Precipice of Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

17th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Davos Seaworth, Tyrosh

Tyrosh's walls loomed above the harbour, and the normally turquoise waters of the Narrow Sea had turned dark and turbulent–choked with bodies, smoke, debris, and burning ships. War sounded ugly and looked uglier still, but he was almost used to the sounds of death and agony, and the men around him were chanting with battle lust. 

"BARATHEON!"

"LADY STONEFACE!"

A glance at his charge made the former smuggler feel even heavier at heart. Undaunted by the surrounding cheer, Shireen's face looked like an unreadable iron mask as she meticulously cranked up the windlass to load the crossbow Joffrey had gifted her. Davos still remembered when she employed a manservant at the first battles until she grew strong enough to do it without assistance, which took her countless hours of arduous practice.

As in every battle, she was clad in a specially fitted brigandine to protect her body, even if it tired her out faster, which was nigh impossible to notice if one didn't know her closely. Her unreadable expression reminded Ser Davos of her father, if even stonier for the stiff greyish scales that covered the left side of her cheek and neck. Now, a pair of burly Clawmen lugging heavy, door-sized shields stood by her side, ready to intercept any sudden crossbow barrage or another brave assailant like the one that had almost slain her the last time. Ser Rolland Storm was also shadowing her, always vigilant for any threats.

A look over his shoulder forced Ser Davos to squint as the sun's rays blinded