gods of the North or both, had truly smiled down on her family. Her girls were alive, Ned was alive, and now her son was also a king. Her wonderful son truly was a king. At least until Ned would be able to travel again and come back from Dorne. Then Ned would take the crown, make her queen, and Robb would be the crown prince. She could hardly believe that she would soon be the queen and the mother of a new, strong line of Kings in the North.

In hindsight, she was glad she hadn't been able to convince Robb when she had talked to him yesterday morning, before his meeting with King Aegon. She had tried to convince him to put Prince Daeron on the Iron Throne instead of Aegon, to condition his support for House Targaryen on Aegon renouncing his crown and giving way to Daeron, Robb's cousin by blood after all. Sansa would still have been a princess of the realm, might even have been able to remarry if an agreement could have been reached with Prince Daeron and the High Septon in this matter. Catelyn had already prepared suitable arguments and she had been sure that they would have come to an agreement. Robb's bannermen would certainly have preferred to see Prince Daeron, after all a half-northener and son of Lady Lyanna Stark, on the throne than his brother.

Half-brother, she reminded herself. Robb, however, had wanted to hear absolutely nothing of this. Catelyn had been appalled and even a bit disappointed by his stubbornness and shortsightedness. A king certainly needed a more political mind. That was something she thankfully would be able to work on, once Robb would be the crown prince again for hopefully many years while Ned was king. But now things had changed anyway, and Aegon had accepted the independence of the North. What exactly King Aegon had demanded, what exactly Robb and he had agreed upon, Catelyn did not know. She doubted, however, that it was Robb's support in the fight against Lord Stannis alone, support that the young Targaryen considered his right and Robb's duty anyway. Robb had been silent on the matter, saying only that they had arrived at an agreement that Ned would undoubtedly approve of. Whatever that was supposed to mean. Perhaps Sansa, too, had had her share in making King Aegon so agreeable. Certainly even. Her daughter had always had it in her to be a true lady, a queen. And now Sansa would be queen, as she herself as soon as her Ned returned.

Thinking about her wonderful daughters made her so happy that she could not put it into words. She could hardly wait to finally be able to hold her Arya in her arms again. She felt more excited than she had in years, even decades. Seeing Sansa again, alive and well, had been one of the happiest moments of her life, and at that she was also married to a king, now. And even Arya had apparently found the right way for a true lady, obviously leaving her… difficult character behind at last. She and Ned, though they had never spoken of it openly, had always feared that one day Arya would just show up unasked, heavy with child and a self-chosen husband on her arm, some miller's son, a dirty stable boy, or at best some feudless hedge knight. Now, however, she had actually secured herself a prince of Dorne. Sure, Prince Quentyn would never inherit his father's seat but House Martell, the House of the Queen Mother after all, was still one of the best Houses of the realm. And who could say whether the Dornish would not soon discard this silliness of female heirs and accept the firstborn son as sole heir, as did the rest of the realm and the civilized world? Catelyn was so incredibly proud of her little girl.

She had known it had been a good idea to send the girls south with Ned. Ned had been hesitant, but Catelyn had known it had been just the right thing to do. Of course, at the time she had still hoped that Sansa would find herself another son of a good southern house, since she hadn't believed it would or could actually be Prince Aegon. And Arya had been supposed to experience the courtly life, to be courted by one knight or lordling or another, perhaps to acquire a taste for it after all. But that she would change so much that it would be enough for a true prince, she would never have imagined in her wildest dreams.

The only thing that was still missing now was to have her Ned by her side again, her husband, her king. She felt the longing for him, for his voice, for his smell, for his touch inside her in every waking moment, when she rose from her bed in the morning until she fell asleep in it again in the evening. But even this longing, strong and consuming as it was, was so much sweeter and more wonderful than the thought of having lost her Ned forever, which until recently had clouded all her thinking. Ned was alive and he would come back to her. Soon. As soon as he could travel again. By now he must be feeling better, so it couldn't be long before he would hold her in his strong arms again. Maybe he was already on his way, even.

Walking away to get herself something to eat to finally break her fast, she turned around once more, looking at Lord Karstark. The man was still lying on the ground in his disgusting puddle, and even with the help of the squire he did not manage to struggle up from the ground. The boy tried desperately to help the slurring oaf up, but received only a strong blow to the chest and a heavy-tongued insult. It was a pitiful sight and a real disgrace for a man of his standing. She would talk to Robb about it later so he could have some serious words with Lord Karstark. In addition to the serious words he would undoubtedly already have to hear because he was unable to ride out to scout at Robb's command due to his drinking.

Catelyn reached her son's tent and sat down at the wide table, letting the servants bring her some oatmeal, bread, cheese, berries, hot tea and fresh milk. King Aegon had sent them some meat that he had bought from some Essosi merchants as well, sausages made from goat and horse meat from Pentos and salted meat from Myr, of which nobody really knew from which animal it was made, though. Catelyn thus decided against it. King Aegon had also sent some fine wines, but for that it was still too early in the day. Robb was already gone, as far as she knew on his way to a meeting with King Aegon and Prince Daeron, accompanied by Howland Reed and Wendel Manderly, and so she began to eat alone. Sansa had already had a messenger excuse her this morning, as she had various obligations throughout the day and therefore would not be able to spend time with her. What obligations her daughter might have in the middle of a war zone, Catelyn did not know, but did not want to doubt her daughter's honesty. As many obligations as a lady might have as the wife of a lord, she did not doubt that a lady had incomparably more obligations as the wife of a king. Tomorrow, however, she would be able to see her daughter again when they all entered the city and the two kings met for a small feast to celebrate their agreement, although it would hardly be more than a small luncheon, because the attack on the Red Keep was already planned for later that day, she knew.

Catelyn decided that she would have to talk to her son about this feast later in order to advise Robb that it would be better if they went there alone, even though his lords were also invited. But they should better go there with an escort only. A real danger would not come from Sansa's husband anyway, especially not now that they had already reached an agreement. Some of Robb's lords, however, had been all too eager to drink to their independence, and if they behaved even half as badly in the presence of King Aegon or one of his men as they had yesterday, no doubt the agreement would quickly come to an end again.

After finishing her meal, she dismissed the servants and stayed in Robb's tent alone for a while, reading some of the documents that were lying around on Robb's table. At first she felt like she was doing something forbidden, but then she remembered that soon, as queen, she would have to have insight into all things concerning their new kingdom and its governance anyway, in order to support Ned as best she could. Most of the documents were just lists of their host's available supplies, gold and silver reserves, and numbers of sick, wounded, and deserted soldiers. Food they still had enough and fortunately there were only few wounded and even fewer deserters to mourn, but gold and silver – to buy new supplies or even to recruit mercenaries, should they need them – they unfortunately had very little of, since they had left most of the riches behind in Riverrun. As the situation was at the moment, however, they probably wouldn't need that gold anyway.

She found several prepared but unfinished letters, written by Robb, requesting the best builders and masons from the Citadel in Oldtown and large quantities of building materials all over the realm and the Free Cities – huge quantities, in fact – apparently to repair some fortress. The name of the fortress was nowhere to be found in these letters, but Catelyn was sure that it could only be Moat Cailin, which Robb undoubtedly wanted to rebuild. The quantities of material, however, stones and timber, ropes and chains, nails and shingles, were so vast that two entirely new fortresses could have been built on them, Catelyn estimated. Undoubtedly, her son had hopelessly exaggerated with these numbers. The cost, which she only roughly estimated, would have completely ruined the North – even with all the gold from Winterfell and White Harbour – but to her delight she found repeated mention in the letters that King Aegon had already agreed to contribute very generously to the cost of this rebuilding in the years after the war. So Robb had negotiated well, she proudly realized.

There were also a few letters from Riverrun reporting on the situation on the western border of the Riverlands. All seemed quiet, though almost suspiciously quiet. A Lannister army, more than fifteen thousand strong, had been sighted almost three weeks ago near the Mummer's Ford some miles south of Sherrer, following the Red Fork further south towards Pinkmaiden. This army had not crossed the border into the Riverlands, however, and after Ser Robin Ryger's scouts had lost track of it, it had not been seen again. Lord Frey still refused to send more soldiers and knights, against the repeated orders of her father, Lord Hoster Tully. As soon as the war here in the south was over, they would have to deal with Lord Frey. Undoubtedly, such a man, who refused to truly support his liege lord and especially his king in times of war, could not be allowed to occupy such a powerful position as old Lord Walder Frey currently still did. The Twins were one of the most important strongholds when it came to protecting their new kingdom southward, and a man who was so unreliable could not possibly be entrusted with this honor and responsibility.

It was almost noon when Robb returned to his tent and announced that he was about to meet here with Prince Daeron and possibly King Aegon to discuss the upcoming attack on the Red Keep. At Catelyn's shocked inquiry, Robb again assured her that neither he nor any other northerners or riverlanders under his command would take part in this attack, but that he nevertheless wanted to support his cousin and his good-brother in this fight, if not with men, then at least with good advice. Briefly, she considered being present at this meeting, but then decided against it. She would have nothing to contribute to a discussion about attack strategies anyway and did not want to act like a mother watching her child play in the presence of the southern royals. Robb no longer was a child but a man grown.

She therefore only briefly discussed with Robb that tomorrow they would better meet with King Aegon with an escort only and without his lords and then, after he agreed to her proposal, said goodbye to her son to retire to her tent. It was a pity that she could not see Sansa today, but she also did not want to ride into the city without being announced, let alone invited. She probably would be welcome there as the king's good-mother, but she didn't want to risk anything. Of course, she did not want to enter the city without an escort – King's Landing was already too dangerous during peacetime for a lady to roam the streets without protection – but showing up there unannounced with soldiers at her back might lead to misunderstandings they simply could not afford. Her safety and that of the alliance between Robb and King Aegon were too important to be risked just because she was a little bored. So she decided to do some reading, some needlework – she had thought of a wonderful motif for a new doublet to present to Ned once they were back in Winterfell – and to write some letters, to Wynafyrd in Winterfell, to her sister Lysa in the Eyrie, to her good-brother Benjen at the Wall, who no doubt had also already heard the rumors of Ned's death and needed to know the truth, and to Prince Doran Martell, with whom her family would no doubt form close ties in the future. She also wanted to compose some letters to their vassals in the North and the Riverlands to invite certain people to Winterfell for the time after the war. Now that the North was a kingdom in its own right, there would be much more to decide and to do, much more to rule. Therefore, they would need many more capable people in their royal court than before. It certainly couldn't hurt to secure the services of good men rather sooner than later.

She wrote, having finished the basic form of the motif for Ned's new doublet after little more than two hours, about a dozen letters before her hand hurt too much and she quit for the day. She ate another small meal, a thick brown stew and some tea which she had had a servant bring her, laid out a clean undergarment, a pretty dress in Stark gray and Tully blue, a good cloak with fur trim and the direwolf of House Stark on the back, and clean boots for the next morning and then undressed to go to bed. She briefly considered whether she should already wear a crown tomorrow for when they would meet with King Aegon in King's Landing. Catelyn was unsure though if that wouldn't look a bit too intrusive, given that she technically was no queen as of yet but the Queen Mother. She briefly fretted not knowing if Queen Mother Rhaella always wore one. Unfortunately it was already too late to ask Sansa about it. When she finally snuggled under her blankets and furs after a last cup of strong red wine, she discarded the thought anyway, when she realized that she didn't have a crown yet in the first place and wouldn't have known where to get one in the short amount of time as well.

The next morning came quickly. She had a maid help her dress and then joined her son on the way into the city. The two of them rode into the city on slender, high-legged chestnut mares, followed by thirty men on impressive warhorses, all of them white as snow, through the Old Gate. Apart from a brief greeting, they barely spoke a word. Only a short distance beyond the gate, they were already met by King Aegon, Sansa, Prince Daeron, and a grim-faced guard of just ten men in the colors of House Targaryen, led by Ser Arthur Dayne. They were far too few soldiers to guard the king, queen, and the king's brother. Catelyn knew what this was supposed to mean. It was a sign of trust that King Aegon had in them. Bread and salt was offered to them after a short and friendly greeting. They then rode together, Robb and King Aegon in the lead, a short distance through the city. She saw that the two seemed to be talking animatedly, but could not understand what they were talking about. Sansa rode beside her, followed by Prince Daeron and Ser Arthur Dayne, but Sansa was almost as silent as Robb had been. She didn't get to hear more from Sansa than a few perfunctory questions about whether she was feeling fine and had slept well. Her daughter wore a gorgeous, if for her taste a bit too revealing, dress in deep black and shining red, which magnificently emphasized her nobly pale skin and the red of her hair, which she let fall openly over her shoulders and her back. She looked magnificent, even if Catelyn would have liked a bit more restraint.

Catelyn looked around as they rode past destroyed and burned-out houses at the foot of Hill of Rhaenys toward Street of the Sisters. The image of devastation sent a cold shiver down Catelyn's spine. She had not known King's Landing well, having been here only a few times as a young girl before the last rebellion, but she remembered – apart from the almost characteristic stench – an actually quite beautiful city with well-kept houses and workshops, alleys and a multitude of small gardens everywhere. She could only hope that after the war King Aegon and Sansa would succeed in rebuilding the city as quickly as it had been destroyed by the war.

They rode past the Great Sept of Baelor, which to Catelyn's dismay looked so badly damaged that she feared it would have to be completely rebuilt. Sansa assured her, however, that the damage was purely on the outside and that the Great Sept would quickly be restored to its former glory as soon as the war was over. King Aegon had already made a promise to the High Septon that the Crown would contribute to the cost of repairing the Great Sept as soon as they would be able to survey the costs of rebuilding the Red Keep. It reassured Catelyn to hear this and even more that the High Septon was apparently still alive. She briefly considered asking to speak with the High Septon, but decided against it.

They followed the road to beyond the crest of Visenya's Hill and there entered a building that looked like a smithy, which Sansa confirmed when she asked her about it. The house was large, made of wood and plaster, and looked impressive, almost noble, though it was far from being a royal palace. The double doors had an ebony and weirwood carving of a hunting scene. Two stone knights armored in red suits of armor in the shapes of a griffin and a unicorn guarded the entrance. Whoever had lived here must have been a wealthy man.

The meal itself, held in a surprisingly large and comfortable room in the living quarters above the smithy, went pleasantly enough, and it surprised Catelyn what delicacies King Aegon had been able to serve up. There were three different kinds of fresh bread, various cheeses with either caraway seeds, dragon peppers, or even prunes in them, a hearty stew with goat meat and beets, eggs from chickens and ducks, a whole basket of fresh fruit, pies with onions and either cod and clams or venison and beans, and finally two cakes, one with honey and lemons and one with wild berries. There were also two different kinds of tea, one of herbs and one that tasted deliciously of red berries and smelled like spring flowers, fresh milk and three different kinds of chilled wine.

Sansa, after her first hunger had apparently been satisfied, was now also no longer so tongue-tied, spoke at length about how she had spent the previous day and with whom she had met and what she and King Aegon were planning to do once this war was won. She also listened closely to what Catelyn had heard and learned from the North, asked about Lady Wynafryd and the child she was expecting, and how her grandfather, Lord Hoster, was doing. Robb was talking almost cheerfully with King Aegon and his cousin Prince Daeron, laughing and joking, although Catelyn still could not understand what they were talking about.

Apparently not about the war, she thought, as she listened with only one ear as Sansa told her about her meeting yesterday with the High Septon, who, as she learned, was no longer the High Septon from before the war, but a new High Septon. She hinted that he probably wouldn't hold that position for long, though, even if Catelyn didn't quite know what she might mean by that and also didn't inquire about it. At the moment, the scraps of words she tried to catch from the conversation between the two kings just a few steps away were more interesting than who wore the crystal crown, but unfortunately did not get her any further in grasping the content of the conversation.

The meal was already over and they were about to take their leave when the door flew open and a soldier in the black and brown of House Darry entered the room. Ser Arthur's hand darted to the hilt of his sword for a tiny moment before letting go of it as the unarmed man sank to one knee in the center of the room. He was out of breath and almost seemed to drop to one knee more from exhaustion than submission before King Aegon.

"Your Grace, forgive my intrusion," the man gasped. "Your uncle Prince Oberyn felt you should be informed as soon as possible."

"It's all right," King Aegon said, rising as he did so. As he stood there then, upright and his back straight as a spear, Catelyn had to admit that the young man looked impressive indeed.

Impressive as a king should be. Just as impressive as my son looks, she thought proudly.

"You may rise. What do I need to be informed about as soon as possible?" King Aegon continued.

"A man has been caught, near the Dragonpit. Has suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Behind our lines! Says he needs to speak to you as soon as possible, Your Grace."

"And does this man have a name?"

"Manly Stokeworth, Your Grace."

"Take me to him," the king ordered.

Robb asked to be allowed to accompany King Aegon to the meeting, as he also wanted to know what was going on, and so the latter unceremoniously extended an invitation to them all to accompany him. Less than half an hour later, they were already in a shallow building in the ruins of Flea Bottom, which seemed to be serving as a royal dungeon for the moment. It only took a quick glance from Catelyn for her to realize that this was a former brothel. Prince Oberyn had been waiting for them at the entrance and now accompanied them inside. She spared a comment on the fact that it hardly surprised her to find the Viper of Dorne at the entrance of a brothel, even if it was on the tip of her tongue. That this man, the king's uncle, was supposed to be a part of Sansa's new family displeased her beyond measure. Entering, she looked around, disgusted by practically everything she found. Chairs and benches where usually girls and women waited for their suitors and rancid clothes made of cheap colored fabric lying on the floor, which probably exposed more than it covered on the body of each woman. And everywhere the unpleasant smell of cold sweat and cheap scented water still hung in the air. What the hooks in the walls were normally used for when there were no prisoners chained to them, she didn't even want to think about. They entered the even shallower cellar of the building, in the middle of which, flanked by four soldiers in the colors of House Martell, a man was kneeling on the floor.

Even kneeling, the man was big, with broad shoulders, thick arms of pure muscle and a shaggy black beard that reached down to his chest. One of the soldiers held a spear to his back, though Catelyn had no doubt that this ox of a man could have easily broken all of his guards in two before they could have taken him down. He wore the armor of a Gold Cloak from King's Landing, albeit so dirty and worn that it was barely recognizable anymore.

"Your Grace," the man said as he saw King Aegon enter the room, deeply bowing his head.

"Manly Stokeworth, it is indeed you," the king said, seeming genuinely pleased. He quickly gave the soldiers the order to put their weapons away, reached out a hand to the kneeling man, and pulled him to his feet. Standing, the man was even taller and had to remain half-bent as the ceiling hung so much too low for him.

"I am sorry I did not come to you sooner, Your Grace. Your uncle only trusts his red knights now, so for a long time I was unable to leave the Red Keep. I was either assigned to guard duty on one of the round towers or as an archer in one of the nests on the southern flank of Aegon's High Hill. And all the while those damned red knights circle overhead like vultures, just waiting for you to do or say something they can blacken you for with your uncle. I've lost some good men just because they were too loose-tongued around those red bastards. I have come as quickly as I could, Your Grace."

"And now you have indeed made it here."

"Yes, Your Grace. And now, my way out becomes your way in."

"So how did you get past our lines?"

"Passed through under them, Your Grace. Through one of the tunnels. The last one that still exists."

"There is still one of the tunnels?" Prince Daeron asked excitedly from the side.

"Yes, this one is the last."

"Where?"

"In the Dragonpit, Your Grace. In the northernmost of the lairs."

"The great lair where Balerion the Black Dread has been nesting?"

"Yes, Your Grace. That one. In it, on the eastern side, there is a small nook framed by black bricks with a red crown above it. When the light is right, you can see a small gap that leads to the tunnel. If you don't know it's there, it's almost impossible to see the opening."

"And does Viserys know about it?" King Aegon asked.

"No. He gave orders to find and destroy the last tunnels before you arrived here because he and your father feared you might enter the Red Keep through one. Some of my men and I were able to hide this tunnel from him and keep it open."

"Where does the tunnel lead?"

"Behind the kitchens of the Little Gallery, just beyond the ruins of the Tower of the Hand, Your Grace."

"That's perfect," King Aegon said. Prince Daeron nodded in agreement, a broad grin on his face. "It's a good place to gather first. It's not far to the main gate to fall into the defenders' backs, and Maegor's Holdfast is practically right next to it."

"Do we know if we can trust him?" asked Robb.

Catelyn was startled when she heard her son's words, but tried not to let it show. Ser Arthur's look told her, however, that she hadn't entirely succeeded.

We. He said we. Not you.

"Can we," she heard her daughter speak. All heads turned to her. "Rhaella trusted him. When the riots and the first fighting started in King's Landing and we needed protection, Rhaella trusted him to protect Jeyne and Rhaenys and me. Him, nobody else. Rhaella trusted him, so I do, too."

"That's good enough for me," King Aegon said, smiling at Sansa.

"For me, too," Prince Daeron said with a serious nod.

"As it is for me," Robb then said, with an equally serious expression. Catelyn wanted to say something, wanted to intervene, wanted to remind her son not to get involved in this fight, but before she had even gotten a word out, King Agon was already speaking on.

"Then this is how we'll do it. The attack on the Red Keep will take place as planned, but in addition I will go through the tunnel with a hundred men, surprise the defenders from behind, and if possible attack Maegor's Holdfast immediately, before Viserys and Father can fort up in it." The king turned to Sansa, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her to him before continuing. "But before anything happens here, we have to take care of you, my love."

"Take care of me?" asked Sansa.

"Yes, we'll get you to safety. Out of the city."

"What? No, no way," she protested, but the tears welling up in her eyes revealed that Sansa herself didn't think she could win this. "I'm not leaving you."

"You have to. You have to be safe. You and our child."

"King Aegon is right," Catelyn said now, earning a horrified look from Sansa as if she had just betrayed her to the enemy. "You can't help him here."

"Robb and I have already made arrangements to get you both out of here," King Aegon said.

"You both? Who do you mean by you both?"

"Sansa and you, of course, my lady. Five hundred horsemen, three hundred Northeners and two hundred from Dorne, will take you to Darry. You will make few halts and move quickly, and there you will be safe," he said, his eyes again on Sansa. "Lord Tarly keeps the army from the Vale busy, so you will have nothing to fear from that on the way either. And should Darry be attacked, you can take a ship and escape. Five warships of the royal fleet are already lying ready a few miles east of Widow's Ford to take you to White Harbor or Sunspear."

"No. No, no, no," Catelyn said firmly. "You might send Sansa away, but I'll stay with my son. You cannot command me anything."

"I can," Robb said with a voice as serious as his gaze.

"But Robb, you need me. I can-"

"You're in danger here, mother," he interrupted her, "and if it comes to fighting, you can't help me. Aegon and I have agreed and made all the arrangements together. You will go. Both of you."

"And when were you going to tell me this, son?"

"Right now."

"And when do you want us to go?" asked Sansa.

King Aegon and all the bystanders were startled when they suddenly heard the ringing of bells in the distance. First one, then two, then more and more. Only Robb, Sansa, and herself looked around questioningly.

"Right now," King Aegon replied.

"What does that mean?"

"The bells? That an hostile army has been sighted, that the city is under attack. Stannis is here, or will be soon. That is why you must go now, love. Right now, before the city is sealed off and you can't get out. Ser Arthur will take command of the five hundred horsemen. He will be your shield again, my love."

He pulled her closer, embraced her, kissed her hair, her brow, and finally her mouth. It would have been a beautiful sight had Catelyn not been so frantic with anger. She wanted to say something, wanted to protest just being sent away like that, but didn't get the chance. And besides, she wouldn't have known what to say. Robb was her king – for the moment – and he had obviously already made his decision.

Moments later, Sansa and she were back on their horses, thundering northeast through the city, accompanied by Ser Arthur Dayne and most of their escorts. A soldier had brought word that an army from the Reach under the Tyrell banner had been spotted less than half a day's march from King's Landing. Twenty thousand men, perhaps more. King Aegon and Prince Daeron had immediately headed toward the west side of the city to prepare defenses, while Robb had ridden hurriedly back to their camp with orders to move behind the city walls. Even if the North was not officially at war with Lord Stannis, it would still not be good to be caught cowering unprotected outside the city walls while an army sworn to him was marching towards it. Robb's army would retreat to the city and, as he had agreed with King Aegon, support King Aegon and his forces in the fight against Stannis.

Catelyn looked over at Sansa as they sped along the Street of Steel and then turned onto the Street of Silk toward the Dragonpit. Despite the fast ride, her body was clearly wracked with sobs and her face was red and tear-stained. She considered calling something over to her for a moment, but didn't know what. On their journey to Darry – she could only hope that Lord Tarly was indeed able to keep the army from the Vale busy, as King Aegon had said he would, otherwise it would be a very short journey – and later in Darry they would have plenty of time to talk, she would have plenty of time to comfort her daughter.

They turned down into another wide road with knobbly cobblestones that would take them on a direct route to the Iron Gate, she knew. She heard Sansa shout something to Ser Arthur, who shouted back that they would be traveling on the Rosby Road for a while, then turning onto the Kingsroad via small roads only farther north. That way they would go unnoticed for longer.

It took them almost two hours to reach the Iron Gate, taking wide berths around barricades and still disputed areas of the city. New horses were already waiting for them there, along with the five hundred armed horsemen. Catelyn wondered involuntarily if Robb and King Aegon had intended all along to send them away so quickly and suddenly, or if this was due to the approaching army from the Reach, if they had intended to explain it to them first and see them off as they should. In any case, their departure had been scheduled for today, that much was certain. Otherwise, the horses and the five hundred riders there would not have been waiting for them already.

Catelyn had already mounted her new horse and inspected the armed riders, only part of whom she could see through the open gate. The majority were indeed northeners, some of them men she knew or at least had seen before. Sansa stood beside her new horse as Ser Arthur stepped up to help her into the saddle. Instead, however, her daughter raised her hand and pushed the knight back a half step.

"I must speak with you," she said to the Sword of the Morning.

"My queen, I must take you to safety. His Grace's orders are clear."

"And so are mine, ser. I must speak with you, now. Otherwise, you must force me onto the back of this horse, bound and gagged."

For a moment, Ser Arthur looked as if he was seriously considering doing so. Then, however, he nodded in resignation. Sansa immediately hooked onto him, a satisfied smile on her lips, and pulled him to the side away from their group. Catelyn could not understand the words, but Sansa seemed to be speaking animatedly to him. Ser Arthur nodded from time to time, then shook his head again, seeming to want to object now and then, but Sansa didn't seem to allow it. Finally, a wide, satisfied, almost grateful smile spread across the knight's face as he bowed his head deeply to Sansa.

Then they returned to the horses with quick steps, Ser Arthur helping Sansa into the saddle and then mounting his horse as well. Catelyn looked at her daughter with a questioning look, hoping to learn what this had meant, but received no explanation.

"I thank you, my queen," Ser Arthur said before Sansa set her horse in motion toward the Iron Gate.

Notes:

So, that was it. Robb has not told Cat of the details about his agreement with Aegon, so Cat still thinks she is going to be queen soon and is very much enjoying the thought. I know Robb could have told her what he and Aegon had agreed upon, but I thought that Catelyn would possibly have disapproved of it and so Robb decided to let his father handle Cat. ;-) Also, since a lot of the northern Lords would be against bending the knee to Aegon, Robb wanted as few people as possible to know about it.
I know this is not necessarily the best course of action, but I somehow felt that showing Cat already dreaming of her life as queen would be a little fun. ;-)

So, as always, please let me know what you think about this chapter in the comments. Do you like it? Do you hate it? Feel free to let me know. :-)

See you next time.

Chapter 52: Daeron 10

Notes:

Hi everyone,

the next chapter is here. We will follow Daeron around defending the city, basically. :-) Hope you have fun.

"What does that mean?"

"The bells? That an hostile army has been sighted, that the city is under attack," Aegon told his wife "Stannis is here, or will be soon. That is why you must go now, love. Right now, before the city is sealed off and you can't get out. Ser Arthur will take command of the five hundred horsemen. He will be your shield again, my love."

His brother pulled Sansa closer, kissing her several times. A soldier rushed into the room before Aegon could let go of Sansa. One look from his brother was enough for the soldier to begin reporting.

"Tyrell, Your Grace. Twenty thousand, probably more."

"How far away?"

"Half a day, less if they march on at this pace."

"I'll get my men into the city," Robb said.

"Yes, do that," said Aegon. "Stannis may not be your enemy, but he's not your friend either. And no one knows what Lord Tyrell will do when he sees your men camping outside the city. We," he said looking at Daeron, "ride together to the Gate of the Gods. That is the hardest to defend from the west. That is where they will strike first."

"Your Grace," Ser Arthur said from the side. "I beg you, let me be at your side. I have sworn to protect you, to die for you if necessary. Please, Your Grace, let me fulfill my vow."

Aegon looked at the knight for a moment. Ser Arthur was a proud man, and Daeron could not even imagine what an overcoming it must have cost him to ask Aegon in that tone, to literally beg him to be allowed by his side. Daeron, however, knew his brother, knew how little trust he had in Ser Arthur, who had always been one of their father's closest friends and confidants, always defending him against any criticism, even when his descent into lunacy had become more and more obvious. Aegon trusted Ser Arthur to do his duty and protect the expecting Sansa, but he would not have him at his side in battle. For a brief moment, it looked like Aegon was going to grant him his wish, before his face hardened again, however.

"You have your orders, ser," Aegon said briefly.

He then gave a quick nod to Ser Arthur, who then, with drooping shoulders and a disappointed look on his face, grabbed the weeping Sansa by the shoulders and gently but firmly escorted her from the room. Lady Catelyn followed on her heels. She looked as if she wanted to say something and could hardly restrain herself from reprimanding her son, but then thankfully kept her mouth shut.

"So what do we do now?" asked Daeron once the ladies were out of the room and the door closed. "We could try a sally attack. With a little luck, we might be able to hit the army from the Reach before they're in formation at our gates. If we hit them hard-"

"No," Aegon interrupted him. "We would have to call off the attack on the Red Keep for such a massive blow."

 "The Red Keep will still be there after that. What's more important now is to intercept and disable the army from the Reach."

"We are not postponing the attack on the Red Keep. Even if we managed to catch the Reachers in time and hit them hard enough so that they wouldn't be a threat afterwards, if things went badly, we'd lose so much of our forces in the process that we wouldn't be able to take the Red Keep."

"But we can-"

"No. I'm not going to let Viserys and our father get away with this. This is going to end. Right here, right now."

"So what do we do?" asked Robb now.

"We?" asked Aegon.

"Yes, we. I gave you my word that I would support you in the fight against Lord Stannis, and the Tyrells are his men. So I'm with you on that. Tell me what you need from me."

Aegon looked at him for a moment and Daeron could see that he would have loved to take his good-brother in his arms.

"I will tell you what we are going to do," he then said, however. "The attack on the Red Keep will proceed as planned. Ser Symon will take command of the troops at the harbor, and Ser Aron will take command of half the cavalry. Ser Ulwyck will take command of the troops at the Guidhall of the Alchemists, Ser Duncan of the rest of the cavalry waiting at the Dragonpit. I'll go with Uncle Oberyn and a hundred Dornish spears through the tunnel into the Red Keep. If we can time it right, we can stab the defenders in the back and take the Red Keep and Maegor's Holdfast with just one quick strike. You, little brother, take command of every man and mouse we have left and defend the city together with Robb. Hold it as long as you can."

"That won't be very long, though."

"Doesn't matter. Give me enough time to finish off Viserys and our father. That's all I need. If you can't hold the city any longer, try a sally. Try to fight your way through their lines and escape."

"Escape?" asked Daeron, horrified. "Then I would leave you here."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not!"

"Absolutely! If the city can't be held, it's too late for me to escape anyway. I will try to entrench myself in the Red Keep with the men who stormed it. But you must escape. You must survive, gather new troops. You must continue the fight, brother. And you must protect Sansa and my child should… should I be gone. Promise me, brother. Promise me," he said, grabbing Daeron by the shoulders and looking him urgently in the eyes.

"I promise," Daeron said in a weak voice. "I will hold the city, brother. And if I fail, I'll come back as soon as I can and get you out of here."

"I know," Aegon said, and Daeron could hear in his voice that he didn't think he'd be still here then.

"If we are going to proceed like this, I should ride alone to the Gate of the Gods. I'll prepare the defenses there. You need to hurry and make your way to the Dragonpit, order the attack on the Red Keep to begin, and make it through the tunnel. The sooner the Red Keep falls, the better."

"All right, let's do it that way," Aegon said, nodding gravely once more to Daeron and Robb and turning to leave. Before he left the room, he turned around once more. He grabbed Daeron and pulled him into a tight hug. Daeron returned the hug, not wanting to let go of his brother.

"Stay alive," Aegon whispered.

"You too," Daeron returned.

Then they left the room together, mounted their horses and rode off in different directions. Daeron made his way through the city, past hundreds of soldiers beating drums and singing war songs, marching toward the western wall of the city. Less than an hour later, Daeron was already on the southern, large tower next to the Gate of the Gods, giving him a good view along the Roseroad over which the army would undoubtedly approach.

Two thousand men had already lined up on the walls, more than a hundred Targaryen banners had been quickly hoisted along the wall between Lion Gate to the south and Old Gate to the north. Everyone should see to whom this city belonged and against whom they stood if they attacked. The fires under the cauldrons at the gates and on the battlements of the wall had been lit and the water in them was already beginning to get hot. For the arrival of their enemies it would boil and give an exceedingly ugly welcome to many who would be among the first brave to attempt to storm the wall. Another three hundred archers, led by Dick Crabb, were just coming down the path from Visenya's Hill, climbing the stairs and ladders to join their comrades on the wall. Ser Hyle Hunt had taken command of the remaining Tarly men and was now – following Daeron's orders despite his protests – on his way with them to the fish market to reinforce the protection of the wall between the King's Gate and the River Gate. One thousand men in the Darry colors followed them. At first Daeron had considered sending off more men to have them reinforce the northern city wall between Iron Gate and Old Gate, but had then decided against it. Half of Robb's army, under the command of Lord Willam Dustin, Lord Rickard Karstark and his son Harrion, had already taken up positions on these parts of the wall and would protect them, while the other half, as well as Robb himself, had joined Daeron and the bulk of the Darry men on the west side of the city.

It was important to protect the city wall along its entire length, and not just to the west, because otherwise even a man like Lord Mace Tyrell, blessed only with hot air between his ears, would get the idea of marching around the city to attack it from another direction. If, however, no too obvious weak point was revealed to him, the attack would undoubtedly take place here. And so the defense had to be strongest here.

Baskets of arrows and sacks of crossbow bolts were hauled up the wall by the men, along with boulders, clay pots of lamp oil, and anything else they could find suitable to throw down on the attackers. Daeron stood on the wall, looking into the distance, where nothing could yet be seen. The woods that swallowed the Roseroad after less than two miles hid any approaching enemy until they would be just outside the city. Daeron looked around and was glad to see not just commotion and fear, but also resolve and strength of will in the men's faces. They had all seen, experienced, and done too much already to despair now and let their victory be taken away by an opportunistic traitor like Mace Tyrell. He looked down the inside of the city wall, looked down at the city at his feet. He had to smile as he saw the people of the city, not soldiers but ordinary people, mingling with the soldiers, helping them haul equipment and prepare for battle. Many no doubt just wanted to prevent another fall and possible sacking of the city, but Daeron was sure, felt it in his guts, that many of the men and women were doing this for House Targaryen, for his brother and their true king. At least, he hoped so.

Daeron was about to turn to his men, to say something to encourage them and further fuel their fighting spirit, when he heard the loud blast of war horns behind him. He turned around again, looked toward the west, and at that very moment spotted the first lines of soldiers coming down Roseroad, breaking through between the trees.

"So now it begins," he said to himself, putting on his helmet and pulling the straps on his shield a little tighter. It would take a while for their enemies to make it through the hail of arrows and crossbow bolts to even get near the wall, let alone climb it, but it was better to be ready and present a battle-ready image for his men as well.

"All set?" he heard a voice beside him. Daeron turned to see Robb standing beside him, Wendel Manderly and Mors Umber behind him with grim faces. Daeron just nodded and forced a smile on his face. It was good to know Robb was at his side. In his time at Winterfell, the two had grown closer, had grown almost as close as brothers, and there was no one he would rather have by his side now. Except maybe his real brother, of course.

Daeron gave a hand signal and immediately the war horns on the walls and the drums behind them were also beaten. The Tyrells needed to know they were ready for them. The advancing army, a sea of gleaming green steel and uncountable flags and banners waving in the soft wind, took formation. If a war could have been won with the most magnificent parade alone, the Tyrells would undoubtedly have been on the throne long ago. Daeron looked down in silence at the spectacle that presented itself before them. The scouts had been right. There were at least twenty thousand men, more like two and twenty, almost half of them on horseback. Daeron had never seen an army with such a strong cavalry. Whatever tactics one wished to employ in a battle, with such an uneven distribution, it could only be completely unbalanced, unless one relied solely on heavy cavalry charges. Still, Daeron was glad not to have to face this force in an open field battle. An attack by ten thousand armored horsemen, tactics or not, was hard to survive. However, when it came to attacking the city walls, their horses with the heavily armored knights would certainly be of little to no use to them. Daeron looked at the full width of the hostile army and noted to his delight that they had hardly any heavy equipment with them. He recognized groups of ladder bearers and huge men with grappling hooks over their shoulders, although he doubted that even these mountains of muscle would be able to throw these hooks all the way up to the city walls of King's Landing. In the center of the army was a wagon with a large battering ram, made of the thickest tree trunk Daeron had ever seen. Fortunately, however, there were no siege towers, which should have been seen from a great distance, and no trebuchets. So they would try to storm the walls with ladders and sooner or later break through the Gate of the Gods with the battering ram. That was good. It was still a threat, but one that was good to fend off by comparison.

The deployment of the army lasted less than the better part of an hour, and shortly thereafter – the men had hardly taken up their positions when signals sounded and the new orders were barked – the army divided itself into three parts, two flanks, each comprising about one-fifth of the troops, and the main force in the center. The left flank, which swung out toward the harbor and King's Gate, was led by a man on a white palfrey, dragging behind him a cloak that looked like it was woven from flowers.

Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Aegon knocked you out of the saddle, and if you dare to climb this wall, I will knock you out of your ridiculous armor today, as a gift to my brother, Daeron thought grimly.

The right flank, moving north toward the Old Gate, marched under the banner of the Fossoways of New Barrel, a green apple on a golden shield. No doubt it was Ser Jon Fossoway who was leading the men. Everyone knew the man was a strategic genius, one of the few men who could compete with Lord Tarly in this field. For a moment he considered sending more soldiers to the northern part of the wall after all, but again decided against it. No matter how good Jon Fossoway was, the number of his men was too small to pose any serious threat to the northeners who held the city wall from the Old Gate across to the Iron Gate. In any other situation, the Lords Dustin and Karstark would have their hands full fending off this man. No doubt the division of the army had been intended to tempt the defenders to divide themselves and their forces further, to enable the main force to overwhelm them here, at the Gate of the Gods. Daeron would not do them that favor, however. Ser Loras and Ser Jon were more than welcome to wear themselves out against the city walls while Lord Mace Tyrell, leading the main force, would do the same here.

The archers on either side were readying themselves, checking the strings of their bows one last time, placing quivers of arrows on the ground beside them. Lance bearers lined up behind them, ready to push the attackers off their ladders if they tried to climb the wall with them. For what seemed to Daeron like half an eternity, the enemy army just stood there, as still as a painting. His heart was beating so heavily in his chest that Daeron feared it might burst out of it at any moment. The wind had grown stronger, making the banners and flags rattle louder with each passing moment, as if counting down the heartbeats to the moment of truth. Then suddenly horns sounded from the north and south and the two flank armies charged toward the city walls as if the Stranger himself was on their heels.

Daeron heard the barked orders of the lords, knights and captains in command of the defenders in the distance.

"Nock, draw, loose!" he heard again and again. "Nock, draw, loose! Nock, draw, loose!"

Volley after volley of arrows rained down on the attackers. Most fell to the ground long before they even got close to the wall. Many just lay wounded and writhing on the ground, Daeron realized, before either another arrow or the heavy boots of the men behind them put an end to their suffering. At least four or five hundred men must have already been lying dead on the ground, when from the center of the main force, too, signals were sounded. The attempt of the Tyrells to tempt them to divide their forces was thus apparently over. The army on the southern flank was now rapidly withdrawing, marching back along the banks of the Blackwater Rush to join the main force. The northern army under Jon Fossoway also retreated out of range of the archers, but held its position.

At the center of the main force, men with large shields now stepped forward, each protecting one to two archers behind them. Step by step they moved closer to the walls. The lords and knights near Daeron were now giving orders to the archers as well.

"Nock, draw, loose! Nock, draw, loose!"

Three, four, five volleys rained down on the attackers, but only a handful of arrows found their targets. Most thundered against the massive shields and stuck in them. Daeron now gave orders to his archers as well.

"Don't shoot straight ahead. Try to hit them sideways. Then maybe your arrows will get behind the shields. Nock, draw, loose! Nock, draw, loose!"

His men did the same, passing on his orders. Indeed, more arrows were now hitting their targets, but still they were ridiculously few. Another horn was blown and, as if guided by an invisible hand, the massive shields lifted, the archers behind them took a quick step forward, shot an arrow, and retreated just as quickly. After not even two heartbeats, they were already hidden behind the protective shields again. Most of the arrows flew over the walls in a high arc or struck the stone with a loud clang, but quite a few were well aimed, narrowly missing the soldiers on the walls or even hitting them in the shoulder, chest or face. A number of men, two dozen perhaps, went down screaming within earshot of Daeron, one falling forward off the wall without a sound, an arrow stuck in his throat.

He turned around when he heard the loud beating of drums behind him. In the distance, war cries could be heard. So the attack on the Red Keep had begun. It took only moments for loud thunder and a cloud of dust as high as twenty men to announce that the damned wall between the Muddy Way and Aegon's High Hill had just collapsed. So now the path along the Hook was finally clear. Movement could be seen in the northern part of the city, though it was too far away to see much. Daeron knew, however, that a massive attack had undoubtedly taken the defenders north of the King's Way completely by surprise as well, their lines already collapsing, and now a cavalry force of several hundred men was thundering through the streets toward the foot of the hill to break even the rear lines of the defenders. At the southern foot of Aegon's High Hill, after only a few moments, the first watchtowers and wooden palisades could be seen bursting into flames. The attack was apparently progressing even better than they had hoped. Viserys' men had undoubtedly not expected such a massive assault on the Red Keep to take place at all while the city was under attack from the outside. Aegon must have made it a good distance through the tunnel by now as well. Their men were now advancing ever faster from the north and south towards the Red Keep, simply overrunning the outer defenses as if they were not there at all. Soon enough, the last of Viserys' men who were now defending the Red Keep from the inside would be in for a surprise when Aegon and his Dornish spears would catch them from behind and put an end to this spook.

"He'll be fine," Robb told him, apparently reading his gaze too well.

"I know. I'd just rather be there now, too."

Robb put his hand on his shoulder, looking at him encouragingly. It was a gesture just like Aegon would have done at that moment, Daeron knew.

Another horn sounded from the center of the main force, causing Daeron to turn back to the army at his feet. The horn was followed by some shouted orders, though he could not understand them. Another line of shield bearers with archers pushed forward, between the first shields, and took up positions in front of them, lined up and forming narrow aisles. Once again orders were barked and a drum was beaten. To the beat of the drum, the shield bearers now alternately raised their shields and had their archers shoot arrows at the men on the ramparts. The front shield, then the back shield, then the front shield, then the back shield. His own archers responded with arrows of their own, now hitting their opponents more often whenever the shields were raised, but were also hit more often themselves.

He did not hear the order, but as if on a silent signal, groups of ladder bearers now marched through all the alleys between the broad shields, ten men per ladder, each with his own shield over his head and a side man with a broad shield to protect them. Immediately his archers took aim at the ladder bearers, felling many of them. When they were close enough, the crossbowmen now began to shoot their bolts at the men on the ground for the first time. With a loud clack, the bolts pounded into the wood of the shields.

Clack, clack, clack...

Every now and then, screams could be heard as arrows or bolts found their way past the shields or even right through them. Dead and wounded men remained on the ground behind the ladders. Some soldiers broke away from the lines of the main force, trying to drag their screaming, bleeding comrades to safety, only to be felled and killed by arrows or crossbow bolts themselves more often than not. The first ladders were now being hoisted into the air by the men on the ground, loudly shouting heave-ho again and again.

"Prepare the water!" shouted Daeron.

Immediately, men protected by long skirts and gloves of thick, boiled leather approached the large cauldrons filled with now bubbling boiling water, grabbed the massive bolts on the sides of the cauldrons and began to swing them with powerful thrusts. The first ladders slammed against the battlements of the wall with a loud crash.

Bang, bang, bang...

In quick succession, more than two dozen ladders thundered against the stone.

Bang, bang, bang, bang....

Soldiers with long poles stepped forward, trying to push the ladders off the wall again, but were killed in rows by the archers on the ground. With loud shouting, hundreds of men from the main Tyrell force now rushed towards the ladders. By the trembling of the ladders, it was evident that the first men were climbing up the ladders now.

"Release the water!" shouted Daeron.

Immediately the men at the cauldrons gave them another jerk, then another, then another until the cauldrons tipped over and the boiling water poured over the battlements of the city wall. Loud, pained screams were heard as the boiling water showered over the men on the ladders and at the foot of the walls. The shrill screams sounded ghastly, downright piteous, and Daeron knew that these sounds would haunt his dreams for years to come. He tried to focus on something else, on the ranks of men in front of him who were watching the agonizing deaths of their comrades as well, and would yet soon also have to attempt to storm these walls in the name of their liege lords. The ranks of the archers on the ground had thinned out, more than half of the men already dead. More and more soldiers within range of his archers and crossbowmen were now dying before they even reached the ladders.

The first ladder was now knocked over by his men. Loud cheers on the walls followed as it toppled sideways and crashed into another ladder, shattering both and taking the men, clinging helplessly to the broken pieces, down with it. The falling men fell on their comrades on the ground, breaking arms, legs and necks of themselves and others in the process. Many lay dumbfounded, others writhed in pain on the ground, yet unable to move from the spot, crying or calling for help, still others ran or limped as fast as they could back toward their army, only to be struck in the back and felled by arrows and crossbow bolts.

The next ladders fell to the sides, dragging more ladders down with them and sending men to their deaths. A ladder with its men on it, hit by a clay pot of lamp oil, burst into flames. Men screaming in pain jumped down from the ladder, rolling on the ground hoping to smother the flames.

"Don't shoot them," he heard Mors Umber say to the crossbowmen under his command. "Let them burn. That will teach their comrades a lesson."

Daeron's stomach turned at the thought. He said nothing, however. It was cruel to let these men burn when they could have been put out of their misery in an instant with an arrow or a crossbow bolt, but he knew that Mors Umber, as much as he hated to admit it, was right in what he said. If they wanted to have any chance of holding the city against the Tyrell forces, they had to break the morale of their enemies. And there was nothing more certain to break a soldier's morale than to have his comrade die a grisly death in front of him. It was a terrible, cruel promise.

"Dare to attack me and you will meet the same fate," it said. It was only moments before the last ladder, already left empty by the fleeing men, fell and shattered crashing to the ground. The cheering on the walls grew louder and louder, and he himself, as well as Robb, now cheered loudly, fists raised in the air, at the sight of their fleeing enemies. The first attack was over and his sword had not even been bloodied. Next they would certainly try the battering ram, trying to break the wood of one of the gates, but above the gates and on the towers to the sides there was so much lamp oil in clay pots and even buckets that an entire forest could have been set on fire with it.

"Is this it?" Daeron said to himself. "Is this all you can conjure, Lord Tyrell?"

Suddenly, he heard the chiming of bells in the distance. Terrified, he wheeled around.

"What is this bullshit?" barked Mors Umber. "We know the city is under attack. Idiots."

"No, this is something else," Daeron said tonelessly. "The bells, they are ringing... in the north of the city and in the harbor. In the harbor... we are being attacked from the sea!"

Immediately he ordered men to him, redivided his soldiers. Panic seized him. Against the relatively few men under Ser Loras' command, their soldiers on the walls at the harbor would have no serious problem, but if a massive attack from the sea was about to begin, that part of their defenses would be downright ridiculously weakly defended. A quick glance at Robb was enough. They nodded to each other, and Daeron knew that Robb would hold this part of the wall no matter the cost. Daeron dashed as fast as he could down the steps and ladders to the street at the foot of the wall, nearly losing his sword more than once in the process, then jumped on his horse and thundered off. His men did the same, yelling forth his orders as they ran. Several hundred men on horseback or on foot now hurried after him toward the harbor. The city literally flew past him, houses and shoppes, septs and taverns, streets and roads and squares blurred into a formless haze. He rode so fast that when he turned onto River Row, he almost crashed into a group of lancers. He barked at them to get out of the way immediately and then follow him into the harbor. Of course, it was not the fault of these men, but he could not consider that now.

He let his destrier thunder along River Row, over the ruins of Fishmonger's Square. A glance up to the Red Keep told him that the attack had indeed worked perfectly. They had climbed Aegon's High Hill, simply overrun all defenses in their path, and were now in turn struggling with ladders and grappling hooks to get past the Red Keep's grim main gate. It was only a matter of time before they would overwhelm the last of Viserys' men, Daeron was sure. And once Aegon and his men attacked from behind, the Red Keep would fall within les than half an hour.

Daeron thundered past the River Gate, continuing along River Row to its end. Immediately he jumped off his heavily breathing horse, called the few knights who had been able to follow him to join him, and sprinted up the steps on the inside of the city wall. He pushed aside the few soldiers standing guard there, hurrying excitedly back and forth, pushed open a small door halfway up, and entered one of the round towers that lined the wall. He flew up the last few steps inside the tower, literally fell out to the top of the tower and, now breathing heavily himself and completely exhausted, looked out into Blackwater Bay.

The sight almost made his heart stop. Ships. Ships as far as the eye could see. He recognized them immediately. It was the ironmen's longships. The Iron Fleet had arrived, sailing under the banners of a golden kraken and the stag of Stannis Baratheon. There had to be at least two hundred longships, he estimated, just minutes away from the city's harbor. So, the remains of the Royal Fleet, protecting King's Landing and Blackwater Bay, had been destroyed. The sails of the ironmen off the coast of Dorne, the Arbor, and in the Stepstones had thus been no more than a trap to draw the bulk of the Royal Fleet out of King's Landing and spread them out so far that they could not possibly have defended the city.

Thinking about what he just witnessed sent shivers down his spine. Had the weather not been so good, the Iron Fleet would have remained unnoticed much longer, and had the wind, blowing out to sea today for once, not slowed the Iron Fleet so much, they probably would have arrived here an hour or more ago already. Daeron sent a quick, grateful prayer to the gods, the Seven and Old Gods of the North, that they had been on their side here. Without the benevolence of the gods, with worse weather and different winds, the harbor wall would have already fallen and Stannis Baratheon would be standing inside the city with all his men.

He hectically tried to distribute the newly arriving men on the walls as best he could, in order to strengthen the defenses of the wall and towers but especially of the River Gate as best he could. Arrows and bows, crossbows and bolts, swords, axes, shields and spears were hurriedly brought in. Daeron barked orders, sending men and material from there to here and here to there. He himself ran as fast as his burning thighs would allow along the wall to reach the River Gate. That's where the attack would begin and where the bulk of the battle would take place, and that's where he wanted to be.

The ironmen's fleet of ships, led by a nightmarish ship with blood-red sails and a night-black hull, entered the harbor, seemingly completely ignoring the arrows coming from the defenders on the walls. The main sail was adorned with a ghastly red eye with a black pupil beneath a black iron crown supported by two crows. The men on the rear ships shouted and cheered, raising swords and axes and war hammers, while the men on the lead ship remained in absolute silence, staring blankly in the direction of the defenders. Even when the first men on the black ship were hit by arrows and slumped to the ground dead or bleeding, they did not move.

In the midst of the Iron Fleet, at least twenty ships already in the harbor from which wildly shouting men with hooks and ropes and ladders were rushing toward the city walls and the River Gate, a galley now entered the harbor, larger and heavier than any of the longships, the banner of a crowned stag on each of the massive sails. At the prow of the ship stood Stannis Baratheon, tall and broad-shouldered, in plain gray steel with equally gray chain mail underneath, his arms folded in front of his chest and, as Daeron assumed, with his usual grim expression on his face. The galley, however, broke away from the rest of the fleet and landed on the far shore, from where Lord Stannis appeared to be commanding the battle. Beside him, Daeron saw a tiny man, bent by age with flea-white hair, who could only be Jon Arryn.

The very next moment he was brought back to the here and now by loud shouting in front of him. Somehow the first ironmen had already managed to climb the walls. He charged forward, a handful of soldiers behind him, ripped his sword from its scabbard and slashed full force into the crowd of steel and leather in front of him. He smoothly severed the sword arm of the first ironmen with his massive blow, sending him backwards over the parapet of the wall with a powerful kick. The next one lunged at him with a long-handled raven's beak. Daeron blocked the blow with his shield, which split smoothly in two at the top edge, rushed forward and drove his blade into the man's belly before he could free his weapon. He quickly looked around, dropped his shield, and grabbed a new one that one of the already slain defenders had dropped. The crowned skull of House Manwoody of Kingsgrave now adorned his shield instead of the red, three-headed dragon.

Maybe that's a good thing. This way I'm no longer a favorite target, he thought.

He quickly signaled the men behind him to follow him and kept running. At least a dozen enemies had already made it up the walls ahead of him, and more would quickly follow if they didn't put a quick and decisive end to this. He saw the gleaming teeth of grappling hooks biting into the stone and the wood of a few rickety ladders not far away.

Sure enough, he thought. A people that prides itself on raiding and pillaging is of course skilled at overcoming walls.

He fought his way forward through ironmen with axes and swords and spears, large brutes with strong arms but weak skills, felling four of them, before he reached the first grappling hooks. Three more enemies, one ironman and two stormlanders, judging by the coats of arms on their chests, were just pulling themselves up the rope when Daeron let his sword pass over the parapet and cut it clean through. The men fell screaming, hitting the ground with a crash. The lowest seemed to be dead instantly and the ironman in the middle had seemingly broken all his bones. Only the man of House Brune of Brownhollow, the topmost of the three landing on top of his comrades, seemed unhurt. Beside Daeron, four crossbowmen rushed to the parapet and quickly changed that, however, killing the two survivors with well-aimed bolts.

"To me! To me!" he shouted to some soldiers who were hastily climbing the steps of the city wall nearby.

With the new men at his side, he fought his way on, cutting ropes from grappling hooks and knocking rickety ladders to the ground. When he finally reached the eastern tower at River Gate, the place was in terrible chaos. The banner of a golden kraken was already flying atop the tower as his men tried to fight their way through the heavy oak door into the tower. He quickly gave some orders to the men behind him. Archers purposefully took down the men who had just placed two ladders on the outside of the walls again nearby and tried to climb up, while Daeron and his soldiers pulled the ladders up onto the walls with their combined forces.

At his signal, one of the men on his right threw a clay pot of lamp oil at the tower, which immediately burst into a bright jet of flame. None of the men on the tower were hit, as far as Daeron could tell, but it was enough to distract them briefly. Hastily, they leaned the two ladders against the tower. Daeron hurried up his ladder, soldiers in the colors of the houses of Vaith, Uller, and Darry beside and behind him, while archers provided cover for them to keep the ladders from being knocked over. They caught the ironmen on the platform of the tower confused and unsorted, jumped from the ladders over the parapet of the tower and made short work of them. One man faced Daeron, while around them the ironmen on the tower were cut down one by one. He was tall with the broad chest of a bull, wearing heavy grey chain mail over boiled black leather, a fearsome steel axe in his right and a shield with a golden kraken on it in his left. An iron kraken adorned his tall, heavy war helmet, whose tentacles coiled down below his jaw.

One of the Greyjoys, Daeron recognized. There aren't many left, so this must be Victarion, Euron's brother. Nothing more than a miserable pirate, just like all of them.

Before Daeron knew what was happening to him, the bull lashed out with his axe and brought it down in a powerful swing. Daeron dodged, jumped to the left. The blade of the axe crashed soundly to the ground. Splinters of stone spewed out on all sides.

That blow would have split me in two, Daeron thought in shock.

He quickly jumped back to his feet, slashing at the bull's arm with his sword. However, the bull easily blocked his blow with the edge of his shield and lunged again with his axe. Daeron feinted to jump left again, then dove right under the blow. He thrust his sword forward, but again hit only the wood of the shield. The bull was surprisingly quick for such a big, bulky man. Daeron danced around the man, darting his sword forward again and again, dodging the heavy war axe, but without wounding the man. He did not dare to parry the hard blows with his shield, certain that the shield would not be able to withstand such a blow and that he would surely lose his arm in the attempt.

I must do something unexpected, it flashed through his mind. I will never defeat this brute with physical strength alone.

Again he dodged a hard blow from his axe, clutched the handle of his shield with his closed fist and hurled it at the bull, aiming directly at his face. The bull deflected the shield with ease, but for a tiny moment saw little enough not to notice Daeron thrust himself forward with all his strength, hurrying toward him.

With a loud crash, Daeron thundered shoulder-first into the man, holding his sword in front of him. The blade slid against the steel armor, but cut into the flesh of his arm at the elbow. Surprised, the bull dropped his shield, Daeron took a tiny step back and kicked him as hard as he could in the stomach with his right foot. Forcing all the air out of the man's lungs, he staggered backwards until he stopped at the parapet of the tower. Before the bull could recover, Daeron charged forward again, slamming his shoulder into the man again and sending him sprawling backwards over the parapet. He felt himself losing his footing, already seeing the abyss in front of him approaching. At the last moment three, then four hands grabbed him by the shoulders and arms and pulled him back onto the tower before he himself would have plunged down into the depths. The bull lay on his back on the ground at the base of the tower, injured but apparently still alive. He gave a quick signal to the crossbowmen below the tower on the walls and just a heartbeat later there were three, four, five crossbow bolts stuck in the man's body.

He quickly tore down the banner with the ugly kraken, while a soldier was already handing him a new Targaryen banner. Daeron tied it to a spear, waving it back and forth to let everyone know that the tower was secure again. A roar of cheers erupted from his soldiers as he held the banner in the wind. Daeron looked over to the western tower and realized to his delight that the stormlands and ironmen there had also been taken out by archers and crossbowmen, and the tower was once again secured under the three-headed dragon. Grinning all over his face, with hand signals and loud shouts he ordered more soldiers onto the towers and on the parapet over the River Gate, which some stormlanders were currently trying unsuccessfully to break through with battering rams made from the masts of the longships.

The men above the gate, which had not yet given way an inch, covered the men on the ground with arrows and head-sized boulders, killing or wounding many of them. As quickly as they felled the men, however, more and more men poured in from the ships – by now there must be at least a hundred ships in the harbor – and took the places of the fallen. Fortunately, there were now more men on the walls and towers, and they were better able to cut the ropes of the grappling hooks in time or topple the ladders before the attackers made it up.

Daeron opened the heavy oaken flap at the bottom of the tower platform, descended the steep stone steps, and opened the doors on either side of the tower to let his men back in. He crossed the River Gate, passed through the western tower, and made his way to the men west of the River Gate, where another major assault on the walls was just beginning. With a group of soldiers, by the colors from the Crownlands and the southern Riverlands, Daeron charged forward and threw himself into the fray. He decapitated a stormlander, stabbed an ironmen in the back with his sword, and engaged in a fierce swordfight with an armored knight with the crossed quills of House Penrose on his chest. The man was good, but his armor was so heavy that he quickly lost strength and speed. After a brief but fierce exchange of blows, the knight, by now breathing heavily and panting, stumbled over the legs of a dead knight, a man from House Trant of Gallowsgrey, lying on the ground. Daeron took the opportunity to leap forward and thrust his blade directly into the gap between his helmet and the breastplate.

Daeron jerked his head around as he heard loud cheering from the west of the city, so loud that it could be heard even here in the harbor. He quickly grabbed a squire by the shoulder, who had just dragged a basket full of new arrows to the archers, and pulled him to him.

"Boy, get a horse, ride as fast as you can to the Gate of the Gods, see what's going on, and come right back and report to me," he said, pushing the boy toward the stairs down to the street behind the city wall.

It took at least an hour for the boy to return to him. In the meantime, the stormlanders had regrouped farther west on the southern shore of the Blackwater Rush. Only small detachments of soldiers, forty or fifty men each, led by particularly daring or foolish knights, still attempted to climb the walls with ladders and hooks at the eastern walls or use battering rams to break the still tightly closed River Gate. Parts of the walls and several of the smaller towers were now in the hands of Stannis' men, even as his own soldiers fought bitterly to regain every tower and every inch of the wall they had lost. The banners on the towers and battlements changed back and forth between stag and dragon so quickly by now that Daeron couldn't even issue new orders fast enough. Along River Row, fighting was already taking place wherever Stannis' men had managed to hold on somewhere long enough to find their way over the walls into the city. There they were quickly cut down by the soldiers on the ground and a mob of angry townsfolk, but with each passing moment more and more enemies were entering the city in more and more places. Daeron turned away from the harbor and looked down into the city, seeing the ever-increasing fighting in the streets and between the houses, spreading like gangrene. More and more of Stannis' men were coming into the city, and the reachers in the west were also still looking for their share of the victory.

Many of the ironmen were meanwhile plundering and setting fire to the buildings in the harbor. The flames had spread so rapidly in some places, however, that they had leapt over to some of the longships and set them on fire as well. How well the few remaining ships of the Royal Fleet had done against the superiority of the Iron Fleet was impossible to say now, but Daeron was pleased to see that the ironmen had already lost nearly a dozen of their ships through their own stupidity.

"Go on, report. Quickly," he barked at the boy, who stood wide-eyed before him, staring at his blood-covered armor and helmet and the blood-covered sword in Daeron's hand.

"Yes... yes, my prince. The Tyrells tried to break through the Gate of the Gods with the battering ram. Almost worked too, but then Lord... but then King Robb used the oil. The battering ram burst into flames and is now additionally blocking the gate. No one's going to get through there anymore."

That was good, but it was only small comfort. Even if the Gate of the Gods was blocked and the great battering ram destroyed, there was nothing to stop the Tyrells from simply attacking another gate or, like Stannis and the ironmen, throwing themselves with all their might and the superiority of their numbers against the walls somewhere until they would wash over it like a wave in a particularly furious storm. So far none of the gates had fallen, the worst had been prevented, but it would not be long before the defenses to the west of the city would also be unable to withstand the superior numbers outside the walls any longer. They would not be able to hold the city much longer.

The boy had just finished speaking when Daeron pushed him aside at the last moment. A group of Stormlands had climbed the wall behind them and swarmed out to all sides. One of the men, holding a spear in front of him, had charged toward them, almost piercing the boy lengthwise. Daeron knocked the spear aside, slashed at the man with his sword, and opened his throat with one clean stroke. He severed the next man's sword hand faster than the man could protect himself, and just managed to throw himself aside to avoid a poorly aimed crossbow bolt. The crossbowman did not get a chance to reload his weapon before Ser Hubard Rambton attacked him from the side, nearly splitting him in half with one massive blow.  The bull of a man, clearly recognizable by wearing the seven-pointed star on his armor instead of his coat of arms, a white ram's head with golden horns on red, reached out to him and pulled Daeron back to his feet. Three of his sons were standing behind him, cutting down the last of the stormlanders who had approached them.

"My prince, are you unharmed?" the knight asked. Daeron did not answer, however, but turned to help the boy to his feet as well.

The sight hit him harder than any blow could have. Like a broken doll, the boy, hardly more than ten or eleven name days old, now lay dead on the ground, his light blonde hair soaked by his own blood. The bolt Daeron had dodged had hit the boy square in the face and was now stuck where one of his eyes and half his cheek had been before. Weariness ran through him. Daeron felt so tired, empty, dull. He wanted to kneel by the boy, to hold him, comfort him and help him, but there was nothing more he could do. He wanted to cry for the boy, he owed him that much at least, but he could not. Standing there on the walls, his bloody sword in hand and pain and death everywhere around him, the tears simply would not come. As he looked at him, the pool of dark red blood growing further under his little head, all he felt was… how he felt nothing. No sadness, no anger, nothing. Just this wretched burning in his arms and legs from his battered muscles, the biting from the sweat that had run into his eyes.

Ser Hubard said something to him, asked him something, but Daeron did not hear the words. He walked to the edge of the parapet to look down into the city again. Like a fire in dry straw, the fighting was spreading by now, along River Row and into the southern part of the Street of Steel. At least two or three hundred of Stannis' men, stormlanders and ironmen, must have made it to the city by now and more were to come. In the distance, he saw soldiers running in streams towards the southern city walls down and around Visenya's hill to repel the invaders and drive them back over the walls. Whether they would succeed, Daeron could not say. He thought back to his brother, who was now fighting, killing, maybe bleeding somewhere in the Red Keep or hopefully in Maegor's Holdfast already. He looked up at Aegon's High Hill, saw that the main gate had already fallen and Aegon's men, their men, were now busy driving the last of Viserys' men, who refused to surrender, out of their holes and putting an end to this spook once and for all. Aegon had given him the order to dare a sally should they not be able to hold the city and to bring himself to safety. For this, however, he would now have to pull too many men from the walls and concentrate them at one of the city's gates to have a real chance of success. The city would then fall within less than an hour and Aegon with it. Daeron was sure of that, but unwilling to hand the city over to Stannis so easily, not to mention his brother. Not that he had ever seriously intended to leave his brother here in the first place. If they could manage to drive the attackers back out of the city and secure it for the night, such a sally might be possible at dawn, when Aegon himself would also be back with them. He doubted, however, that they would be able to hold it that long.

He looked down at the street at his feet, now seeing almost as many dead defenders as attackers. He thought he even recognized several of the men. He was sure he saw the spear-riddled corpse of Ser Roger Hogg in the gutter, and not far away Ser Gerris Drinkwater was leaning against the wall of a house with his skull split by an axe.

Again Daeron sent a prayer to the gods, to all who were willing to listen to him. At that moment, he didn't care if it was the Seven or the nameless gods of the North or even one of the strange gods from Essos answering his prayers, as long as in only someone was listening. He prayed that night would finally come, although with a quick glance at the afternoon sun, bright and radiant in the sky, he knew it would be hours before it would turn red and begin to set. In the darkness, he would not have to see the dead men down there. In the darkness, and without siege engines at that, their enemies would not be able to attack with the same vigor as during the day, at least no longer coordinated enough to be a real threat. That would give them a bit of reprieve. But to what end? Stannis had lost the element of surprise, and yet his forces – stormlanders, ironmen and reachers – were so massively outnumbering them that there was no way they would be able to hold them off for another day. They simply could not win here.

At that moment, loud horns and dozens of war drums sounded in the distance. Daeron wheeled around and ran to the parapet of the city wall, looking into the distance to the south and west, his eyes wide in shock. On the roads and footpaths, on the hills and among the trees and bushes, another host burst forth from their cover, charging toward the city. Thousands, tens of thousands of men on horseback and on foot, with lances and swords, hammers and axes, bows and crossbows, charged forward. Against this army they would not be able to defend themselves. Against this force, the war was already lost.

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think? Let me know your thoughts in the comments. :-)

The next chapter will be an Aegon-chapter again, following him in his assault on the Red Keep. I'm not actually sure how quickly I will be able to write it, because there is a lot going on at the moment, but I will do my best not to let you wait too long. See you there. :-)

Chapter 53: Aegon 10

Notes:

Hi everyone,

sorry for the long wait but I had some stressy days and just couldn't find the time to write. But now the next chapter is here. Well, obviously. ;-)

We are back in King's Landing, following Aegon inside the Red Keep to face Rhaegar and Viserys. Hope you have fun with it. :-)

They only made slow progress. The tunnel in front and behind them was dark, damp and the ceiling low. Aegon could only walk bent as low as if he were carrying two other men on his back and still kept bumping his head on protruding stones and edges. A man like Manly Stokeworth, at least a head taller than himself, would probably have been better off crawling through the tunnel on all fours had it not taken so long. Aegon tried to look around, but recognized little more than washed-out colors and shadowy outlines of the men near him. The entire tunnel smelled of mold and dead.

Let's hope the dead rats are all that remain and we don't join them anytime soon, he thought.

From the condition of the tunnel, though, it looked like it had been on the verge of collapse for at least a couple of decades. It seemed to Aegon like a very special joke of the gods that this tunnel, of all things, had survived the explosion of the Red Keep. Several times they heard loud rumbling thunder above them whenever the horses of their cavalry must have been thundering along the roads above their heads, and sand and dust trickled from the low ceiling into their eyes and noses. Each time, Aegon's heart seemed to stop, because each time he was sure the tunnel was about to collapse at that very moment.

They saw little in the darkness of the tunnel having taken only a few lamps along the way and Manly Stokeworth leading them around many corners and up and down slopes. Not for the first time, Aegon was grateful to be able to just guess at his surroundings. Being able to see the miserable state of the tunnel really well, knowing how close they probably were to being buried alive under tons and tons of dirt and rock, would have hardly convinced Aegon again that this really was a good plan.

Manly led their group, hundred knights and soldiers, mostly from Dorne, unerringly through the darkness, however, Aegon following right behind him. His uncle Oberyn followed him in turn, and he could hear the heavy breathing of Ser Daemon Sand, one of Dorne's finest swords, behind his uncle, who had refused to swap his full steel armor for a lighter suit of steel and leather. At the end of the line, behind them and the hundred swords, was Mors Manwoody, the heir to Kingsgrave, forming a kind of one-man rearguard.

Kingsgrave. Let's hope this is not an omen.

They were silent almost all the way, only occasionally breaking the silence with curses whenever someone painfully bumped their head or caught their foot in a crevice. Aegon was lost in thought, silently trudging up the incline that would eventually take them into the middle of Red Keep, when he heard his uncle behind him.

"Shh!" Oberyn admonished him.

"I didn't say anything."

"No, but you're thinking so loudly that I'm sure they can even hear you up in the Red Keep."

Aegon had to grin, even if Oberyn wouldn't be able to see it in the darkness.

"I'm just thinking," he defended himself.

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry so much, nephew. Worry only clouds the mind before a fight, and you'll need it once we get inside the Red Keep. We'll make it. You will see. Viserys and Rhaegar will be dead before the sun sets. I promise you that," his uncle said, and by now Aegon could hear heavy breathing and a slight huff in his voice as well.

"I know. That's not what I'm thinking about."

"About her?" Oberyn asked after a moment.

"Yes."

"She's safe. You don't have to worry about her either. Dorne will protect her, no matter what."

"Sansa will return to the North should I not make it out here alive."

"Don't be silly. Of course you'll make it! I don't want to hear anything else from you! You are an excellent fighter, Aegon. Strong and fast, and you have heart. And you have good men around you. We'll see to it that you sit on the throne afterwards, nephew. And a dead man on the Iron Throne would be absurd. So you must stay alive. Besides, you have Sansa to think of as well."

"That's exactly what I'm doing!"

"Imagine how awful it would be if she had to go back to the North. The northeners have six months of winter a year and then six months of no summer and that's what they call home. Terrible."

"I'm just hoping that the weather in the North wouldn't be the worst part of my death for Sansa," Aegon said, trying to sound at least a little cheerful.

"You're not going to die. I promise you that," Oberyn said, and Aegon knew he meant it. "I knew you should have been my squire then instead of Ser Gerold's. Then you wouldn't be speaking so glumly. I would have beaten that out of you. Too bad your father didn't allow it. We could have travelled Essos. There's a lot for a young prince to see. We could still travel once the war is over. What do you think?"

Aegon couldn't see the mischievous grin on his uncle's face, but could hear it in every word.

"When the war is over, uncle, I'll either be dead or the king. There will be little time for pleasure trips through Essos. Besides, I'm a married man. So the things you probably want to show me there are out of the question for me anyway."

"I'm not sure whether to be proud of what kind of man you've become or disappointed that you've obviously spent far too little time in Dorne," Oberyn said, and again Aegon clearly heard the broad grin in every single word.

It took them almost another hour before they finally reached a larger chamber, two times the height of a man, which could only be right under the Red Keep. In the dim light of the lamps, Aegon could now make out more as the fifty men in front began to gather in the chamber. It didn't really make it any better, though. Much like the tunnel itself, the chamber, much closer to the site of the explosion, was badly battered. The floor tiles were all cracked and shifted, making it difficult to walk on them without breaking one's legs. Cracks and breaches stretched up walls all around them and bits and chunks of stone and brick had already fallen out of the ceiling here and there. Two doors of heavy oak, both cracked and hanging askew on their hinges, led out of the chamber in different directions. Manly Stokeworth purposefully took the left of the two doors and gestured for them to follow him.

"Where does the other door lead?" asked Ser Daemon.

"Dead end," was the curt reply from Manly Stokeworth, who had already disappeared into the darkness of the next tunnel. They quickly joined him, following him into the next tunnel. This one was fortunately wider and higher, so that they could walk not only side by side but also upright without hurting themselves. They passed other tunnels and smaller chambers, all either blocked with rubble or bricked up. More than once Aegon thought to see hands or feet or even battered faces of dead men in the shadows beneath the stones and dirt, probably buried when the tunnels were sealed on Viserys' orders. Aegon tried to shake off the thoughts of the dead around them, to stop staring too closely into the sealed and collapsed tunnels and chambers. The condition of their tunnel was getting worse and worse with every step they took. In many places, the walls and ceiling were makeshiftly propped up with crooked and slanted wooden beams, which Aegon thought he could hear cracking every single time he passed.

Aegon knew they had almost reached the exit when they climbed a narrow, steep staircase and through the stone of the walls he could dully hear the shouts and screams of fighting men. Manly Stokeworth, only a step ahead of him, opened a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron straps and stepped out into a tiny room, barely large enough for a single man. At the head of it, the wall seemed to be made of wooden planks. Manly Stokeworth pressed gently against it, and with a soft scraping the wall moved aside, revealing a larger room. They stepped out and found themselves in an adjoining room to the kitchens of the Little Gallery, the wooden wall turning out to be the back of a shelf. The room was empty, except for a few tables along the walls and a chair with dirty sheets over it. It was windowless and the only light came in through two doors, both of which led into the larger, also abandoned kitchens that began immediately one room next to them. His men came up the stairs and exited the tunnel one by one, as Aegon himself visibly relieved to finally be able to breathe freely again, not to mention no longer at risk of being buried alive by rubble, dirt and rock at any moment.

About fifty of his men fit into the room before they had to make their way to the adjoining kitchens. Aegon crept forward, accompanied by Oberyn, and peered cautiously through one of the kitchens' large windows. Fortunately for them, all the windows were so dirty that it was almost impossible to see in from the outside and, even with the greatest effort, one would barely be able to make out more than a few moving shadows.

They walked silently through the kitchens, but met neither soldiers nor servants. Aegon had no doubt that the servants would have been quite happy to see them here, about to end Viserys' reign, and that the soldiers – apart from the men, who were probably thanking the gods that they were still allowed to guard the southern flank of Aegon's High Hill in their nests for archers and crossbowmen – were all either fighting at the Red Keep's main gate or preparing for the imminent attack as the last line of defense in Maegor's Holdfast.

They stepped out of the kitchens into the courtyard, the Small Hall to their left and a large, fire-blackened pile of rubble that had once been the Tower of the Hand to their right. Aegon looked around, searching the walls and towers near them, but found not a single soldier. They marched forward at a light trot, stopping only at the corner of Small Hall. This time it was Oberyn who crept forward and peered cautiously around the corner.

"There are three soldiers at the drawbridge to the outer courtyard, but none on the walls," he said quietly.

"How many are on the other side, however, we do not know," Ser Daemon said. "What if there are twenty more waiting for us there? Or thirty?"

"They don't," Manly Stokeworth said. "Viserys has ordered all men to the main gate. Those guys are probably just ducking the fight. He himself is hiding in Maegor's Holdfast, along with his damned red priests."

"Do we know how many more men he has in Maegor's Holdfast?" asked Aegon.

"About two dozen."

"Two dozen? Is that all? There are hundreds otherwise."

"No, there aren't many left. Most of them have already fallen or deserted. Your uncle tried to force the Gold Cloaks into allegiance, arrested their families, and threatened to execute them if any more men deserted, but that's over too."

"How?"

"There are good men among the Gold Cloaks. Men I trust. My men. When I snuck out, I gave them orders to prepare to free the families and tell the Gold Cloaks. They are being held in the outer courtyard. Free them as soon as you rush to the main gate and many of the men at the gate will join you, Your Grace. I guarantee it."

"How are we supposed to recognize them? If everyone wears the same armor, a lot of people will die who are actually on our side. We can't exactly ask each man's loyalty before we slay them," Ser Daemon said.

"They wear a red cloth on their wrist. That is the sign that they will stand with King Aegon."

"Not exactly easy to spot in the midst of the fighting," Oberyn said.

"It couldn't be too obvious. Nothing else was possible," Manly Stokeworth grumbled.

"Just try to kill only those who want to kill you, too. That's all we can do," Aegon said, ending that discussion.

He looked around again, looking up at Maegor's Holdfast behind them. So two dozen men were still in it along with Viserys. That was not much. If they rushed in now, Viserys wouldn't stand a chance. His one hundred Dornish spears would make short work of them. However, it was impossible to say how long it would take to find first Viserys and then all his men in Maegor's Holdfast in the first place. It could take hours to search every corner of the fortress. Time they did not have. So it was more important to bring down the main gate first. The Red Keep had to be taken, for good and for all to see. There could be no more two Targaryens fighting each other if they were to have any chance of defeating Stannis Baratheon, Jon Arryn, and the Tyrells. And the first step to letting the realm – or at least the part of the realm gathered here under arms – know that from now on there was only one Targaryen claiming the Iron Throne was to let the banner of the three-headed dragon fly again on every tower and wall of the Red Keep. Viserys was welcome to remain holed up a little longer. The Iron Throne was not in Maegor's Holdfast but in the Throne Room after all, and that throne, that silly, ugly symbol, was more important at the moment than finally being able to kill his uncle. So the main gate had priority.

"We should split up," Aegon finally said.

"Split up? We are few enough," Ser Daemon protested.

"We should attack the main gate and Maegor's Holdfast at the same time. There is only one entrance to Maegor's Holdfast, and if we attack the main gate first, the last of Viserys' men will block that entrance immediately. Even so few men can hold the fortress for a while, but we must finally get Viserys out of the way."

"Then we'll just attack Maegor's Holdfast first."

"We can't. It's impossible to tell how long it would take to find Viserys in there. Maegor's Holdfast is a maze. But we have to finish the battle for the Red Keep as fast as possible so we can help Daeron defend the city, or it's all for nothing."

"So fifty men to the gate and fifty to the fortress?" asked Oberyn.

"No, the gate is too important. It must fall. Me, you and fifteen men attack Maegor's Holdfast. It's enough to make sure Viserys' last men can't seal the entrance to the Holdfast. Ten men under the command of Manly Stokeworth will free the families of the Goldcloaks, and the rest will split into two groups led by Mors Manwoody and Ser Daemon and attack the defenders at the main gate from two sides."

His uncle Oberyn, Ser Daemon, Mors Manwoody, and Manly Stokeworth quickly divided the men among themselves. Aegon and his men would get a short head start to be at the entrance of Maegor's Holdfast before the defenders would notice their attack. They ran off then, heading back toward the kitchens, past the pile of rubble that was the Tower of the Hand, and into the kitchens. They ran through a wide corridor, around several corners and up two flights of stairs and out through a wide door that led them into the lower courtyard. The drawbridge to Maegor's Holdfast, a little more than forty paces away, was still down, the portcullis raised. Aegon saw movement behind the loopholes for archers to the right and left of the gate, but could not tell how many men were actually waiting there. He looked back, looked his uncle in the face. Oberyn nodded at him, a determined expression in his eyes. Aegon took another deep breath, then turned around, feeling his heart beating as if it were to burst out of his chest any moment.

"Now," Aegon said, and ran as fast as he could, across the courtyard and toward the drawbridge. Immediately he heard the trampling of the men's boots behind him. He had already covered half the distance before he himself even knew it. Again he looked up at the loopholes, again noticing movement behind them. He ducked away as the first arrow flew past him. Behind him he heard a scream, but had no time to look around to see who had been hit.

Now he also heard loud shouts from the front and more arrows flew in his direction. He was able to dodge another arrow, a third hit him in the thigh, but fortunately bounced off his armor and broke under his boot. A second scream followed, then another. Then he heard the slam of his boots on the wood of the drawbridge, felt the wood tremble under his steps. More men behind him reached the drawbridge and a moment later he was already inside Maegor's Holdfast, safe from the arrows under the archway. Aegon ran a little further, then stopped, drew his sword, and looked around. Oberyn was with him, four of his men as well, before they heard a loud creak and rattle and with a loud crash the portcullis came down, blocking the way. Three dead or injured men lay on the ground halfway between the drawbridge and the door they had bene coming from, and eight more had not made it in time and were now locked out. Briefly they tried to push up the portcullis with sheer muscle power to get into the fortress after all, but the massive grating of heavy wood, reinforced with thick bands of iron, did not move an inch.

"Wait here," Aegon finally said. "We'll take care of the archers."

Then he turned, signaled Oberyn and his four men to follow him and started running. They passed the quarters of the guards first, normally occupied by at least three hundred men, the best of the Gold Cloaks, but now empty and abandoned. While running on, Aegon again gave his men some hand signals to split up to the left and right, turned around a corner and hurried as fast as he could up the steps that would lead him into the left of the two round towers next to the drawbridge. Three flights of winding stairs led up until they ended in front of a narrow, low wooden door. Without waiting, Aegon kicked from the run with full force against the door, which – not locked – immediately gave way. Aegon, followed by Oberyn and one of the four soldiers, rushed into the room, with his sword in front of him, and cut down the first of the two archers present, who were still looking through the loopholes for victims on the drawbridge or in the lower courtyard, before they had even had a chance to react. Aegon plunged his sword into the archer's throat, while Oberyn drove his spear through the second archer's chest. The soldier, a young man named Edric as he knew, took another strong swing and decapitated the archer, quickly ending his suffering.

Aegon sent Edric up two more floors to the second chamber for archers, to make sure that there were not more men waiting there. After a moment, however, he returned, reporting that he had found no one there. Aegon looked around, but saw that the mechanism for the portcullis had been destroyed by the archers. The chain had been dropped from the pulley. There was no way to open the portcullis anytime soon. They quickly hurried back down the steps, met the other three soldiers in the hallway, who had cleared the right round tower of archers as well, and ran back to the portcullis.

"You can't get through here," Aegon told his men waiting outside. "The portcullis won't open anymore. Find your way back and support our men at the gate."

Without another word, Aegon turned away again and ran off into Maegor's Holdfast, the men in front of the portcullis disappearing in the other direction. They ran through the fortress, first checking the other chambers for guards, but found them empty and deserted as well. They ran through the kitchens and pantries, checked the servants' quarters, the small treasury with the royal purse, and then climbed up to the royal chambers. The king's bedroom - Aegon couldn't even tell whether he would have guessed Viserys there or rather his father - was empty. The other royal chambers of Viserys, Rhaenys, Grandmother Rhaella, Daeron and his own likewise. After more than an hour, they had yet to encounter anyone.

"We'll never find them this way," Oberyn gasped, standing in the wide hallway outside Rhaenys' chambers. "We'll have to come up with something, or we'll still be looking for them next year."

"And what?" asked Aegon. "Other than splitting us up even further, I can't think of anything."

"We could-"

At that moment, a door flew open behind them and a dozen soldiers in red armor burst into the hallway, interrupting Oberyn. Immediately they wheeled around, weapons ready in their hands, and just a heartbeat later the hallway was filled with the loud clang of blades. Aegon blocked a hard but inaccurate sword strike, then a second. He immediately counterattacked, wounding the red knight on his sword arm with his blade, though not severely. He parried another inaccurate blow, whirled around and slashed at the red knight's leg with his blade. This blow hit better and severed the leg right at the level of the knee. Screaming, the man went down before Edric plunged his blade through his chest, silencing him.

Two more red knights charged in, one armed with a longsword, the other with a hammer. The swordsman attacked Edric, driving him away from Aegon with a few swift blows, while the man with the hammer began to thrash wildly at Aegon, pushing him backwards along the corridor. It was only with difficulty that Aegon managed to parry and deflect the hard blows at first. After more than a dozen blows, Aegon finally spotted the opportunity he had been waiting for. His opponent slashed from left to right with his hammer, then from right to left with a forehand strike. Like last time, he was off balance here for a fraction of an instant. Aegon fended off the blow, deflecting it to the side, and dashed forward as fast as he could. Without cover, his opponent had nothing to stop the blade, which pierced through his armor with a loud, metallic shriek, driving through his ribcage only to be stopped by the steel of his back armor. The man slumped to the ground, dead. Aegon put his foot on his chest and with all his strength pulled his sword out of the dead man's body again.

Immediately he looked for the next opponent, ran over and struck, relieving one of his soldiers who had to defend himself against two men at once. The man was small, his blows weak, but swift. The red armor, obviously forged for a much larger and broader man, did not fit him at all, however, and hindered his movements so much that Aegon had no difficulty to quickly disarm him and open his throat with a well-aimed thrust of his sword. Oberyn, in the meantime, had himself finished off three or four men with his spear, now turned to Aegon and together they set about felling the largest of the group, a giant more than two paces tall with shoulders broader than most doors.

As large and strong as he was, the man stood no chance against two such swift opponents, however, and after only a few heartbeats was pierced first in the side by Oberyn's spear before Aegon severed his head from his shoulders with a powerful blow to the neck. Two of their men lay bleeding on the ground, at least one of them dead, as Aegon turned back to the fray. Edric already had a fiercely bleeding wound on his leg himself, causing him to limp back and forth as he struggled against the surprisingly skilled blows and strokes of the last red knight. Quickly Aegon and Oberyn rushed to him, driving him away from Edric. Aegon struck, knocking the man's sword aside, and Oberyn, with a skillful thrust, drove his spear right through the man's neck, sending him gurgling to the ground. Blood spurted in small fountains through the slits of his helmet before he fell silent after a moment.

Aegon walked over to Edric, who had by now sunk to the floor with his back against the wall, and knelt down next to him while Oberyn walked over to the other two soldiers. A quick shake of his head told Aegon all he needed to know.

"Can you walk?" Oberyn asked as he then walked over to Edric as well.

"Yes, I'll be fine," the latter pressed between clenched teeth, but Aegon could already tell by the pain-distorted face and the amount of blood pouring from his wound that this was not so. With a strip of cloth that Oberyn cut from the clothing of one of the dead, they bandaged the leg as well as they could. It took only a few heartbeats, however, before the strip of cloth was soaked with blood.

"You stay here. You're losing too much and moving will only make it worse," Aegon said.

"Then I will try to bleed more slowly, Your Grace," Edric said. Aegon couldn't help but grin.

Together, Aegon and Oberyn lifted him up, dragged him into Rhaenys' chambers, and laid him down on her bed. Then they left the chamber, locked the door, and continued on their way. If the gods smiled down on Edric, he would still be alive when this nightmare was over and they would come for him. They sneaked, weapons in their hands, through the corridors, around corners and up and down stairs. If Manly Stokeworth had been right, there might still be about eight or ten men in the fortress, less if they were lucky. Some were certainly still here, however, and now there were only two of them.

They left a shallow building where the chamber of a lower maerster had been and crossed a small courtyard in the center of which Viserys had let some of the fragments of the Valyrian obelisk be arranged. For a moment they stopped in front of the pieces of stone, looking at the cracked rock and the barely readable runes written in it. Whatever Viserys and his father had hoped to find in that stone had not brought them luck, much less the rest of the realm. Aegon shook his head as he looked at the runes. Some of them he could still decipher. Fire, life, light or something like enlighten, blessed, greatness or splendor... Whatever had once been written here, it certainly had not been instructions for awakening dragons.

"All that for nothing," Aegon muttered.

"That doesn't matter, Aegon. We're putting an end to this. That's all that matters," Oberyn said, determination in his voice and a hand on Aegon's shoulder. Aegon looked at him, nodding. He was about to say something back, to tell Oberyn how glad and how thankful he was to have him by his side here and now, when his uncle's eyes snapped open. Aegon grabbed him as he suddenly slumped forward.

He looked around, recognizing a crossbowman at a window two stories above them. He quickly pulled his uncle aside, behind one of the larger fragments as the next bolt came flying, crashing into the rock close next to them, splinters splattering. Aegon crouched down, pulling Oberyn closer to him and clutching him.

"Uncle! Uncle!" said Aegon, trying to get a reaction from him.

His uncle's eyes, however, stared fixedly at the sky, lifeless. Aegon clutched his head, wanting to shake it as if to wake him up, but immediately he noticed the damp warmth on his hand. He didn't have to look at it to know it was blood.

"No! No, no, no! Say something!" he shouted now, but got no answer. "Please, say something! Anything, please!"

Of course he didn't. Uncle Oberyn was dead. Aegon felt the tears in his eyes and before he could blink them away, the first ones fell and landed on Oberyn's cheek. Aegon continued to press his uncle against him, ignoring the impact of the next bolts on the rock at his back. Sobs shook him and more and more tears ran down his cheeks, over Oberyn's face and mingled with the blood on his hands.

"He's down there! Quick!" he heard the man at the window shout. So there had to be someone else up there as well. No doubt they would begin shooting at him from several sides in a moment. The rock would no longer offer him any protection.

"I'm sorry," Aegon finally whispered, giving his uncle a kiss on the forehead and then slowly lowering his body to the ground.

The next bolt hit the rock and before he himself knew it, Aegon was dashing out of his cover, crossing the courtyard and hammered shoulder first against a door right under the window from where the man had shot at them, from where he had killed his uncle.

You will pay for this, Aegon swore the man in his mind.

He hurried through the small room, through another door, down a short hallway and into the stairwell. Maegor's Holdfast might have been a maze, but Aegon had grown up here. He knew this fortress like the back of his hand and this man, his uncle's murderer, would not escape him. He stormed up the steps, his vision still blurred from tears and ignoring the burning in his thighs. At the top, he stormed down a small hallway, through another door, and found himself in the hallway with windows facing out into the small courtyard.

"I don't know where he went! Ran through a door. Should have just gotten here faster, asshole," he heard the man with the crossbow say to another who was holding a bow and a quiver with only three arrows in it. At the end of the corridor there were two more red knights with swords in their hands, looking around uncertainly as if they didn't know where they were in the first place.

Without hesitating, Aegon stormed toward the two, who stood only a dozen paces away from him, raising his sword in the air. Screaming loudly like a madman, he charged at the completely stunned men. He immediately cut off the archer's head and stabbed the crossbowman in the shoulder with his sword. Screaming, the man, whose crossbow had not yet been reloaded, dropped his weapon. Aegon pulled his sword from the man's shoulder, struck again, and cleanly severed his left arm. Bleeding and screaming louder and louder, he went down. Aegon lunged again, struck again. This time he hit him in the head, splitting his helmet and skull in two down to his neck. Aegon withdrew his sword, stabbed his blade into the already dead man's chest, two, three, four times, still screaming like a savage.

He himself could only vaguely imagine what he must have looked like when he finally, breathing heavily, stopped stabbing and slashing at the man's corpse and turned to the two soldiers still standing motionless at the end of the hallway. For a moment they looked over at Aegon, their own swords in their hands, but stirred. Clinking, the two dropped their swords to the ground almost immediately, turned, and ran away as fast and hurriedly as if the Stranger himself were after them.

Aegon looked down at the man once more, little more than a mass of blood and cut flesh. He spat into the dead man's split face, then turned away and walked away down the hallway, in the opposite direction as the fleeing men. Aegon's muscles ached, burning like fire. His hand was sticky with blood on the hilt of his sword, the blood of his uncle, the blood of his slain enemies, and also his own blood, running down from a small cut on his forearm. He trotted along the corridors, turning corners and descending first one, then another flight of stairs, reaching the small courtyard again without having intended to do so. He walked slowly, with almost cautious steps, around the fragments of the obelisk again, to where his uncle Oberyn lay on the ground. Somehow, deep inside, Aegon hoped that he would suddenly hear Oberyn's voice, that his uncle would be lying or sitting there, waiting for him, his typical mischievous smile on his lips. The dream shattered, however, as Aegon walked to the back of the large chunk of rock and looked down at him, no smile on his lips and his eyes still fixed dead and empty into the sky.

For a moment Aegon wanted to sit down next to his uncle, just stay with him and do nothing, but could not. If he did nothing now, did not end it now, his uncle would have died in vain. So he turned away, left the courtyard again, this time through another door, and walked on and on through corridors, past empty rooms and chambers, not knowing where he was going. Aegon felt empty, had no more strength for anger at Viserys or fear of more red knights. He didn't know how long he had been walking down the corridors before the realization hit him like a thunderbolt. He knew where he would find Viserys. It was so obvious that he wanted to slap himself.

Viserys thinks he is a king, the king. Of course he will be in the throne room, Aegon thought. The proper throne room, however, was not in Maegor's Holdfast and, moreover, was far too close to the embattled main gate for a coward like Viserys. The Queen's Ballroom, then. That's where he has to be.

With firm steps but without haste, Aegon walked through Maegor's Holdfast. He knew the way, knew which corners to go around and which doors to take to reach the Queen's Ballroom. He encountered no more soldiers, neither Gold Cloaks nor red knights nor anyone else. It seemed that he himself and Viserys were the only people left in the fortress.

Father must still be around here somewhere, too, but I'll find him eventually once Viserys is dead. He's probably even with him, with his savior of mankind.

Aegon walked around the last corner, along the wide hallway decorated with ornate tapestries depicting particularly important moments of Targaryen rule over the Seven Kingdoms, and finally reached the wide portal, its doors adorned with bronze fittings in the shape of dragon wings. The entrance door stood wide open, revealing a view of the Queen's Ballroom. Warm, afternoon sunlight fell through the high arched windows on the southern wall, getting caught in the beaten silver mirrors behind the wall sconces and bathing the whole room in an almost solemn light.

At the head of the room, in front of a large, wooden chair that must have served as a throne, he then stood. Viserys, a golden crown on his head and wrapped in a floor-length red robe of heavy brocade with golden dragons in fierce battle on it, stood in front of his wooden throne, looking over at Aegon with an almost friendly smile. For a heartbeat, Aegon thought about that robe, because it looked so strangely familiar to him. Aegon walked toward Viserys, his bloody sword still in his hand, but his uncle made no attempt to move from the spot.

"Dear nephew, at last you have found your way back to me," Viserys said in a voice so loud as if he were giving a speech to a hundred guests. "I thank R'hllor, the Lord of Light and one true God, for bringing you back to me. Or the Seven, or anyone else. I don't care," he said with a wink.

"If the gods are listening to us, uncle, they will hardly sleep. So you don't have to wake them first with your shouting," Aegon said. "I am surprised to find you here like this, without guards. Your army has been crushed, the Red Keep is about to fall, and you and I are here, alone, and as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, only one of us will get out of here alive."

"Oh, you're absolutely right, dear nephew. You're right about that. Only one of us, and that will be me."

Grandfather, it suddenly occurred to Aegon when he stopped six or seven paces away from Viserys. This is Grandfather's old robe.

"Do you really think this is going to end well for you?" Aegon asked. "Even if by some miraculous means you manage to live to see the next morning... Stannis Baratheon is at the gates of the city with an army from the Stormlands and the Reach, and more troops from the Vale are on their way to meet him. How exactly do you plan to deal with that? I'd really be interested to know."

"It's simple. I am the king. It is the divine order that the rightful king sits on the throne. It will come to pass. Either by the power of R'hllor or the Seven, or simply by fate. I have a strong faith, Aegon. Everything is going to be all right. I just know it."

"I'm going to have to disappoint you on that one. You see, you're not a king. You're a usurper, that's all. And when I look at your chances of winning, you're not even a very good one."

"I am the rightful king!" he suddenly shouted, but caught himself as quickly as the outburst had come. "Forgive me, that was unbecoming of a ruler."

"You are not a ruler. No matter how much you might want the throne."

"Dear nephew, it's not at all about how much I want the throne. In fact, I don't even really want it. Ruling is no fun but a great burden, after all. The thing is that I am simply destined by fate to have it, to rule, to be king," Viserys said in such a smug tone that Aegon had to clench his fists to resist the urge to put them around Viserys' throat here and now. "It disappoints me a bit that you are apparently still too stupid to understand this. If you had my wits, you would understand, you would realize the truth, and support me in my quest instead of fighting me. If only you had my wits."

"You know the old saying that if you try to brag too much about your wits, you usually just end up proving that you have too much of the opposite?"

"Very funny," Viserys spat back at him. "Is that something your little whore taught you? A real waste, your little whore. She's not so ugly. You should have taught her better, then maybe there'd even be a place for her in my court when all this is over. But she's not obedient enough for that, I'm afraid."

"Only dogs have to obey," Aegon said. "If you really love your wife, you will respect her as she is. It's unfortunate that you never seem to have understood that."

"You really are even weaker than I had feared. What a shame. Well, it doesn't matter either. I have more important things to deal with than your ridiculous marriage. We should plant rose bushes. All over the Red Keep."

For a moment, Aegon didn't even know what to say in response, baffled by the sudden change of subject.

"I never would have taken you for a friend of ornamental plants," he finally said.

"I'm not. But I read an interesting book recently that said there are so-called Rose Maidens in Yi-Ti. Their whole duty is to constantly sprinkle rose petals in front of the emperor's feet when he walks, because in Yi-Ti they believe that the emperor's feet are too noble to touch the ground. So if the emperor of Yi-Ti walks on rose petals, why can't I?"

"So these are the important things you need to take care of? Rose petals under your feet so you don't have to walk on plain stone anymore? Yes, you are really hard at work saving the world."

"That's just one aspect of my reign."

"Oh, so there is another?"

"There are very many things I am involved with. Awakening dragons and saving humanity, for example. You obviously don't know me at all, nephew."

"Of course I know you, uncle. I can read you like an open book. One written for very stupid children. You like to play king and whatnot, bask in the false light of some divine destiny you fantasize about or that your red priests are only too happy to whisper in your ear, but really you're a pathetic wretch. A wretch who can do nothing and possesses nothing. If it weren't for my father and his madness, that's all you'd be, uncle. Nothing."

"I am the center of divine power, Aegon! Me! Not you, not the traitor Stannis or anyone else. I alone, and once my destiny is fulfilled and I hold in my hands the divine power that is mine, the whole world will see it. Unfortunately, you won't be around to see it then."

"You have no power, Viserys. You don't now, and you never will."

"What do you know about power? Nothing, nothing at all. Do you want to know what true power is? That, that's true power!" Viserys yelled, pointing his finger to the side. With quick steps he hurried over to a small pedestal, almost falling over the hem of his robe. On the small pedestal at the wall was a wooden box and inside, on a bed of blood-red velvet, were three colored stones. Aegon only had to look briefly to know what they were. They were large, covered with tiny, shimmering scales that shone like metal in the warm sunlight.

Dragon eggs.

The left egg was of dark green with spots the color of polished bronze. The right egg was white, streaked with fine stripes of gold and copper. The egg in the middle, however, was as jet black as the sky of a starless night with scarlet ripples and swirls all over it.

"Great, gaudy stones," Aegon said, trying to sound as unimpressed as possible. "I'd like to tell that to Daeron. I'll bet his stones aren't so nice and gaudy."

"Gaudy? That's all that comes to your mind?"

"Well, they're stones. Expensive, dead stones."

"Yes, they are now, but soon they won't be so dead. You'll see. Or rather, you won't see. But the rest of the realm and the rest of the world will see it. And then all those who have stood against me will pay."

"All of them? That's going to be a very long list."

"Oh, don't worry, nephew. I know exactly who will pay. A great many men will have to die for having supported you, Aegon. You'll have their blood on your hands. I hope you know that. Lord Stark and Prince Doran will be the first to pay for their treason."

"You want to be king so badly and the first thing that comes to your mind is to execute two of the most powerful men in the kingdom?"

"What choice do I have? Letting one of these men live would already be too great a mercy for these traitors, and I certainly don't intend to be particularly merciful. Letting both of them live, on the other hand, would not be mercy; it would be weakness, and weakness is something a king cannot afford."

It was said that when a lord wanted an apple, the servants often cut down the entire tree. Viserys, however, was dreaming of cutting down the entire forest. Aegon did not even have a shake of the head left for this madness. He had heard enough, given Viserys enough time. Aegon was tired of listening to the ramblings of a madman he was going to execute anyway. Surprisingly, Viserys seemed to have had a similar thought at the same moment.

"Well, yes," Viserys said. "Be that as it may. You're beginning to bore me, nephew. Just as you always have. I think we should end this now."

"Yes, indeed I think so too," Aegon said, loosening his fingers once briefly around the hilt of his sword, expecting Viserys to pull a weapon out from under his robe himself at any moment to attack him.

"I'm glad we agree on this for once. Then surely you will not resent me for what follows. Ser Boros, now."

Before Aegon could react, he already felt a terrible pain in his thigh, noticed how his leg gave way under him, falling to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His armor clattered on the stone floor. Aegon rolled to the side, looking at his thigh. The handle of a dagger, thrust right between the parts of his thigh armor, protruded from one leg, blood oozing out the side. Boros Blount stood over him, a sardonic grin on his face. Where he had come from, Aegon could not tell. Aegon crawled away as fast as the pain in his leg would allow. He should have guessed that a coward like Viserys would not attack him himself. He should have known.

"Don't worry, Aegon," he heard Viserys say. "Boros won't kill you. I need you alive, after all. You know, for my dragons."

Aegon continued to crawl, his eyes fixed on Boros Blount. He reached one of the columns supporting the hall's high ceiling and grabbed one of the forged sconces attached to the stone. Leaning on one foot, he pulled himself up by it, standing unsteadily on one leg as Boros Blount continued to approach him.

"His Grace promised me I could have your little girl when the war was over," he heard the swine say. Rage ran through him, flowing like fire through his veins. Only now did Aegon notice that he still held his sword in his hand, clutching the hilt tightly. "I'll take good care of her. I'm sure she will soon forget you once she warms my bed every night. Most certainly she will even-"

With a loud cry, Aegon pushed himself off the wall, striking at the bastard with his sword.

No, Aegon thought. Not Sansa. No!

The fat swine barely managed to ward off the first blow, which took him completely by surprise. Aegon would kill this man, he decided, no matter what. He knew how good he was with the sword, even wounded as he was right now. Aegon had learned all his life from the knights of Kingsguard, from Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister, from the best swordsmen in the realm. This one, though armed all in white, was not even worthy to shine the boots of one of his teachers. Aegon lunged again, limping on one leg behind him. Boros Blount, apparently still baffled because the situation had changed so quickly, stumbled backward more than he walked. Again he only just managed to dodge Aegon's sword. The third blow, delivered from below and as hard as Aegon could, then hit him, however. Aegon managed to fake a thrust with the tip of the sword without losing his balance, but then dropped the blade to the side and pulled it back up as fast as he could. Boros' sword just grazed along Aegon's blade, but could not fully deflect it. The edge scraped upward along the fat guy's body armor, across his stomach, his chest, and all the way up to his neck. There he was finally unprotected and the sword cut through the soft flesh like a hot knife through butter. Blood spurted from the wound on his throat as Boros Blount went down gurgling and dying.

Aegon looked down at him, briefly considered giving him the coup de grace to end his suffering, but then decided against it. This man did not deserve this mercy. However, it didn't take long for the gurgling to stop anyway. Aegon looked up, searched the room, but found Viserys nowhere. He had to have fled.

He's even more of a coward than I thought.

Aegon looked down at himself. The blood that still flowed from his leg, aching as if it were on fire, had soaked his entire pair of pants and was leaking into his boot. For a heartbeat, he considered pulling the blade out to ease the pain. He knew, however, that this could only make the bleeding worse if he hurt himself more in the process. He couldn't lose blood any faster, so he gritted his teeth and tried to swallow the pain. He could feel himself getting dizzy. But he couldn't give up, not now, not so close to ending this once and for all. He leaned on his sword as if it were a walking stick - something Ser Gerold would certainly have made him run three dozen extra laps around the courtyard to beat it out of him - and limped toward the exit. The Queen's Ballroom had only this one door, so Viserys must have taken it. He couldn't have gotten far yet.

He just reached the door and was about to step out into the hallway when he stopped, rooted to the spot. In the exit, between the large door leaves, stood his father, dressed all in black and holding a sword. Aegon wanted to react, to say something or to raise his own sword, but faster than he could do anything, his father's kick already hit him in the stomach. Aegon was thrown backwards, hitting the ground again with a loud crash, all the air pressed out of his lungs. This time he lost his grip on his sword, which slid away with a loud scraping across the smooth stone floor. It took him a moment to catch his breath and speak. His father had approached him, the tip of the blade pointed at him.

"Go on then, finish it. Kill me," Aegon spat back at him.

"I don't want to kill you, son."

"You don't? I find that hard to believe."

"No, I never wanted that. Just like I don't want Rhaenys or Daeron and my mother to die. I don't want to die myself either, certainly not, but this isn't about me or you or who ends up sitting on the Iron Throne. It's about saving all of mankind. Don't you understand that? Despite all the love I have for you, my son, it is predestined that mankind can only be saved through this sacrifice."

"You speak of love? You have hated me all my life," Aegon pressed out between his teeth, his face twisted in pain.

"That is not true! I have loved you."

"Yes, when I was a little child, perhaps. When I was too little to even realize it. When you still thought I was your chosen savior of mankind. But as far back as I can remember, you had nothing but despise for me, because I'm such a disappointment to you, because I didn't become the prince that was promised, as you so ardently wished."

"Never stopped loving you," his father said, and Aegon almost believed him if he didn't know him and his delusion so well.

"Really? Then you've learned to hide it pretty damn well over the years. So what now? Do we embrace each other, everything will be wonderful, and then we go to the stake together? Is that what you were hoping for?"

"I was hoping for your understanding. For you to understand why I have to do this, so that we can leave this world without hating each other."

"Then I'm sorry to disappoint you. That's not going to happen."

"That's unfortunate. I don't want you to die, son, but I have no choice. None of us do. Please don't fight against me anymore, against fate."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you again. That won't happen either," Aegon said, hectically looking around for his weapon.

"Your sword? You won't get to it in time. You can try, but I won't let you. I can't kill you. You are still needed for the ritual. But your sword hand I can cut off if you are unreasonable," his father said, taking a step closer to Aegon and holding the tip of his blade in front of his face. "Please, Aegon, stop it already. It doesn't matter if you want to call it fate or divine will. You can't fight fate, and fate has provided that Viserys will save mankind from an enemy worse than anything mankind has seen in thousands of years."

Aegon didn't want to, but couldn't help but laugh, loudly and boisterously. Not even the biting pain in his leg could stop his laughter. It wasn't until he was nearly out of breath that he managed to pull himself together, tears in his eyes.

"You think that's funny? You're actually as big a disappointment as I always feared."

"No, I don't find it funny at all, Father. I was just thinking what a disservice the gods have done themselves in choosing a cowardly, feeble-minded weakling like Viserys, of all people, to be the savior of mankind," he said, wiping the tears from his cheek.

"It is destined that-"

"Stop this nonsense," Aegon interrupted his father. "You've been out of your mind for a long time already, but do you seriously believe that you can force fate? If some divine power, the Seven or the gods of the North or your new red god for all I care, really wants dragons to be reborn, it certainly doesn't need some stupid ritual for that. If the gods want it, then the right people will be in the right place at the right time, and then their destiny will be fulfilled all by itself, whatever that may be. And if their destiny is to raise dragons, then they will succeed without your intervention, without silly spells, and certainly without anyone being forced to murder their entire family for it. If any god depends on such a ritual to be divine, then he is no god."

For a moment his father seemed confused, seemed to think about what he had just heard. His sword sank down until the tip almost touched the ground. Had Aegon convinced him? Should it be so easy to drive the confused madness from his father's mind and heart? After a moment, however, the hesitation and doubt disappeared from his face. Immediately he jerked his blade up again, holding it in front of Aegon's face once more.

"I am sorry, my son. The fate of mankind is at stake. As I said, I will not kill you. I'll take your sword hand so you can't fight back. You will stay alive, however. Until we get Daeron, Rhaenys and Rhaella back as well. And then, in the name of a greater good, the greatest good of all, we will leave this world together."

With these words, he took a half step to the side, closer to Aegon's sword hand, with which he supported himself on the ground, and raised his sword in the air. Aegon thought in panic about what he could do. He could not jump up and run away. His leg would not allow him to do that. He couldn't protect himself without a sword of his own in his hand. Maybe he could... But before he was able to form another thought, he already saw the flash with which the sunlight broke on the edge of the his father's blade coming down. Quickly he squinted his eyes, expecting the pain. But instead of pain in his arm, he heard a loud clang, steel on steel. It took him a moment before he dared to open his eyes again and once he did, he saw that another sword had stopped his father's blade, white as milk. His father looked at Ser Arthur with wide eyes, quickly took a step back.

"Arthur, you're here... Get out of the way," his father ordered. "I have to do this."

"I cannot allow that," Ser Arthur said, taking a step forward and positioning himself between Rhaegar and the still puzzled looking Aegon, his voice calm and low.

"You are a knight of the Kingsguard, Arthur. You must obey. You must-"

"I must," Arthur interrupted him, "protect my king. That is my duty and my honor."

"Then do so, protect your king. Viserys is-"

"A usurper, whom I will be glad to hunt down if my king commands me. And my king lies there bleeding on the ground," he said, pointing to Aegon.

"I do not want to do this, but this is what has to happen. You must believe me. We are friends, Arthur."

"That we are. So it only pains me all the more to face you here now, old friend."

"We are friends," his father repeated, "and because we are friends, I will do everything in my power to make Viserys forgive you. You are a good man, Arthur, true and brave. Bend the knee to Viserys and you will be forgiven. You have my word."

For a moment, Ser Arthur looked silently into the face of Aegon's father, then looked around, to Aegon, and back to Rhaegar.

"I am a knight of the Kingsguard," he said finally. "My knee does not bend so easily."

With that, he picked up his blade and shifted one foot forward, going into an attack stance. Rhaegar did the same, holding his sword in front of him. It took only a moment before Rhaegar attacked, charging forward and slashing at Ser Arthur. Ser Arthur, however, the Sword of the Morning, was too good to be surprised by this. He fended off the swift blows of Aegon's father with an ease that still amazed Aegon, even after the hundreds of times he had already seen Ser Arthur fight in the training yard. The two circled each other, hacking and slashing in a wild but controlled dance, and Aegon couldn't help but sit on the ground and watch wide-eyed, like a little boy at his first melee. He saw immediately that Ser Arthur had more than one opportunity to end the fight, to fatally wound his father, to overcome his defenses, but did not.

He is fighting one of his oldest friends. He doesn't want to kill him.

Aegon could only guess how hard it must have been for Ser Arthur to have to fight Rhaegar, how torn his heart, his mind and his loyalty must have been. Half a dozen more blows he again fended off with ease, moving around Rhaegar as elegantly as a dancer, close enough to be dangerous and yet always far enough away to never allow his opponent a chance to pose a serious threat to him.

"Please stop it, old friend," Arthur said between a light-footed parry and a hard blow to the left shoulder of Aegon's father, his tone almost pleading. "Please stop."

Rhaegar did not answer, however, seeming now all the more determined, all the more ferocious to lash out at Ser Arthur, as if victory over the Sword of the Morning were solely a matter of will and physical strength. Then it happened. Aegon saw it clearly as Ser Arthur took a breath, gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, and shot forward as fast as the wind. Aegon thought he heard an "I'm sorry" when he saw Dawn cut through his father's clothing and pierce deep into his chest, stabbing right through the heart.

Rhaegar's eyes snapped open, looking in disbelieve at what had just happened. His gaze wandered down to the sword that had entered his chest almost to the hilt, mouth and eyes wide open, then back up into the face of his old friend. With a calm, almost gentle movement, Ser Arthur pulled his sword out of his old friend's chest. Then, without a word, Rhaegar collapsed, his sword falling to the ground with a clang. Ser Arthur grabbed him by the shoulders, held him tightly, and slowly and carefully lowered him to the ground. The two men, friends and companions for so many years, looked at each other, seemed to say goodbye to each other with their eyes. Then the light in his father's eyes died. It was over. Rhaegar was dead. Ser Arthur remained for a heartbeat with his old friend, looking him in the face. Then he stood up, walked over to Aegon helped him back to his feet.

"This does not look good, Your Grace. The dagger needs to come out and the wound tended," he said, not wasting a moment or a single word about what had just happened.

"Ser Arthur, what are you doing here?"

"I am protecting my king, Your Grace," he said with a matter-of-factness, as if his presence in this place at this moment was the most normal thing in the world.

"Did I not command you to stay with Sansa?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Indeed you did."

"So?"

"My Queen wanted me here."

"Thank you," he said after a moment, a genuine smile on his face. "Thank you for ignoring my command, Ser Arthur."

Ser Arthur bowed his head, now also a smile on his lips again.

"Where is Sansa? Is she safe?" Aegon then asked.

"Yes, she is. Her Grace is on her way north with the five hundred mounted men. I've chosen the best men and the fastest horses. Even if the Tyrells tried to catch up with her, they wouldn't make it. And if they did, those five hundred men are strong and determined enough to make any pursuers bitterly regret their fast ride."

"Good, that's good. Then help me, we must-"

A sharp pain in his leg interrupted him. With a short cry on his lips, he almost collapsed had not Ser Arthur caught him at the last moment. Ser Arthur supported him, one arm over his shoulder, and dragged him over to Viserys' wooden throne.

"I told you that dagger had to come out of there."

"Yes," Aegon groaned between clenched teeth, "unfortunately I don't see a maester anywhere around here right now. Maybe there is still one in the-"

Another pain ended his sentence, this time forcing him to cry out louder. For a tiny moment, all was spinning in his head and lights flickered before his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, Ser Arthur was already holding the dagger in his hand.

"You could have warned me!"

"Then you would have just tensed up and I would have injured the muscle even more," the white knight said as he already began to cut a strip from his white cloak and use it to bandage Aegon's wound. "It's not perfect, but it will do for now. Later, however, a maester should stitch the wound. Can you stand up, Your Grace?"

"Yes, I can," Aegon said as he struggled back to his feet with Ser Arthur's help.

"Then we should leave now. We need to get out of Maegor's Holdfast and back into the city. There we can-"

"No," Aegon said firmly. "We have to find Viserys. This must end, once and for all."

"As you wish, Your Grace. But your uncle could be anywhere. Where should we look for him?"

"Viserys will try to escape. He will try to leave Maegor's Holdfast and sneak away. How did you get into Maegor's Holdfast, Arthur? The portcullis is blocked, isn't it?"

"It is. Through the entrance where the Traitor's Walk used to be. The bridge is gone, but the entrance was only loosely nailed up with a few wooden planks. All I needed was a rope and a few strokes with my sword. That might be where your uncle is."

"Unlikely. Viserys doesn't know you got in there, that there's a passage and a rope waiting. He probably still thinks this passage to be blocked. He'll try the portcullis. Help me, Ser Arthur. We need to get there. Fast. Viserys must not escape. It has to end."

Ser Arthur again wrapped his arm around Aegon, resting his weight against his shoulder, and helped him out of the Queen's Ballroom. Aegon limped along the corridors, one side leaning against Ser Arthur's shoulder and the other leaning on his sword as if on a walking stick. As fast as they could, they hurried through the fortress, down stairs and along corridors, down stairs and along corridors. With each step, they slowed down, the pain in Aegon's leg getting worse. He could feel the bleeding increasing again, the blood warm and wet running down his leg and into his boot. They had almost reached the large main corridor between the portcullis and the guard's garrison when they had to stop. Aegon felt himself weakening, his head beginning to spin.

"Your Grace, I beg you, let me take you to a maester. Your uncle will be seized and punished. You have my word on that," Ser Arthur said as he slowly and carefully released Aegon, leaning him against the wall.

"No," Aegon pressed out. The world around him was spinning so fast his eyes couldn't catch a spot. His leg burned like fire, while he felt nothing at all in his fingers and toes. "I'm going to end it. I have to. Please help me with this, Arthur. Please."

Ser Arthur looked at him for a moment and very briefly Aegon thought he would refuse, throw him over his shoulder and drag him out of the fortress. But then the knight nodded and, without another word, pulled Aegon back to him to help him further along the corridor. Only a few moments later they reached the portcullis. Aegon almost stumbled from weakness, falling to the ground, had Ser Arthur not held him upright. The sight that presented itself to Aegon, blurred by his still circling gaze, however, immediately gave him new strength. His vision cleared and he managed to ignore the pain and weakness in his leg, to straighten himself without Ser Arthur's help.

Viserys stood there, clad in his silly robes and with his father's crown on his head, trying as alone as in vain to push up the portcullis by himself. It was a pitiful, a shameful sight. He turned as he heard Aegon's and Ser Arthur's footsteps behind him.

"Nephew, it's you," Viserys said, but this time without his smug grin on his face. "I take it that means my brother is dead. Murdered by his own son. Tragic, truly."

"No, brought to justice by a knight of the Kingsguard," Ser Arthur said.

"Oh, murdered by a traitor, then. Only slightly better. So you left it to the traitor to have your father murdered rather than become the kinslayer yourself? Well, it doesn't matter now. It's unfortunate that Rhaegar is dead. I will hope, for the sake of all mankind, that his dead body will be sufficient for the ritual."

"Let me kill him now, Your Grace. Please let me end this for you," Aegon heard Ser Arthur say to him, his gaze, however, fixed forward on Viserys. Ser Arthur took a step toward Viserys.

"Stay away from me!" hissed Viserys. "Don't you touch me! No one touches the dragon without leave. You cannot kill me anyway. Neither you, nephew, nor the traitor next to you. No one can kill me on this blessed day, the day of my triumph. And do you know why? Because this is my destiny. A divine power flows through my veins, the strength and might to awaken and control dragons. I am the instrument of a divine power that is far beyond your limited mind. So it does not matter what you do. You cannot defeat me, for it is my destiny to live and to rule."

"Please, Your Grace, let me put an end to this," he heard Ser Arthur say again.

"No," Aegon finally said. "I will do this."

Immediately, the smug grin returned to Viserys' face as he reached to his side and flipped his heavy robe aside. He carried a sword at his hip, a longsword in a leather scabbard. Just on his way to flee the fortress, he had now apparently found something within himself that could pass for courage. He unsheathed his sword, waving it left and right above his head as if to scare away a fly. The sword, adorned with ruby splinters at the hilt and beaten of pure gold from pommel to tip, was probably meant to make him look more kingly, but it was obviously not made for a real fight. It was almost sad that Viserys did not even seem to understand this fact.

"This," Viserys said, stretching the gleaming blade forward, "is Dragonfire and you, dear nephew, have the great honor of being the first to be slain by this sword."

"Your Grace, please let me-"

"No. I must do this," Aegon said again. "I must. Whatever happens, Ser Arthur, swear to me that you will protect my wife and child. Please."

"I swear it."

Aegon nodded to the knight, deep gratitude in his eyes. He could only hope that Ser Arthur saw and recognized it. Then Aegon, too, raised his sword, strode toward Viserys. The pain in his leg was forgotten, the numbness in his fingers was forgotten, the dizziness in his head was forgotten. All he could still see, all that still existed for Aegon, was the man in front of him, the man who had once been his uncle, the man who pointed a golden sword at him.

Aegon limped forward, step by step. He was still a little more than two steps away when he could look Viserys clearly in the face again for the first time without his vision being blurred. What he saw made him sad. Viserys was crying, he saw. Crying and laughing, both at the same time, this man who had once been his uncle.

Viserys swung his sword around, from right to left and left to right. Aegon knew how easy it would be to cut Viserys down, realizing at first glance that the man who had once been his uncle would not even come close to landing a hit and had no defense to offer that could block even one well-aimed swipe of Aegon's sword. Even in his condition, this was not a fight, but an execution, but that was all the man in front of him deserved.

Now he would end it. Aegon swung his sword out in front of him, in a quick, shallow arc from lower left to upper right, knocking Viserys' frantically rushing blade aside with it. Viserys now stood defenseless before him. The whole world suddenly seemed to move slower in Aegon's eyes, slower and slower, until it almost came to a halt as Aegon lunged for the killing blow. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly that Aegon could see every detail, every glint of faint light on the edge of his blade, every drop of sweat and every tear on Viserys' face. He looked into his eyes as his blade inched closer to his throat, and suddenly he recognized in it the realization that this would be his end, his death, that he would not have another breath, another heartbeat left.

Aegon knew how to deliver a blow that would kill an enemy quickly and painlessly. He had learned from an early age, not least from Ser Arthur who stood behind him, how to bring down an enemy without making him suffer, how to give him a quick death so that he would not have to suffer pain before the Stranger took him. And in that very moment, he decided against it.

Just a tiny bit, he turned his blade to the side, letting it poke through his neck a finger's width to the right. Aegon saw in every detail how the tip pierced the skin, the edge of the blade followed it into the flesh, and the very next moment a gush of thick, red blood poured out, spilling over his pale neck and slender shoulder.

Viserys fell to the ground, his golden sword, a wide gash in the edge where Aegon had struck it with his blade, crashing to the stone beside him with the wry singing as of a miscast bell. Viserys began to scream the high, wordless scream of the coward facing death. He kicked and twisted, whimpered like a dog and wept like a child, but after only a moment, his cries were stifled by a loud gurgling. He tried to close the gaping wound on his neck with his hands, but the blood rushed quickly and relentlessly between his fingers. Aegon stood there, motionless, looking down at the dying man. He felt Ser Arthur move to stand beside him, expecting an admonition for his unclean stroke or a request that he be allowed to put Viserys out of his misery. Ser Arthur, however, said nothing.

Then it was over. Viserys was dead.

Once again, Aegon almost fell to the ground as his strength once again left him. Yet he felt lighter than he had in a long time, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Leaning on the knight at his side, Aegon limped back through the fortress. It took them the better part of an hour to reach the exit where the Traitor's Walk had once been, but now only a hole gaped in the wall, several paces above the ground.

For a brief moment, Aegon stopped at the edge of the hole, enjoying the cool wind on his face. Sounds of battle could be heard in the distance, more than he would have liked. He couldn't see it, too much of the city was obscured by the walls and towers of the Red Keep, but he was sure he could hear the sound of men and women fighting and dying from within the city.

So the city has indeed fallen, he thought, and could do nothing but hope that Daeron had somehow managed to fight his way through the lines with a few loyal men to safety.

Ser Arthur helped him down the rope he had used earlier to sneak into Maegor's Holdfast. Together they walked wordlessly through the Red Keep, past fleeing men in battered red armor who, knowing they had lost this battle and this war, did not even spare them a glance. They walked between destroyed or abandoned defenses toward the Godswood, which they reached shortly after. Aegon had hoped that he could lean against the trunk of the old oak tree in the shade to rest awhile, but after walking past trampled flower beds and torn out shrubs, he found only a flat, frayed stump where the proud oak had once stood and ruled the entire Godswood.

Aegon looked around, realizing with sadness how little of the Godswood was left. He had always loved this place. He searched for another place to sit, to rest, to wait for Stannis to come and find him. Before he could find such a place, however, he heard something in the distance, terribly beautiful and unmistakable. War horns. So another attack was about to begin.

Now it's all over, Aegon thought. Whatever resistance might still exist in the city, it can't possibly withstand another massive attack.

It was only when he saw Ser Arthur's wide eyes that he himself realized it too. That sound, the sound of those horns was... different. The war horns of the Stormlands were loud and resounding like a thunderstorm, those of the Reach were melodic, almost like an instrument playing music to a pompous feast, and those of the Iron Islands were wild and rough like the islands themselves and as discordant as the conflicted nature of its people. These horns, however, were elegant in their own way, yet at the same time as powerful and vigorous as the roar of a wild beast.

Here we are! Witness us, they seemed to call out. These horns did not simply announce another attack, but the arrival of another army. Without needing to say a word, Ser Arthur again offered him his shoulder. Aegon leaned on it and together they limped as fast as his leg would allow toward a charred opening in the wooden palisade, beyond which was the abyss down to Blackwater Rush. The sight that met Aegon's eyes was almost indescribable.

Like a tidal wave of red steel, like a surf burying an all-too-shallow beach, thousands, tens of thousands of men had burst from the woods and along the road from the west, streaming over Stannis' men swinging swords, axes or hammers.  Volleys of arrows, so dense that in some places they seemed to darken the sky like black thunderclouds, descended into the mass of men fighting or already vainly trying to flee, sending them to a swift and merciful death. At least ten thousand horsemen, heavily armored and with their lances lowered, bright red as a wave of blood and as unstoppable as a force of nature, poured from two directions at once into the panicked mass of black and yellow and green, riding down everything and everyone like too tall grass. And above it all, the proud Lannister lion waved in the wind, triumphant.

Hear me roar, indeed.

Notes:

So, that was it. Viserys is dead, Rhaegar is dead and I hope that now you see why I did not want to kill off Rhaegar so early. I wanted this moment for Arthur Dayne to decide not only for Aegon and against Rhaegar - he could have done that otherwise as well - but also to do this in front of Aegon's eyes and thus finally win back his trust. I didn't want to leave any doubt or bad blood between Aegon and Arthur, and that seemed like a good way to go.

So the war is over now, Viserys and Rhaegar dead as I said, and Stannis and Jon Arryn have no real mercy to expect from Tywin Lannister and Aegon either. I'm currently considering whether or not to insert another chapter to show the immediate aftermath - perhaps a week after the end of the Battle for King's Landing. I'd probably have one or two things to show, but story-wise there wouldn't be much more to come, and I don't want it to feel redundant. Feel free to let me know in the comments what you think about it. I'm still unsure.

Otherwise, there's basically just one more chapter to come, which is the epilogue from Rhaenys' point of view, which I'm really looking forward to.

As always, feel free to write me in the comments what you think, about this chapter or in general, what did you like and what didn't you like. I love reading your comments. :-)

Chapter 54: Eddard 9

Notes:

Hi everyone,

as you can see, the next chapter is here. Originally I was planning this chapter to be the epilogue from Rhaenys' POV, but as said in the comments to the last chapter, it seems a better idea to have this additional chapter to wrap up some loose ends. So we see Ned in King's Landing again, about a month after the battle for King's Landing and the end of the war. Hope you have fun with it.

His thigh trembled as he pushed himself up, and inside of him everything was twirling, whether with pride or shame or just plain excitement he couldn't tell. Ned felt pride, because even if he himself had had only a small part in it, they had victoriously ended one war, prevented another at that very moment, and brought back peace to the realm. He felt shame, because even though he knew it was absurd, he felt as if he had disappointed his lords and, even worse, that he had disappointed his family with this very act. He felt excitement because he just couldn't help it, kneeling here in the Throne Room of the Red Keep, swearing allegiance to his new king and his new queen, his own daughter. He found it difficult to rise as he stood up to roaring applause. Howland Reed and Wendel Manderly were fortunately at his side, reaching under his arms and helping him up after they themselves had said their pledges of allegiance and had risen from their knees. He had long since shed the timidity of being helped because of his missing foot. His time in Dorne had taught him better than to be ashamed of such a thing. The crown of the King in the North, his crown, a rune inscribed circlet of hammered bronze that Robb had solemnly handed to him the very day of his arrival at King's Landing, lay on the ground before him.

King Aegon stood a few paces in front of him, midway up the steps that led up to the Iron Throne, smiling widely yet imposing in his black and red attire and with his own iron crown on his head, Sansa at his side beaming as brightly as the sun, dressed in red and black from head to toe and with a crown of her own. A servant hurried over and handed him his wooden crutch, with which he could stand on his own and by now also walk without having to rely on a wheelchair, and just as quickly hurried off again with the crown that had been lying on the ground. Prince Doran had also had a wooden foot made for him, but walking with it was not working so well yet. His stump still hurt too much when he put weight on it, even though all the maesters told him again and again that this would stop if he just kept practicing with it.

"You must not take too much care of the stump, my lord, or the flesh will heal too weakly and you will never be able to use your new foot properly," the new Grand Maester Alavin, an ancient but surprisingly agile man with more wrinkles than hair on his head, had told him at least a dozen times since he had arrived at King's Landing about a week ago. "You must put weight on the stump and thereby strengthen it, and then eventually you will not even notice the wooden foot anymore."

Ned doubted the Grand Maester's words, however. How was anyone supposed to no longer notice that he was missing a foot and instead had a log of wood hanging from his leg? Still, he decided to follow the maesters' advice and start using his wooden foot more often. Today he was already too exhausted for that, but first thing tomorrow he would begin. Or maybe the day after.

Maybe one day I will even be able to dance again, he jokingly thought to himself and had to grin as King Aegon and Sansa, his queen, stepped down from the steps and approached him with wide smiles. The king offered him his hand, which Ned gladly accepted. Sansa took another step closer and embraced him, soft and delicate as a feather.

"It is a joyous day, a blessed day when, without shedding a single drop of blood, we may welcome the North back into the realm," Aegon said to the waiting crowd in the Throne Room, and Ned was surprised to see how regal the young man already appeared. "Let us remember this day as a day of joy and unity, a day of union and peace, when we, like the Smith and the Father probably could not have done better, join together what belongs together. One realm under one king united in peace."

"King Aegon, long may he reign," someone shouted from the back rows.

"Long may he reign," the hall joined in. Immediately, cheers and applause erupted again, and Ned inevitably wondered if back then Torrhen Stark had felt as good and relieved then as Ned did now when he had knelt before Aegon the Conqueror.

Probably no king has ever felt so good after having just given up his crown, having lost his kingdom.

Ned, leaning on his crutch, made his way back to the side of the hall and joined the crowd, while King Aegon took a seat in a generous, wooden chair at the foot of the throne, with dragons elaborately carved into its arms and back, Sansa in an identical chair directly beside him. Lord Tywin had watched the whole scene wordlessly from a seat, an only slightly smaller chair on the side of the throne with a gilded lion's head above the headrest. His gaze was as cold and iron as Ned remembered it, and he was glad that he had been able to swear his oath directly to the king and had not had to do so to Lord Tywin, the new Hand of the King after all.

After Ned, other lords of the realm followed, all of whom knelt, swore their fealty to the king, and then rejoined the crowd in the hall, even though none of them had a crown to place at the feet of their new king. In the month since the end of the war, most of the lords and ladies of the realm had already sworn their fealty to King Aegon, yet Lord Tywin had insisted on holding this ceremony where not only the independent Kingdom of the North would officially cease to exist, but the lords and ladies would also repeat their oaths in each other's presence so that no one could have any doubt as to who was the one and only King and Lord Protector of the Realm to whom everyone owed their allegiance. Great and important houses from almost everywhere in the realm took turns with smaller and more insignificant ones, whose coats of arms Ned would hardly have recognized without the proclamations of the herald. Hightower and Tudbury, Ambrose and Umber, Butterwell and Smallwood, Cafferen and Merryweather, Grandison and Bolton, Rowan and Westerling, Farman and Bracken and Glover. Next in line were the noble houses from the Vale. Lady Waynwood and the Lords Corbray, Grafton, Royce, Sunderland, Redfort and Hardyng came forward one by one, with Harold Hardyng also being confirmed as the new Lord of the Vale. Whether he would keep the name Hardyng or, to emphasize his legitimacy, take the name Arryn, had not yet been decided.

Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, the last two remaining knights of the old Kingsguard, stood silently and unmovingly at the foot of the stairs the entire time, watching the crowd with an attentive gaze. Ser Barristan, having been severely wounded in battle, was himself leaning on a crutch, though he did his utmost not to let this show and tried more poorly to hide the crutch behind his white cloak. The newest member of the Kingsguard was Ser Daemon Sand, a young knight from Dorne and former squire of Prince Oberyn Martell. The man had had the white cloak of the Kingsguard draped around his shoulders this very morning. He stood a little further along the edge, near the queens Rhaella and Elia, who could now be heard speaking.

"Your Grace," said Rhaella, "your mother and I are very exhausted, and we would like to retire now, if you will permit."

"But of course, grandmother," said King Aegon. Immediately, Ser Daemon Sand set out and escorted them both outside.

The ceremony continued for nearly two more hours, during which more and more lords and knights knelt before the king, pledging allegiance to him and either – if they had fought against King Aegon in war – receiving their punishments, forfeiting lands and titles, or – if they had been on the right side – receiving their rewards, usually the titles and lands that had been taken from others only moments before. It didn't escape Ned's notice that King Aegon and Lord Tywin seemed to be almost constantly alternating between handing out rewards and inflicting punishments, even though he had the impression that Lord Tywin seemed far from satisfied with the extent of the punishments. There had, in fact, been a surprisingly small number of death sentences or banishments to the Wall, which – Ned guessed – was probably why Lord Tywin always looked a little crestfallen whenever he could bestow only rarely more than the loss of titles and lands on a traitor who was on his knees before him and the king, now swearing fealty and betterment.

Ned's healthy leg hurt terribly from all the standing, more than once he felt a cramp rising in it, which he could only just avert at the last moment with the most inconspicuous movements possible, and he was annoyed at not having left the hall together with Rhaella and Queen Elia when the opportunity had presented itself. A cripple who had only recently lost his foot would certainly have been forgiven for doing so. But now it had been too late and he had had to endure the entire rest of the ceremony standing.

I should have listened to Catelyn and brought a wheelchair with me, he thought glumly. His wife stood beside him, her back straight as a spear and her eyes fixed firmly on the events before them. She had a gentle, ladylike smile on her lips whenever her gaze wandered to their daughter, but otherwise looked as serious and icy as if Ned had just told her he was going to send her to the Silent Sisters to marry some tavern wench. Since she had learned that Ned meant to lay down his crown and bend the knee to King Aegon, they had hardly spoken a word. The fact that Robb had agreed to the matter and that she had received no support from him in trying to convince Ned to defy the Iron Throne, remaining an independent kingdom, even risking war if necessary, had not lifted her spirits. Apparently Catelyn had not known that Robb himself had reached this agreement with King Aegon, knowing full well that Ned had already sworn fealty to him and would undoubtedly stay true to his word and oath.

"King Aegon is your good-son, now. He will not start a war with the North," she had said, her face flushed and her voice louder and shriller than he had heard it in years.

"It's the right thing to do," Ned had tried to explain as calmly as possible. "I have already sworn fealty to him. Honor demands that I be true to that oath."

"Honor," she had spat back at him. "What about the honor of the North? The honor of your lords? They want their independence and they have earned it! They crowned Robb their king, they crowned you their king, Ned. Don't just throw that away!"

"I'm not throwing anything away. I'm doing the right thing, Cat."

"Ned, you can't-"

"I can and I will," he had cut her off. "Honor demands it. And now I don't want to hear any more about it."

After that, their discussion had ended, even if it hadn't ended in a way he would have liked. Cat had said goodbye to him with a flimsy excuse after that, spent the rest of the day with Arya or Sansa, and in the days that followed had said little more to him than a curt greeting at breakfast and a "yes" or "no" here and there when she couldn't help it.

She'll get over it, Ned told himself. She's still the Lady of Winterfell, my wife, the mother of the future lord. Nothing has been taken away from her. She will get over it.

Relief, as if someone had lifted a boulder from his shoulders, spread through him as the hall finally chimed in again to wish the king a long and healthy reign, signifying the end of the ceremony. Lord Tywin, after a curt bow in the direction of the king and queen, was the first to hurry out of the hall.

More executions would follow later in the day, to which the Lord Hand now undoubtedly went, but Ned decided not to attend them. The king himself would not be present, as the condemned were too unimportant to require his presence. Knights and lords had not been found among the fleeing by the Lannisters' soldiers, whom Lord Tywin had sent out immediately after the battle for King's Landing, for more than a week anymore. However, every now and then they still picked up some red priests from that peculiar Essosi red god or soldiers from Prince Viserys' so-called Flameguard, who were then brought to King's Landing to end up on the gallows. In contrast to most of the lords and knights who had fought for either Stannis Baratheon or Viserys Targaryen, the king had been unwilling to pardon the red priests or the red soldiers for their actions.

What exactly each one of them had done was unknown to Ned, but there was much talk in the Red Keep that masses of septons and septas, devout men, women, and allegedly even children who had refused to submit to their red god, had been burned alive in honor of that god by the red priests and the red soldiers alike. If even a fraction of this was true, Ned could well understand why the king had not been willing to at least give the priests the opportunity to leave Westeros or the soldiers to take the Black, but had insisted on their execution. Last but not least, King Aegon apparently at least partly blamed the red priests, through their whispers and talk of prophecy, divine will and destiny, for the extent to which King Rhaegar and Prince Viserys had drifted into madness in recent years, laying the groundwork for this war in the first place.

The majority of them had been picked up and executed in the days immediately following the Battle for King's Landing. Two hundred gallows already stood in the city and new ones were still being erected every day to the cheers of the people whenever another group of red priests or red soldiers was brought back to King's Landing and paraded through the streets to their execution. A great number of priests and soldiers had been on the Ironmen's ships and had thus either been seized or drowned when the Iron Fleet had been caught up with. What promises or what strange alliance had led the Ironmen, fleeing in panic from the armies of the Westerlands, to take those men and women aboard their ships, had not been found out. The king, however, had not been particularly interested in it anyway, as long as it was ensured that they would all be seized and punished. After a two-week chase through the Stepstones, the Sea of Dorne, and through the Summer Sea along the southern coast of Dorne, the Royal Fleet, together with the Redwyne Fleet, had finally confronted the Iron Fleet in the waters off the Arbor, driven it up the mouth of the Honeywine, and there had completely destroyed it.

By order of the King, all Ironmen who had fought for Stannis had either been sent to the Wall, exiled to Essos or, if they preferred, executed on the spot. According to the reports they had received, many had opted for the latter, the majority for exile though. As a result, the line of House Greyjoy had ended after the death of Euron Greyjoy, the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands and all the Seas, except for a priest of the Iron Islands' Drowned God named Aeron Greyjoy, but who seemed to have no interest in ruling the islands whatsoever. Many of the other noble houses of the Iron Islands had met the same fate, and so the king had decided, as not to leave the Iron Islands without or to even more unworthy rulers than they had had in the past, to declare the islands part of the North without further ado.

"I never want to hear of an Iron Fleet again," King Aegon had made clear when he had let Ned know that going forward the Iron Islands would be his responsibility. "Let them be fishermen or craftsmen or whatever they want, but their days of raiding and pillaging are over."

So as soon as he was back in Winterfell, it would be up to Ned to find new lords for the numerous empty castles to rule and pacify the Iron Islands in his name and in the name of the King. Hopefully, new titles and lands would somewhat appease some of his lords after the loss of their independence.

The day passed quickly for Ned after that. Catelyn spent her time with Arya again, but exactly where they were or what they were doing, Ned didn't know. He could only hope that Arya didn't go into too much detail about what she had done in Dorne and how she had spent her time there. On the other hand, Catelyn would find out sooner or later anyway that the way Arya had won Prince Quentyn over was so very unlike the courtly ideal that Catelyn had apparently imagined. And his wife could hardly get any angrier than she was at the moment. So perhaps now was indeed the perfect time to tell her everything. Ned wandered, as best his crutch and exhausted limbs would allow, through the Red Keep a bit, through corridors and courtyards, past construction sites for the new defenses and quickly built accommodations for the king's noble guests, but who were not noble enough to be housed in Maegor's Holdfast, making his way to the Godswood.

An oak is not a Weirwood Tree, but it is surely better than nothing to speak to the gods, he thought. Once there, however, he found that all that remained of the sturdy old oak in the center of the Godswood was a not even knee-high stump, ragged and half burnt. All in all, the Godswood was in pitiful condition, with the hedges uprooted, the flower beds trampled and most of the trees burned or cut down, and it would certainly take months or even years before it would shine again in its old splendor. He was pleased to see, however, that work on it had also already begun, no doubt on King Aegon's direct orders, so that Sansa would once again have a retreat that would at least somehow remind her of Winterfell.

Disappointed about the condition of the Godswood, he left the garden and walked on and on through the Red Keep until he finally found a pleasant, shady spot at the foot of the southwesternmost defense tower, where some workers who were busy rebuilding the Riverwall made themselves comfortable during their breaks. Around a small table with playing cards, hard bread and some cheese, empty mugs that smelled of beer and cheap wine and a single, forlorn-looking dice, were five small chairs under a stretched sail to keep away the sun. He took one of the chairs, put his crutch aside and enjoyed the coolness and silence for a while. The sun did not reach him there, a light breeze brought refreshment and he was offered a great view down from Aegon's High Hill into the harbor and the city.

The scars of the battle for the city could be seen everywhere, even from this height. Rows of houses and streets were completely missing, leaving only devastated squares and piles of rubble in their place, and entire parts of the city had apparently been consumed by flames. Even the Great Sept had not been spared, with damages in the masonry, missing stained glass in many of the high windows and a large number of scorch marks all over the building clearly visible even from this distance. Everywhere, however, bustling activity could be seen. The people of the capital were returning to their city, more coming in every day, rebuilding it and filling it with life again, and wherever there was room, wooden scaffolds and skeletons of trusses for new buildings could be seen rising into the air. All the city gates were wide open so as not to block the flow of new building material into the city, and even the winding road up to the Red Keep was so crowded with workers and carts of lumber and stone that it looked more like an ant trail than the road up to the royal fortress. It would certainly take some time, a few months at least, but Ned had no doubt that soon no trace of the terrible destruction could be found in the city anymore. King's Landing would recover, would heal, as would the entire realm. Good times lay ahead of them, certainly.

When evening came, they – Ned, Catelyn and Arya – were invited to supper with King Aegon and Sansa. It was of course unfortunate that Robb was no longer here and that he had had so little time to talk to his son, to have everything told and explained to him what had happened, especially regarding the agreement between his son and the king. It had been understandable, however, that Robb, having attended King Aegon's coronation about a month ago, a few days after the Battle for King's Landing and with it the entire war had ended and three weeks before Ned himself had arrived in the city, had preferred to leave for Winterfell as soon as possible to be with his wife before his first child would be born. Robb had therefore officially handed him the crown the very day of Ned's arrival, made him King of the North with it, and then boarded a ship of the Royal Fleet that King Aegon had made available to him. So it would be just the three of them attending the supper.

"Absolutely not," he heard Catelyn admonish as he entered their chambers. He didn't have to look to know she was talking to Arya.

"She's just my sister."

"She's a... she's the queen," she said, and couldn't help glancing in Ned's direction as he walked to the bed, leaning on his crutch. "And King Aegon will be there, too. There's no way you'll be wearing anything but the best, most elegant dress we can find for you."

"But-"

"No but," Catelyn interrupted her daughter.

"Father, can't I-"

"Your mother is right," said Ned, hoping this would warm his wife to him at least a little again. "Do as she says."

"Your dress is in your chambers. You go now and put it on. A handmaiden is already waiting there to help you. And don't you dare put it on without bathing first."

With these words and a brisk gesture, Catelyn finally sent their daughter away. Arya, who well understood that she could not expect any help from Ned here and realized that she could not win this fight, trotted out without another word.

"She wanted to show up at the king's supper in pants," she continued after Arya had left and closed the door behind her. "Can you imagine? Dorne has completely ruined her."

"She's never been a perfect lady, Cat. You know that."

"She was never like Sansa, no, but she wasn't that bad. She's always been stubborn and couldn't keep a dress clean even if her life depended on it, but to attend a royal invitation in pants and leather gear... even Arya wouldn't have thought of that before she went to Dorne with you."

"It's not like we had much of a choice," Ned snapped, beginning to grow tired of being the target for Catelyn's disappointment at having lost her crown.

"I know that, my love," she said, her gaze and voice suddenly as warm and gentle as it had been used to. She came to him, sat down beside him on the bed, and leaned against his shoulder. It felt good to finally have his wife back with him. "I only worry about her, you know. No matter what Prince Quentyn may think of her now, I doubt that even in Dorne they will approve of a lady acting more like a man than anything else. A badly behaved man at that. What if Dorne is no longer interested in a betrothal between Prince Quentyn and Arya? We have not yet received a reply to your letter from Prince Doran. That cannot be a good sign. What if-"

"Cat," Ned said, smiling at her. "It's all right. All is fine. The realm is at peace, we are all still alive and our eldest daughter is our queen now. That's more than we ever hoped for her, more we could ever have hoped for her. The rest will fall into place, surely."

An hour later – Ned had also taken a bath and redressed, this time even using his wooden foot – they reached the royal chambers, in the solar of which a large dining table had been set up for them all. Ned wore a simple doublet of dark gray linen with a white wolf's head on the chest, along with plain gray pants and black boots. Catelyn wore a ravishing dress of gray silk and blue velvet, with silver embroidery on the collar and sleeves, her hair pinned into a high, elegant tower. His wife looked so beautiful that he couldn't help thinking about being alone with her later and peeling that dress off her body again. To his own surprise, Arya had actually put on the dress Catelyn had laid out for her – blue brocade and yellow silk with silver Myrish lace in an intricate pattern – but had managed to assert herself at least a little by somehow managing to avoid being coiffed by her handmaidens.

Servants bade them enter, assigned them their seats at the table, and handed them cups of chilled wine. Through the wide windows, in front of which stood the slightly higher chairs in which King Aegon and Sansa would soon be seated, there was a magnificent view over the bay, bathed in fiery red light from the setting sun. It was not long before another door opened and Ser Barristan entered the room first, followed shortly by King Aegon, Sansa, and finally Ser Arthur.

"Thank you very much, but I think we have no more need for you today, sers. Have a good night," said the king and immediately the two knights, after a deep bow to the king and queen, wordlessly left the room again.

Sansa was still beaming overjoyed all over her face and for a short moment even a bit more when King Aegon helped her to sit down and adjusted her chair. She wore a dress of fine silk and brocade in deep purple, which she had no doubt chosen to match the color of her husband's eyes. The king was all in black, with only a red three-headed dragon embroidered on his chest. Both had refrained from wearing their crowns, Ned noted.

"Welcome, my ladies and my lord. I am pleased that you have accepted our invitation," the king said, opening the evening.

"It is so wonderful to have you here," Sansa said.

"It is an honor to be here, Your Graces," Ned returned. He probably should have said what a joy it was to be here, to see them so happy, but... in the end he couldn't get out of his skin. Good-son or not, the man there was his king, the woman, his daughter, was his queen. He still had to get used to the idea of being connected to the royal family by blood now. A silly thought really, given that the Houses Targaryen and Stark were already connected by blood through Prince Daeron. Yet somehow it felt different, more real now. It was probably because Ned had always seen Prince Daeron - whatever his name - as more of a wolf than a dragon. With King Aegon, however, seeing anything other than a real dragon in him was impossible.

They talked casually but superficially about this and that for a while, studiously avoiding the subject of war and its consequences, while the servants carried in the dishes one after the other. There was a thick soup of mushrooms that tasted of fresh cheese and small pies of cod and salmon, bowls of dragon peppers, onions and turnips that had been roasted over an open fire in a wonderful light sauce of red wine and goat's milk, and a splendid roast of the loin of a deer with a crust made of bread. For dessert, a cold, sweet soup of apples, pears, and quinces was served, and finally another servant brought in a silver tray of lemon cakes, which Sansa in particular was delighted to see, as if she were a little girl again.

"I saw today how well the work is progressing in King's Landing and the Red Keep."

"Indeed, we are making great progress," King Aegon said with a satisfied smile. "Fortunately, we were able to unearth the treasuries under the Red Keep quickly. Nearly a third of the realm's treasure has already been planned for the rebuilding of the Red Keep and the works in King's Landing."

"No doubt the city will soon be restored to its former glory," Ned said after the third cup of cold wine, trying to wash the spiciness of the dragon peppers from his lips.

"Well, I hope they the city becomes more than that. After all, you experienced King's Landing yourself before the war, and glory is certainly not the first word that comes to mind," King Aegon said, laughing out loud. "I don't want to just rebuild the city, I want to make it better."

"And how do you plan to do that?" asked Catelyn, joining in the conversation now for the first time, aside from a few polite phrases.

"Aegon has drawn up plans to build canals through the entire city," Sansa said in a proud voice, beaming at her husband.

"Well, the plans were drawn up by others, but I ordered the construction and I'm paying for it all," the king said, beaming back at Sansa as well. "That's worth something, I guess."

"Canals?" Ned now asked.

"Yes, flooded with the water of the Blackwater Rush, for a better supply of drinking water to the city and to better clear the city of dirt and sewage. It won't be easy, but some streets will be completely replaced by canals, which we will have a total of one and twenty bridges spanning over them. When we're done with that, King's Landing will be more beautiful than ever. And hopefully no longer stinking like an overflowing latrine at the height of summer."

"Aegon," Sansa admonished him, but couldn't help smiling.

"Forgive me, my love," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "I hope you will come to visit us again soon in the capital, my ladies and my lord. When the work is finished then, you will not recognize the city."

"We certainly will, Your Grace," Ned said, and meant it. His daughter lived here now, and soon she – as well as Robb – would make him a grandfather. As much as he had always disliked his time in the South, there would be nothing in the world to stop him from coming back here. He didn't even need to ask Catelyn to know that she felt the same way. And where Arya's path would lead her was not yet even clear. Maybe even further south.

"Is everything ready for your departure, then?"

"Yes, indeed."

"And you are sure that you do not want to take a ship of the royal fleet? I will be happy to provide you with one. The Sea Dragon is not yet back, I'm afraid, but no doubt we would find another ship that would give you a pleasant voyage as far as White Harbor."

"That is very generous, Your Grace, but not necessary. Everything is already prepared. Tomorrow after noon we will set out along the Kingsroad. That way I can pay Harrenhal a visit while Catelyn and Arya will spend some more time in Riverrun."

"I suppose that's a good idea. No doubt there's a lot to prepare at Harrenhal before work on the fortress can begin." The king took a deep sip of wine before continuing to speak. "I suppose you will be present tomorrow?"

Ned felt himself stiffen, knowing what the king was alluding to. He would have preferred not to have to be there, but this was a matter he could not – and deep down, did not want to – avoid.

"Yes, Your Grace. I never had a relationship with Lord Stannis beyond a brief acquaintance, but he was Robert's brother and I feel I owe it to Robert to be present at the execution of his last, still living brother."

"I… understand that," King Aegon said, and Ned could only hope it was true. He didn't think he had anything to fear for his frank words, but even so, explaining his presence at the execution of a traitor with his brotherly love for that very traitor's brother, who had also died a traitor, was undoubtedly problematic. However, one look at the serious but kind face of his king and the encouraging smile of his queen and daughter, quickly alleviated those doubts.

"After the execution, however, we will leave quickly, Your Grace. The journey is long and there is so much for me to do in the North."

"No doubt, my lord. I have heard of it."

Again, Ned did not have to ask what the king was talking about. After swearing their fealty to him rather reluctantly, many of his lords had turned on their heels, left the city and hurried back north as quickly as if their lives depended on never having to see King's Landing and the Iron Throne again.

"Well, some of my bannermen are a little... dissatisfied with the outcome of the war," Ned tried to put it as diplomatically as possible.

"Dissatisfied," the king repeated. "Angry would probably be more appropriate."

"Many northerners gave their lives defending this city, Your Grace," Catelyn now interjected from the side, clearly more snappish than Ned would have liked. "They did so in the belief that they would be rewarded with independence, only to have to kneel before you in the end. Can you blame them for being angry?"

Before Ned could say anything to soften his wife's words, however, the king spoke again.

"Not at all, my lady. I can well understand the feelings of your bannermen. However, I still believe that the agreement your son and I have come to together, and which your lord husband agreed to by bending the knee to me, is the best for the realm and its people. For the people of the North as well, thus. No one could have any interest in another war."

"There need not have been one. All you had to do was accept the independence of the North."

"I could not do that and you know it, my lady. If you don't believe me, speak to your son about it as soon as you get back to Winterfell."

"Whatever my bannermen may think or feel, Your Grace, you may rest assured that there will be no trouble whatsoever. They are upset, yes, but nothing will come of it. I will see to that," Ned said to prevent Catelyn from starting the same discussion he himself had already had with her without much success. He may no longer be a king and she may no longer be a queen anymore, but with her daughter as Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms, new lands on the Iron Islands, and very soon a rebuilt Harrenhal, House Stark stood better and stronger than it had in centuries. King Aegon, in a moment when gratitude and restraint would have been appropriate, should not be bothered with Catelyn's needless disappointment. "No one will doubt your rule, Your Grace. The men are... proud and headstrong, but they are loyal and true. They will stand by their vows. They just needed to vent their anger a little. That's all."

"Of that I have no doubt, my lord. I have faith in the loyalty of you and your family and that the North stands firmly behind House Stark now and in the future, no matter where the road leads. There is but another thing I want to talk with you about, my lord," the king said in a serious voice.

"And what is that, Your Grace?"

"Well, the Lord Hand advised me against it, but - although I don't know exactly how I did it myself yet - I prevailed," the king said. "My Small Council is not yet complete, and since you are not only the father of my wife and queen but also one of my most trusted bannermen, I wanted to offer you the position of Master of Coin again. So if you wanted to stay with your daughter in King's Landing, you are very welcome to do so."

Ned said nothing, having to swallow hard before he could reply. The offer was an honor, a great honor. No question about it, but Ned just... wanted to go home, back north, to Winterfell, with his wife and Arya, back to Robb and Bran and Rickon and the grandchild Robb and Lady Wynafryd would soon give him.

"This is... a great honor, Your Grace," Ned stammered rather than said.

"Yet you decline," the king said with a weak smile. "I understand that."

"I don't think I would be much help to you in that position, Your Grace. I'm hardly suited for it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You were Master of Coin for weeks already. That means there is no one in my realm with as much experience in that position as you," King Aegon joked, laughing out loud. "I do accept your refusal, however. Rest assured that the seat on my Small Council is still due to House Stark. Fill the position with a man of your choosing, a man you trust, and then let me know when you have made your decision."

"I will. Thank you, Your Grace."

That was exactly what he would do. Ned would send another lord from the North to King's Landing to take his place on the Small Council. While the conversation was still going on, he went through the names that could be considered in his mind. Since his heir's wife was a Manderly, the honor should probably go to a member of the Manderlys. And the fact that the Manderlys knew about money was well known and would undoubtedly be helpful. Halys Hornwood also came to mind, a man good with enough wits and an understanding of money and laws. And since the latter's wife, Lady Donella, was a Manderly as well, perhaps they would not be too incensed at being passed over in case of doubt. Rodrik Ryswell, a man who also knew how to handle money and at that had a fondness for the South and southron courty life, would also have been a good choice. The man however had disqualified himself for such an honor with his behavior before and during the war, sending Robb only a few men when his son had called the banners and otherwise staying out of it as if the war were none of his business. So it would either be Halys Hornwood or a son of House Manderly. This, however, was a decision he would be able to make on the way to Winterfell.

The rest of the evening passed for Ned as if covered by fog. Later, as he lay in bed with Catelyn, sweating and exhausted from the fierce lovemaking they had done, he could barely remember the rest of the evening. That he had drunk two more cups of wine, he remembered. But not much more. Or had it been three?

"I'm not too old," he heard Cat mutter beside him.

"Too old for what, my love?"

She seemed startled at the sound of his voice, as if she had been talking to herself and had not expected to hear a response from him at all.

"Too old to give you another son, love. I want to give you another son," she said after a moment of silence.

It was true. She was not too old, and if there had ever been a night in the last years of their marriage when their love had been so fierce and intense that another child might come of it, it had been this one. They had been so wild and so passionate that he himself had not even had to think about his missing foot again until he had already spent his seed inside her. After their nights of lovemaking in Winterfell, after the feast in honor of King Aegon - at that time still Crown Prince Aegon - she had already murmured, half asleep, that she wanted to give him another son. As much as it had excited and delighted him at the time, however, the thought now filled his heart with a long-forgotten joy and longing. Yes, he wanted another child with her, another strong son or another beautiful daughter. And having to make love to his beautiful wife for it again regularly in the future was not really a hard price to pay. They made love one more time that night, this time with her on top, and a third time just before sunrise before getting ready for the day.

When they left the Red Keep in a carriage after quickly breaking their fast together – Ned had originally wanted to ride on horseback all the way to the forecourt of the Great Sept, but Catelyn had urged him to stay by her side – Arya was nowhere to be seen. She had wanted to say goodbye to Prince Quentyn, Catelyn had told him answering his question about her whereabouts, an answer with which Ned was quite satisfied. He trusted Prince Quentyn enough by now not to have any fears about his behavior and was even glad that Arya would not witness the execution. That was not something a young woman should witness. He need not worry, however, Catelyn had assured him. She had personally seen to it that Arya would dress properly again this morning, not in pants and leather, but in a gown worthy of a highborn daughter of the North, and that a septa would be there all the time to watch over Arya.

Oh Cat, you must know our little wild wolf better than that, he thought, smiling to himself. Whatever poor septa Catelyn had chosen for this task, Arya would eat her alive if she tried to prevent Arya from spending time alone with Prince Quentyn.

Far across the city, bells began to ring. The ringing of the bells of the Great Sept swept through the city like the waves of a surf, having reached the little carriage, flanked by double rows of Gold Cloaks, as it began to push its way through the streets, the moment it had left the main gate of the Red Keep. With each step they approached Visenya's Hill, the bells, clanging and calling, grew louder and louder.

"I also spoke to her about the possible betrothal again," Catelyn said when they had already made more than two thirds of the way and the road slowly began to climb again, up Visenya's Hill. Ned didn't answer for a moment, but then decided that he probably wouldn't be able to avoid this discussion anyway.

"And what did she say to that?"

"That she didn't want to hear about it, of course. She just wants to push the subject aside as if that would settle it."

Ned had to laugh at this, at her stubbornness, which for a moment reminded him so much of Lyanna and Brandon, but quickly fell silent again when he noticed the less than amused look on his wife's face.

"I'm serious, Ned. Please talk to her. She has a responsibility towards her family, now more than ever. She needs to finally see reason."

"All right, I'll talk to her."

"I told her that, for now, she will come back with us to Winterfell anyway, so that her lord father still has time to decide for her future but that if she doesn't want to marry Prince Quentyn, she will be given in marriage to one of your bannermen in a year or two. Either way, she will serve the family as is her duty."

Ned immediately felt everything begin to twist and turn inside him. Catelyn and Arya had always had a very special way of fighting, somehow always managing to say exactly what the other absolutely did not want to hear. Now Ned would have to deal with his wife's demands and his daughter's anger. Of course, Catelyn was right. Arya could not escape her responsibility and a better match than Prince Quentyn, a man who seemed to accept her as willful and... unusual as she was, she would hardly be able to find anywhere in the entire realm, even if she searched a lifetime for it.

The fact that Prince Quentyn would now also permanently reside in King's Landing could therefore be a good thing. After the death of Prince Oberyn, Prince Quentyn would take a place in the Small Council in the name of his father, would become Master of Laws or perhaps Master of Whisperers. So if Prince Doran agreed to this union, Arya could live in King's Landing as well, so that neither she nor Sansa would be alone, having each other.

They finally reached the forecourt of the Great Sept and exited the carriage. Gold Cloaks, at least two hundred, stood shoulder to shoulder on the plaza, keeping the screaming crowd from reaching the dais that had been erected right in front of the entrance to the Great Sept. The white marble plaza was a solid mass of people, all yammering excitedly at each other and straining to get closer to the Great Sept of Baelor, bawling loudly. Women and men shouted curses and insults towards the dais where Lord Stannis, in chains, was already kneeling before a wooden block between two Gold Cloaks. Shouts of "Traitor!" and "Heretic!" and "Burn in hell!" filled the air.

King Aegon and Queen Sansa, Prince Daeron and Lady Talla, Queens Elia and Rhaella, and Lord Tywin were seated on large chairs at the side of the stand. The three white knights of the Kingsguard were there as well, towering imposingly behind the king and queen. A mouse-sized man with short-cropped white hair in the robes of a septon stood beside them, clutching the crystal around his neck and muttering something under his breath. He wore a crystal crown on his head, shining brightly like a rainbow with every ever so small movement, meaning this man had to be the new High Septon that had arrived from Oldtown just some days ago. Two chairs to the king's left were still vacant, to which Catelyn and he were immediately led by some Gold Cloaks. When the bells ceased to toll, a quiet slowly settled across the great plaza. Lord Tywin rose, took a step forward, and began to speak in a voice so loud that it seemed to carry through the entire city.

"We are here today to bear witness, in the presence of gods and men, to the fate of Stannis of House Baratheon. Stannis Baratheon betrayed the faith of his king," he shouted, and immediately scattered insults resounded across the plaza again. "Like every lord and knight of the realm, Stannis Baratheon swore to faithfully serve, protect and obey his king. Yet he plotted to depose his king, murder the royal family, and seize the throne for himself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven witness what is proclaimed: Aegon Targaryen is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Do you deny your crimes, Stannis of House Baratheon?"

Stannis, however, did not answer, only silently scowling into the distance. A stone came sailing out of the crowd, hitting Stannis in the head. The Gold Cloaks kept him from falling, quickly grabbing him under the arms. Blood ran down his face from a deep gash across his forehead. More stones followed. One struck the guard to Stannis' left. Another went clanging off the breastplate of the Gold Cloak to his right. Ser Arthur and Ser Daemon stepped in front of King Aegon and Sansa, protecting them with their shields, although no stone came even near them.

Inevitably, Ned had to think of Robert, his old, dead friend, his brother in everything but blood. He had died on the battlefield by Rhaegar's sword. Robert would have wished his death no other way, certainly, than to die in battle, hammer in hand. Had Rhaegar captured him then, however, he probably would have ended similarly, in chains and on his knees. Perhaps it had been better that way. Who knew what would have come of it had events turned out differently. The gods sometimes had strange ways of spinning their tales and getting people to the places they needed to be.

Now it would soon be over. All of it. The war as well as the line of House Baratheon. Stannis' sons, though they had survived and been captured, had refused to bend the knee to King Aegon and so the king, unwilling to execute boys so young they were almost children, had banished them to the Wall. Stannis' daughter, Lady Shireen, had been given to Faith to make her a septa. Ned knew that Princess Rhaenys had asked her brother in a letter to see to it that Lady Shireen would be sent to Casterly Rock later, once she had said her vows and truly was a septa. As far as he knew, the king had already agreed to this and, together with the new High Septon, had initiated everything necessary. So Shireen would live and be well. Perhaps that might be a small comfort to Stannis. Renly Baratheon's completely battered body had been found in the Tyrell camp after the Lannisters had raided it. Whether he had died in battle or had simply been ridden down during the first attack, no one could say afterwards. The only certainty was that no one would carry on the name Baratheon.

Lord Eldon Estermont had been declared the new Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Having no Baratheon left as Lord Paramount, however, was probably the lesser concern for many of the Stormlords at the moment. The king had punished the Stormlords harshly, even though hardly any had been executed. Nevertheless, they had lost large lands and numerous titles, not to mention prestige and influence in the realm. How many betrothals between the sons of Stormlords and lords from other regions of the realm had been broken in recent weeks was impossible to say. However, it would certainly take some time before the Stormlords would be a major power in the realm again. Large lands in the north had been declared part of the Crownlands, large lands in the south part of Dorne.

House Arryn would end as well, he knew. The thought made him even sadder than the fate of his old friend and brother Robert's family. Jon Arryn was dead, he knew, killed in the Lannister attack. How exactly his foster father had met his end, however, he did not know. King Aegon had had his body brought to the Vale by ship so that he could be buried with his family. Ned had been grateful for this gesture. Robert Arryn, ordered to the capital, who had also refused to bend the knee and, from all Ned had heard, had always only yelled and shouted to let King Aegon fly - whatever that might have meant - had also been banished to the Wall as a result. Harold Hardyng was now the new Lord Paramount of the Vale, not an Arryn by name but at least Jon's blood flowed through his veins. It was a comfort for him, even if only a small one.

King Aegon now stood up, stepping out from behind the shields of his Kingsguard, pulling Ned out of his thoughts. After only a few heartbeats, the crowd was already quiet again, waiting for the first words of their king. The High Septon now also stepped forward, kneeling before the king.

"As we sin, so do we suffer," he intoned, in a deep swelling voice just as loud and clear as Lord Tywin's had been. "This man's crimes were brought forward in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place, and he did not deny them. His guilt is clear." Rainbows danced around his head as he lifted his hands in entreaty. "The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"

"Mercy and forgiveness are noble adornments for any man, for kings above all," King Aegon spoke in a firm voice. "In the case of Stannis Baratheon, however, I can show no mercy. Once before, House Baratheon has rebelled against its king; once before, House Baratheon, this man has been spared instead of receiving his just punishment. Stannis of House Baratheon, for your treason against your King, the Crown, and the Iron Throne, I hereby sentence you to die. Ser Barristan, bring me my sword."

Thousands of voices cried out in almost ecstatic jubilation. Sansa leapt to her feet, rushed the few steps over to her husband, and clasped his arm as he was about to receive his blade from Ser Barristan.

"My love, what are you doing?" Ned heard her ask in a worried voice. Aegon looked at her with a smile, sword in hand, beaming so lovingly that it could have made the sun cower in shame.

"I once learned from a great lord that the man who passes judgement should swing the sword. If I cannot bear to do this myself, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. I never want to forget how heavy it weighs to take a man's life. That is why I must do this, my love."

Ned could hardly believe what he had just heard. Still, he couldn't help but smile and let his chest swell a little with pride. King Aegon came even closer to Sansa, gave her a quick kiss on the lips, and then turned around. Sansa returned to her chair, softly flushed and with the most beautiful smile on her face, turning away from what was about to follow. King Aegon gave a signal to the Gold Cloaks and immediately they thrust Stannis Baratheon forward, his head hanging over the edge of the block. Ned looked at the king's sword, which even in the bright sunlight looked as if it possessed its own shadow. As he lifted the blade above his head, sunlight seemed to ripple and dance down the dark metal, glinting off an edge sharper than any razor.

Valyrian steel, he thought, this is Valyrian steel!

In the next moment, the sword came down and Ned heard a noise… a soft sighing sound, as if a million people had let out their breath at once. Then it was over.

Later that day, noon long past, they again stood beside a carriage, a larger one this time, in front of the wide-open Dragon Gate. Again, hundreds of Gold Cloaks formed an iron wall, keeping away passing peasants, merchants, and all other onlookers, while the guard formed of soldiers from the Tullys and Darrys lined up to protect Catelyn, Arya, and Ned on their way north. At Harrenhal and Riverrun, soldiers from Winterfell would already be waiting for them when they arrived, would take over their protection as they continued on their way. Carts of clothing and expensive fabrics from Essos, food and wine, some gold and silver from the Royal Treasury as a down payment for the soon to begin repairs of Harrenhal, and fruits and precious spices from Dorne, gifts from Prince Quentyn, were lined up between soldiers in shining steel armor on noble palfreys.

King Aegon and Sansa were there, as were Prince Daeron and Rhaella, constantly watched over by two knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur and Ser Daemon. Ned was about to drop to one knee to bid farewell to his king and thank him for the honor of coming to Dragon Gate just for them personally, when King Aegon took a step toward him and grasped his hand.

"There is no need for that. Truly not. We are family, after all," he said with a smile. "I thank you for everything, my lord, and wish you a good and safe journey. Please send my greetings to Robb. And should he ever desire to see the south, perhaps spend some time at the royal court, please let him know that he will always be welcome here. As will you and the rest of your family, of course."

"Thank you very much, Your Grace. I will pass the word on to him."

"You will be back soon, won't you?" asked Sansa as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Ned's neck, a wholly unbecoming behavior for a queen. Ned, however, could think of nothing more wonderful at that moment. She let go of him, walked over to Catelyn and hugged her as well.

"We want to meet our grandchild. Of course we'll be back," Catelyn said.

"Please don't make me wait so long for a letter again this time, old friend," Rhaella said, stepping forward and placing a gentle kiss on Ned's cheek.

"I promise, Your Grace," Ned said and had to smile.

Handshakes, hugs and kisses on the cheeks followed between everyone present, good wishes were exchanged and promises made to come and visit each other in a year or two at the latest. Prince Daeron was the last to approach Ned. At first he wanted to shake his hand and Ned had almost grasped his outstretched hand already, when Daeron then took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Ned as well, taking him in a tight hug, which Ned gladly and laughingly returned.

"Have a safe journey, uncle."

"We will. I will send a raven as soon as we get home. I hope you will come back to visit us in Winterfell sometime? I'm sure Robb would be delighted. And so would I."

"Of course. I can't wait to meet my nephew or niece. Talla is with child as well but as soon as my son or daughter is old enough for the journey, we'll be happy to come. I promise. For the moment, though, Aegon will need my help here in the capitol."

"I understand that," he said before climbing into the carriage after Arya and Catelyn, letting himself sink in the soft cushions. "Just know that there will always be a warm chamber for you in Winterfell."

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think? Did you like it? Did you hate it? As always, please feel free to let me know in the comments. :-)

The next chapter will be the epilogue from Rhaenys' POV, so it will be the end of this fic. I'm not sure how long it will take me to write it, though. I know what I want to show and tell, but am still thinking about how exactly to do it.

See you there. :-)

Chapter 55: Rhaenys 6

Notes:

Hi everyone,

as you can see, the next (and last) chapter is here! We have one last Rhaenys POV that takes place some years after the end of the war. You can probably imagine that there isn't happening too much in it, really. It just shows how things and the lifes of the major characters have developed. I hope you will still like it. :-) Have fun.

The bright midday sun bathed the entire city around her in the most beautiful hues of yellow and orange as she looked out the window of her wide carriage. At the sight of the play of colors around her, Rhaenys couldn't help but feel reminded of her roots in Dorne; her wonderful Dorne that she hadn't seen in so long. She decided to talk to Jaime as soon as possible about visiting Sunspear, if only to finally see her mother again, who had retired to the Watergardens alongside her uncle Doran some years ago already. Now, however, she was here for the time being, and it would certainly be just as wonderful as it would be exhausting. She had last been to King's Landing shortly after the birth of her son. Gerion, now five name days old, fidgeted in the seat across from her in the carriage and obviously couldn't wait to finally rush out. She looked at her son and at first wanted to scold him for his fidgeting, but then refrained when she saw his wide eyes and excited look. He was looking forward to King's Landing, looking forward to seeing his family, and she didn't want to spoil that for him by being overly strict. If Jaime had been with her now, he certainly would have let Gerion have it just as much. He was a good father, truly, even if he often enough lacked the sometimes necessary strictness. But she preferred it that way rather than the other way around.

They had named their boy after Jaime's favorite uncle, whom he had lost so early. Jaime said their son even reminded him of his uncle often. Rhaneys didn't know if there was any truth to that or if Jaime just believed it because he wanted to believe it. Actually, though, it didn't matter. Gerion was a wonderful boy, smart and kind, except for the darker skin he had inherited from her, the spitting image of his father, golden as a lion with shining green eyes and always a mischievous smile on his lips. She was already dreading the day when he would be old enough to realize the kind of impression he would have on all the maidens of the realm.

She had to think of Jaime, her husband, for a moment. She felt a warmth in her belly as she thought of him. It was a pity that he could not be here with her now, but as Lord of Casterly Rock and one of the most powerful men in the realm, he sometimes had obligations that went beyond visiting family, even if that family was the royal family. At times she still caught herself seeing in him not Jaime, her husband and the head of House Lannister, but Ser Jaime, her white knight. That always passed quickly, however, whenever they were alone. Jaime, too, had needed some time after their wedding to get used to the idea that she was no longer his royal princess, whom he had to obey to the letter, but his wife and the future mother of his children, whom he had to obey to the letter. By now, however, they had developed a true and deep love for each other that she had previously only been able to even imagine between her and Aegon. She was his wife, he was her husband and she could not imagine anything more wonderful.

"Look, Mama," Gerion chirped, sticking his finger out through the window of the carriage. For what must have been the dozenth time, her boy had seen something outside that he thought was so special that he had to share it with her. The last ten or eleven times it had been things like an old statue, a crooked house, fighting cats, or a particularly large wheel of cheese. At some point she had decided to just quiet him with a "Yes, very nice indeed," without bothering to stick her head out of the window.

"Not so loud, Gerion," she admonished him this time, though. "You'll wake the girls."

Her girls were fast asleep in her arms, Joanna leaning against her left shoulder, Lya against her right. They were the reason she was now back in King's Landing for the first time in years, having not yet been able to introduce her girls to the royal court. Now her little twins were almost three name days old and it was time for them to finally meet their royal relatives and be seen at the royal court.

They were gorgeous girls, for whose hands men would certainly duel to the death later, once they were old enough. Joanna had her father's golden hair with her own dark eyes, Lya conversely had her dark mane and Jaime's bright green eyes in return. Both, however, possessed the exquisite and noble pale skin of the Westerlands.

By the Seven, they are truly beautiful and growing more beautiful every day. Jaime and I did really well with those two, Rhaenys thought, and had to smile, looking down at her sleeping girls.

More than once, Rhaenys had wondered if the beauty of her children had come from her side, from the Targaryen side, or from the Lannister side of the family. Not that it made any real difference. She was glad Lord Tywin, having come to Casterly Rock just for this, had lived long enough to hold the girls in his arms after they were born, before a sudden, severe fever had claimed him only six months after. She had even been sure she had seen Tywin smile when he had held Joanna and Lya for the first time, even though both Jaime and Tyrion had been sure that this had been absolutely impossible.

"My lord father would rather have grown himself a pair of wings and flown in circles around the Rock than bringing a smile to his face," Tyrion had said more than once in response. Rhaneys, however, knew what she had seen.

What Gerion's voice had failed to do, the rumble of the carriage over one of the stone bridges that spanned the canals finally managed. Her girls woke up and immediately began to whine. She quickly took out some treats from the small pouch she had with her and gave each of her children some candied ginger to keep them satisfied and quiet for the rest of the way. By now they had already passed the King's Square, where the Guidhall of the Alchemists had originally been, and were crossing the next stone bridge. The King's Bridge was one of the three largest bridges in the capital, so wide and massive that even small houses and stores had been built on both sides of the bridge. Aegon had the best stonemasons from all over the realm come to King's Landing to build the three great bridges of the city, the King's Bridge, the Queen's Bridge and the Dragon Bridge. Beyond the King's Bridge began the Red Way, formerly the King's Way, which continued straight as a taut string through the city for a while and then, just after it met the Hook, began winding its way up Aegon's High Hill to the Red Keep.

"How much farther is it, Mama?" asked Gerion.

"Not far now, sweetling. We're already on the Red Way."

"Why is the road called Red Way, Mama?"

"Because it goes right up to Red Keep," she lied.

After the end of the war, the people of the capital had begun calling it Red Way, because along that street the total of two-hundred-eighty-eight gallows had been erected for all the red priests and soldiers of the Flameguard that had been able to be seized. All of them had been hanged wearing their red robes and their red armor, which had inspired the people of King's Landing to give the street its inglorious name. It had been a cruel but necessary step in Aegon's then still young reign. This was something, however, that her little boy should not have to concern himself with yet. Now, of course, there was no longer a gallows to be seen here, but the name remained. It wasn't long before they could finally see the Red Keep up close for the first time when their climb up the winding road began.

"Look," Rhaenys said to her son, who was chewing enthusiastically on his ginger, and pointed out the window toward the massive fortress, now to their right. Immediately the ginger was forgotten, her boy's mouth wide open in amazement and his eyes as big as plates.

She knew from the letters she had written back and forth with Aegon and Sansa that Aegon had had to loot more than half of the treasury to repair the damages to the city and the Red Keep, not to mention the quite expensive works on Harrenhal. Looking at the royal fortress now, however, she could not help but acknowledge that it had truly been worth it.

The Red Keep had been completely restored, heavily protected and highly defensible, and yet Aegon had managed to alter the look of the fortress in a way that made it seem less bulky, less threatening than before. With discreet, elegant changes to the outer walls, countless statues and frescoes and even large, artistic paintings, applied directly to the stone of the walls, the Red Keep now looked more like a palace, more like how Summerhall must have looked before the fire, than one of the most defensible fortresses in the realm. Moreover, all around the walls and on top of the towers of the Red Keep, there were now large, flowering gardens, hanging low over the edges like green waterfalls, which made the whole fortress look more like one huge garden itself. A certain Maester Arrel from Oldtown had even already written an entire book about the Hanging Gardens of King's Landing, arguing that they should definitely be included in the list of Wonders Made By Men, as she knew since Tyrion had managed to acquire one of the so far only two copies of the book. It therefore came as no surprise to her that the people of the capital – the red stone of the fortress hardly visible from the city anymore – no longer called it Red Keep but instead had begun to affectionately call it Aegonfort again.

The city itself had also changed, not least because of the numerous small and large canals that meandered to the feet of the city's three hills. Aegon had also had new gardens laid out and trees planted all over the city, which not only looked beautiful but also helped the city to provide for itself longer and better in times of need. Therefore, only fruit trees had been allowed to be planted. The canals provided fresh water and brought most of the dirt and sewage out of the city, which also made it not as stinky as it used to be. It would have been an exaggeration to claim that King's Landing had completely shed its old, very distinct stench – it certainly hadn't – but it was nowhere near as obtrusive as it used to be. The further the carriage wound its way up the winding road to the royal fortress, however, the weaker this smell became, replaced by fresh, salty sea air and the scent of the countless plants and – in many cases – exotic flowers in the Hanging Gardens.

The carriage rumbled one last time as they passed under the portcullis of the Red Keep – or Aegonfort – and entered the outer courtyard shortly thereafter. She heard the hammering of the soldiers' boots as they took up positions around the carriage before the little door was opened moments later. Rhaenys stepped out of the carriage into the bright sunlight and took the outstretched hand of Ser Arthur Dayne, who was waiting for her beside the carriage.

A few steps in front of her the royal family, her family, was already waiting. Aegon and Sansa's marriage had been quite fruitful so far. Exactly nine months after the wedding, their son Maekar had been born, a healthy and exceedingly beautiful boy with his silver-white hair and her ravishing blue eyes. Then, little more two years ago, she had given birth to another boy, Jaehaerys, with both her auburn hair and her blue eyes. Sansa had told her in a letter that on her last visit to King's Landing, some months after Jaehaerys' birth, her mother Lady Catelyn had said that the boy looked exactly like Robb at his age. Given that Robb Stark was, by all accounts, a thoroughly good-looking man, there were certainly worse fates, even if the boy didn't look like a Targaryen at all. Now, as could be clearly seen, she was already heavy with child again and this time it might even be twins, the maesters had told her. Maybe these children would take more after their father again. As much as she loved her second son, Sansa certainly wished for that. Rhaenys also knew from Sansa's letters that she was hoping for a daughter this time, desperately wanting a girl she could then name Rhaella.

Waiting opposite her were Aegon and Sansa with Jaehaerys on her arm, Grandmother Rhaella with Maekar by the hand, Daeron and his wife Talla with their daughters Baela and Daenerys – both of which looked like the spitting image of their mother, except for the bright purple eyes they somehow must have gotten from Daeron, even if his own eyes were as gray as stones – and the Lord Hand Garth Hightower. Behind them stood the rest of the knights of the Kingsguard, Lord Commander Barristan Selmy, Ser Daemon Sand, Ser Duncan Brune, Ser Gareth Rambton, Ser Harwyn Hill, and lastly Ser Creighton Redfort, all of whom immediately sank to one knee after she had exited the carriage. Immediately Rhaenys went into a deep curtsy before her king and brother. Gerion, as Jaime had shown him again and again, bowed deeply to his king. Joanna and Lya, also attempting a curtsy, stumbled, fell over, and jumped back to their feet laughing loudly.

"We still have to work on that," Aegon said, beaming all over his face, coming up to her with big steps, enclosing her in a tight embrace and kissing her on the cheeks again an again. She returned the embrace and the kisses, feeling truly at home now. Sansa and Rhaella joined in, hugging her as well but quickly leaving her to take her girls in their arms while Aegon pretended to closely inspect Gerion's clothes and boots, playfully scolding him for traveling without a sword.

"How will you protect your lady mother if you don't have your sword with you, young knight?"

"I'm not a knight yet," Gerion chirped, laughing loudly.

"Then you don't even have a sword yet?" said Aegon in feigned shock.

"No."

"No, what?" Rhaenys interjected.

"No, Your Grace," he corrected himself.

Aegon had to laugh out loud, then took her son by the hand and led him over to his own boy.

"Well, then, we'd better change that, don't you think? This is my son Maekar, your cousin. He already has a sword of his own. We should see about getting you one, too, don't you think?"

"Mama say I'm too young for a sword."

"Is that what she says? Well, I am the king and I say you are old enough, so you will get a sword. After all, it would be treason to oppose me, you know," she heard Aegon say, before Sansa and Rhaella rushed up to her again, kissing her on the cheeks again and congratulating her on her gorgeous girls.

She loved being back here and even now, just having arrived, she found the thought of having to leave again awful. The days in King's Landing would pass quickly, too quickly. She was sure of that. Aegon had already written to her in his letters about all that was planned. There would be feasts and celebrations in honor of her and her children, dances and gatherings, but most of the time, Rhaenys was sure, she would spend in the numerous gardens or the newly planted Godswood with Sansa and Aegon and Daeron and her grandmother. She would love to spend the end of summer here before the next winter would descend upon them. The white ravens from the Citadel had already arrived all over the realm to announce the change of season. Winter was coming. Very soon even, and if the maesters were to be believed, it would be a hard one.

On the evening of the first day, just a few hours after their arrival, it was already clear that their grandmother couldn't get enough of spending time with the girls, playing with them, singing, dancing, or having new dresses made for them in which they looked like true little princesses. Gerion and Maekar got along great, as far as it had been noticed so far, while Jaehaerys – too young to properly play with them – seemed to be happy just to be around the older boys, sit on the ground and play with a small wooden dragon he firmly held in his chubby little hands. Just to be safe, however, Lyman Darry, Aegon's former squire and now a knight in his service, would be with them all the time. As the Darrys had been made Lord Paramounts of the Riverlands at the end of the war, this was a good opportunity to prove his sense of responsibility to the king before he would one day take over the rule of the Riverlands, Aegon had said when he had unceremoniously put the baffled young man in charge of the crown prince of the realm, the second prince of the realm and the heir to Casterly Rock. Ser Barristan stepped forward and offered to gladly assist him in this honorable and utmost dangerous task. Ser Barristan's fondness of the young princes was well known, and Rhaenys was glad that this would also allow Gerion to spend some time with one of his biggest heroes. So she would not have to worry about her children at least for the next few hours.

She had a small meal with Aegon and Sansa in the king's solar – stuffed pheasant and fresh walnut bread with plums, accompanied by tea and a strong Dornish Red – and then retired with them to one of the new gardens that afforded a wonderful view across Blackwater Bay. For at least an hour they talked about petty things, exchanging gossip between the Red Keep and Casterly Rock.

Sansa told how Lady Margaery Tyrell had tried in vain to return to the royal court. Since her family, disinherited and dispossessed, had fallen from grace, however, and were now serving as stewards with no titles or lands of their own somewhere in the Reach again, this had, of course, failed. No matter how much she had batted her eyes and how much cleavage she had shown, no one at the royal court had wanted anything to do with her. Not even being a Hightower through her mother and a Redwyne through her grandmother had been able to change that.

"Her best chance would probably have been to have some careless lord put a bastard in her belly, but she was actually still been too proud for that," Aegon added. He then told her about the letters he regularly wrote back and forth with their mother and uncle Doran. Apparently their mother was doing well, although she was too weak to come back to King's Landing and it was unlikely, according to maester Caleotte, that this would ever change again.

"We should visit her at the Watergardens. With all the children. I'm sure she'd love that," Aegon said. It was a wonderful idea and Rhaenys was only too happy to agree. They would certainly find a way to travel to the Watergardens together, perhaps within the next year. The children needed their grandmother, after all.

Rhaenys, to also contribute a bit of gossip in return, then told of the latest Lannister bastards running around in Lannisport, having caused a little outrage in Casterly Rock, since no one seemed to know for sure who the fathers were. Most suspected Martyn or Willem Lannister, others blamed Tyrek or Daven Lannister. In the end, unsurprisingly, it was agreed upon that Tyrion certainly was to blame, even though he vehemently denied ever having bedded the children's mothers.

"And do you believe him?" asked Aegon, grinning while sipping his wine.

"Yes, indeed I do. My good-brother is anything but secretive when it comes to what thighs he's been between, and when he says he hasn't bedded those women, I believe him," Rhaenys said. "Tyrion is many things, but a liar he is not."

Rhaenys sipped her wine again, tasting the sourness of the Dornish Red. The wines in Casterly Rock were certainly among the finest in the realm, but sour wines like the Dornish were rarely found there. Jaime had made sure that there was always some Dornish Red available especially for her, but since he didn't like it himself, he couldn't truly judge what tasted good and what didn't. So, unfortunately, the Dornish wines in Casterly Rock were more often than not undrinkable. She appreciated Jaime's efforts, loved him for it, but alas, it didn't help. If the wine didn't taste good, it didn't taste good. This one, however, was quite wonderful. She would ask Aegon later to send some barrels of it with her to Casterly Rock once she was leaving King's Landing again. She took another sip, enjoying the tickle of the sourness on her tongue for a moment, and then took a deep breath before addressing what needed to be addressed.

"Speaking of Tyrion..."

"That again?" Aegon asked.

"Yes, that again, Egg. After Tywin's death, you could, maybe even should have again appointed a Lannister as your new Hand. It would have provided continuity to the realm."

"Continuity... Garth Hightower is no second Tywin, for better or worse, but he is an excellent Hand, Rhae."

"Perhaps, but a seat on the Small Council would have been the least that House Lannister would have been entitled to. Tywin helped you win the war. After that, he was your Hand and helped you restore order in the realm. Now he's dead and House Lannister has nothing. Not even a seat on the Small Council. That's not right, Aegon. I don't have to tell you that this caused more than just a little displeasure in the Westerlands."

Aegon sighed heavily, reached for the carafe on the table and poured first Rhaenys and then himself another cup of Dornish Red. Sansa, since she knew she was with child again, no longer drank wine. The maesters had advised her not to, so Aegon signaled to one of the servants not far from where they were sitting to bring his queen a new cup of tea. Aegon then picked up his cup again and took a hearty sip before answering.

"Yes, you're right. The seat is due to House Lannister. I'll take care of it, I promise. In six months at the latest, a Lannister will be back in my Small Council. That's a promise, sister. But why do you insist on Tyrion? What about Ser Kevan or Ser Stafford? Or Jaime?"

Rhaenys had to laugh so heartily that the wine almost fell out of her hand.

"Jaime? Come on, Egg."

"What? Then you could come back and live here with us at King's Landing."

"I know, and that sounds wonderful, but... we're talking about Jaime. My Jaime. You've known him all your life, brother. Jaime is a good man, a very good father, and the best husband a woman could ask for. But he's no Tywin. Not even in your dreams."

"But Tyrion is?"

"Tyrion is his father's son, believe me, more than Jaime and Kevan and Stafford combined could ever be. Please give him a chance. Maybe not immediately as Lord Hand, but in your Small Council. He won't let you down, I promise. He is honest and loyal and undoubtedly one of the smartest men I have ever met. Most of the maesters in Oldtown don't possess half the wits he does."

"There are some, let's say, unpleasant stories about Tyrion and his various vices, Rhae. You are aware of that, aren't you? What about the fact that he apparently spends all his time drinking and whoring?"

"That's true. That I cannot deny and I will not lie to you about it either, sweet brother. But I'm sure if I talk to him seriously about it, he'll get things sorted out. Please, Egg. Please."

"Get things sorted out...," Aegon repeated, looking thoughtfully into his wine. Her brother didn't look overly happy, but she knew that – if she really wanted something – he could not deny her a wish. He had never been able to, and he still couldn't. "All right, send a raven to Casterly Rock and let him come to King's Landing, then. It would be good, though, if he could limit his vices to only one, either drinking or whoring. Both is a bit much. Then I will surely find a task for him here. Lord Rowan is no longer the youngest and has already informed me that he, with my permission, wishes to return to Goldengrove within the next year. So I will need a new Master of Laws soon, anyway."

"Thank you, brother. Thank you so much," Rhaenys said, smiling radiantly all over her face.

The sun had almost set and Sansa and she were walking through the Godswood, along a small manmade river, when Gerion and Maekar came running up to them, small wooden swords in their hands, no doubt gifts from her brother. That Ser Barristan, an old man who had never fully recovered from his war wounds and could only walk with a crutch, had not been able to keep up with the two rascals was understandable. Yet she would have to find out later how they had managed to slip away from Lyman Darry's watch. Whatever little anger she had felt about this, however, immediately disappeared when she looked into the face of her wonderful son. She could see the almost exuberant pride in her boy's eyes as he, holding his first own weapon – wooden or not – in his hands, acted as if, now that he was facing two ladies, he must first sheathe his small sword in the invisible scabbard at his side before he could address them. Sansa looked at the two as well, then looked back over at her. Rhaenys could read in her gaze what she was thinking.

Have you ever seen anything so adorable? her eyes asked.

"Mama," little Maekar said to Sansa in his high pitched voice. "May I show Gerion the Iron Throne? He has never seen it before!"

The astonishment in the little prince's voice that his cousin had actually never seen the throne, when he himself had known it all his life, was heart-warming.

"You know the throne is dangerous, Maekar. It's easy to cut yourself on it."

"We'll be very careful, Mama. I promise."

"We can all go there, can't we? I haven't seen the monstrosity in years either," Rhaenys said. If both of them were there as well, certainly nothing would happen and the boys would still have their fun. So together they left the Godswood and walked the short distance through the Red Keep toward the Great Hall, on the top floor of which was the mighty Throne Room, Ser Duncan and Ser Gareth closely following them.

"Tell me, Sansa, do you actually still call it Red Keep or Aegonfort?" Rhaenys asked halfway along the path.

"Has word of that even spread to the Westerlands?" Sansa asked, having to laugh heartedly. "We still call it Red Keep, even if it's true that the name is no longer quite appropriate. I may have to talk to Aegon about officially renaming the fortress again tonight. It would make sense, after all."

It would. Rhaenys doubted, however, that she and Aegon would talk much once they were alone tonight. From her good-sister's letters, she knew that Aegon took his marital duties... more than seriously and fulfilled them very gladly and very extensively. She knew from other ladies, that many men seemed to lose interest in their wives after the birth of their heir, seeking out lovers with bodies without the visible evidence of childbirth. Rhaenys, though, looking at Sansa's form, didn't expect there to be particularly much evidence left on her body. She hadn't seen her unclothed in years, of course, but apart from her swollen belly, her figure still seemed absolutely flawless. Aegon, however, was apparently different in that regard anyway. On the contrary, as Sansa had reported in her letters with courteous and ladylike reserve but still clearly enough, he seemed to want her even more with each child. When she was with child – like right now – she apparently got especially little sleep and respite from her husband's passion, as Aegon could hardly keep his hands off her during the days and nights, whenever they were alone in their chambers. This, however, seemed to be something that Sansa was not at all willing to complain about, enjoying the nights with her husband to the fullest.

"Do you already know when your family will be coming to King's Landing next?" Rhaeyns then asked, bringing her thoughts back to something innocuous.

"Not yet, unfortunately. I wrote a letter to my lord father and lady mother about it, but haven't received a reply yet. I guess in a year, maybe a little later. By then Cregan will be old enough to live at the royal court."

"So soon?"

"Yes, I can't wait to see them all, although I don't want to imagine how hard it will be for the boy to be suddenly separated from his twin. If only for a few years."

Indeed, this was not an easy situation. Lady Wynafryd had given Robb Stark twins at her very first birth, sons Edrick and Cregan. While Edrick, after his grandfather Eddard and his father Robb, would one day inherit Winterfell and become the new Warden of the North, Cregan would become the new Lord of Harrenhal as soon as he would be old enough to rule. It had therefore been decided that it would be best for the realm if Cregan lived at least a few years in King's Landing to grow up together with Maekar, his cousin and future king.

Aegon had also already written to Rhaenys a few times in some of his letters that he hoped she would give her permission to let Gerion live here in King's Landing for a few years as well. For the stability of the realm and the future of their families, a close friendship between the future king, the future lord of Casterly Rock, and the future lord of Harrenhal would undoubtedly be invaluable. The mere thought, however, of giving her son away was already tearing her heart apart, and so she had asked Aegon for more time to think about the matter. Rhaenys knew that she would not be able to delay this decision forever, but she was not yet ready to give away her sweet, golden boy. Not yet.

As they climbed the massive steps to the Throne Room, each of them holding their own son's little hand, she could see Rhaella from a distance, walking with her daughters – once again dressed in completely new and no doubt expensive dresses – across the outer courtyard towards the Grand Hall, where no doubt musicians would again be waiting for them, so that she could teach the girls some Valyrian dances that Rhaenys herself had loved so much as a little girl. Except on Dragonstone and Claw Isle, there was no place in the world she knew where these dances were still done – and even there, mostly only by the local peasants – but they were fast and wild and fun. She had no doubt that her girls, always full of energy, would love these dances, too. Joanna and Lya were still too young for real dances anyway, but the idea of them trying to follow the pace of the fast Valyrian music with their clumsy little feet had to be a picture for the gods.

Thinking about her sweet girls, her mind inevitably drifted off to Tywin again, to the promise she had made to him back in the day to bring him over to Aegon's side in the war. She hadn't spoken to Aegon about it in years, however, so she could only hope that Aegon would honor her promise to Tywin and choose one of her daughters as a wife for Maekar when they were all old enough, in ten or twelve years, perhaps.

Maybe he will even choose both of them, she thought at the sight of her little girls struggling to climb the steps to the Grand Hall without getting their new dresses dirty, and had to smile. It was unlikely, but not impossible. Daeron will certainly want the same for his girls. That will be a tough fight, she thought and had to grin.

They entered the throne room, completely empty and deserted at this time of day except for a few guards, and strode straight toward the Iron Throne. Immediately, as his gaze fell upon the massive throne, Gerion slowed down, apparently barely able to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other anymore, so captivated was he by the sight of the iron monstrosity. The dragon skulls were gone, Rhaenys immediately realized, and didn't feel it as a loss. Aegon had once told her that in his opinion the dragon skulls were exactly the wrong symbol, namely not a symbol of the power that House Targaryen possessed, but a symbol of the power that House Targaryen had lost. She had agreed with that at the time and still thought that Aegon had been right about that. It was a good thing, that the skulls were gone. There was, however, something new nonetheless, she realized, and it immediately caught her eye.

"Are these...?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes, they are," Sansa said simply.

On the dais of the throne to its right, in a massive fire bowl of copper and steel from which high, bright flames were blazing, on a small forged pedestal in the shape of entangled dragons, lay three colorful stones that Rhaenys immediately recognized.

Dragon Eggs.

Years before the war, her father had bought the eggs at an almost insane price from a merchant in Essos. She did not know the exact amount, but the tales ranged from one hundred thousand to one million gold dragons per egg. She thought she remembered that Aegon had once told her in a letter the sum of two hundred thousand gold dragons, but was no longer sure. The only thing that was certain was that they were unimaginably precious.

"I expected Aegon to sell them. They are very precious, after all," Rhaenys breathed, still not quite recovering her breath.

"They are. A merchant from Essos offered three hundred thousand gold dragons each, but Aegon refused. A mistake, if you ask me, but Aegon was adamant about that. We certainly could have put the gold to good use, especially now that so much money has been spent on nothing."

"What do you mean? Does the crown need gold?"

"No, no. Ah, you best not listen to me at all," she waved off. "The crown still has plenty of gold. I'm just still bothered about the cost of the new dungeons under the Red Keep. You have no idea how expensive it was to dig up the ruins of the old dungeons and restore them. And now there's not even anyone sitting in them."

"No one?" wondered Rhaenys as they came to a halt in front of the massive fire bowl. Heat beat against her, making her skin prickle, almost itch. She was used to heat. Her blood, Dornish on one side and a dragon on the other, had always ensured that she was not sensitive to intense heat. She loved the sun, loved being around fire, and even her bath water was always so hot that Jaime would often jokingly say it was just right for making soup out of it. This fire, however, this heat was... different, strange. In a way she couldn't explain herself, something unsettling emanated from those flames.

No, not from the flames, she thought. From the eggs.

She looked around, found their two boys scurrying across the Throne Room, whooping and squealing happily, apparently engaged in a fierce battle for the throne with their little wooden swords.

"No, not one. The dungeons are completely empty. There have been many prisoners in the last few months, of course. Rapists, robbers, and even some murderers, but they're all gone. No one is there anymore. Apparently, the Night's Watch has been losing more and more rangers beyond the Wall for some time now. They are constantly sending ravens to Agon, asking him for more and more men. Hardly a week goes by without a new raven arriving with a similar request from the Wall."

"Why didn't Aegon sell the eggs?"

A bright cry made Rhaenys look around again. It was a cry of joy, she realized with relief, as she saw Gerion and Maekar still playing in the middle of the Throne Room, still engaged in their cute fight to the death. The wooden swords clattered against each other in quick time.

"Not so wild, Maekar," Sansa admonished her boy, who didn't seem to hear her at all, however, before turning back to Rhaenys. "Well, Aegon just wants to keep the eggs, no matter how much gold you offer him for them."

Her glance at Sansa seemed enough to show her good-sister that she was more than puzzled, downright disturbed, that Aegon insisted on keeping the eggs and now even displayed them so prominently, here in the Throne Room of all places. She sent a silent prayer to the gods that her brother had not, like so many Targaryens before him, fallen for the idea of having to resurrect dragons.

"Don't you worry, dear sister," Sansa said with a smile, hooking herself under her arm, leading her away from the eggs and back to the middle of the Throne Room, where their boys were still fighting. "Aegon doesn't believe in prophecies, and he doesn't want to bring back dragons. They are only stones, my love. Just as dead as any other stone in our realm, he always says when we talk about the eggs."

"That... is a relief to hear, but then I don't understand it all the more. Why does he want to keep them?"

"Well, Aegon seems to think they simply belong here, in the possession of House Targaryen."

Heavy footsteps echoed through the Throne Room as Ser Arthur and Ser Duncan entered, her two daughters on their arms. A few steps away, they set them down and immediately the two plodded off in the direction of their mother.

"You can't force fate, he always says. But if there is some truth in it after all and some god has decided that one day the dragons should return to the world, then it will happen one way or another. Once the right persons come together in the right place at the right time," she continued, "it will happen if it is meant to. And should that indeed be the case, whether in a hundred or a thousand years, there would probably be no better place for the dragons to hatch than here."

That is probably true, she thought, even though the idea still troubled her.

"Queen Rhaella was exhausted from dancing with the young ladies and has gone to bed. She asked that we bring your daughters back to you, Princess," Ser Arthur said, approaching her.

"Thank you, Arthur," she said with a smile as she tried unsuccessfully to pick up the squirming Joanna. Apparently, her girls were already completely engrossed in Maekar's and Gerion's heroic sword fight and were so not in the mood to be picked up by Rhaenys. Immediately, the two dropped onto their little butts and laughed and screamed with delight each time the little wooden swords crashed together.

"And where is Jaehaerys?" Sansa asked.

"In bed with Queen Rhaella, Your Grace. The prince ate a little and then was also very exhausted," said Ser Duncan to which Sansa could only smile delightedly.

"It looks like your girls are already busy cheering for these valiant knights," Sansa said with a laugh, looking down at the joyfully squealing Joanna and Lya. "Come, we'll see if the servants are already done preparing your dresses in your chambers. My feet hurt terribly, so I'm afraid that you will have to dance with Aegon tonight in my stead, sister. You'll certainly want to look as ravishing as ever, then, won't you? I'm sure Arthur and Duncan will be happy to watch the children some more."

"Of course, Your Grace," both knights said, Ser Arthur softly smiling and Duncan bowing his head to her.

For a moment, Rhaenys continued to look at the two boys, who were barely putting up a fight anymore, only racing each other across the vast Throne Room. Her girls were still sitting on the floor, laughing and clapping their little hands as if they were cheering the two boys on in a tourney. She couldn't help but smile as she hooked up with Sansa and contentedly walked with her to the exit. As they stepped through the massive doors a few moments later, she thought she heard something for a tiny moment. Something like a crack, the breaking of a shell. She briefly looked around again, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"Is something wrong?" asked Sansa.

The two boys were standing in front of the large fire bowl at a safe distance, looking up at the eggs, which were still dead and motionless, softly clouded by a flickering veil of flame and heat. Ser Arthur and Ser Duncan had their daughters on their arms and, probably to show the girls the dragon eggs now as well, had also stepped closer to the bowl.

"No, everything's fine," Rhaenys said. "I just thought I heard something. Everything is perfect."

She turned back to the corridor in front of her then, smiling assuringly at her good-sister. Another crack could be heard, Rhaenys was sure, when they were just a few paces out of the Throne Room. She decided, however, not to pay any attention to it.

Notes:

So, that was it. What do you think? Did you like it? Did you hate it? Let me know in the comments.

This was the last chapter of this fic. I thank you all for reading this! I said it before: this is my very first fanfic EVER and that you have made it this far and read through the whole thing, you have no idea how much that means to me. Thank you all so, so much! :-) :-) :-)

I would really like to continue writing - and since I'm most probably never going to be a professional writer, I want to do this here - and also to get better at it, of course. So if you have any tips for me to improve my writing, feel free to let me know. What could I do better character- or storywise? Where are my weak spots? Thank in advance for all constructive criticism. :-)

Of course, you are very, very welcome to let me know what you think of this story in general. I would really like to know your thoughts on it. :-)

Now, there is nothing left for me to do but to thank you again very much for reading my little story and sharing this new experience with me. So many thanks, dear folks, and hopefully see you soon with a new story. Bye!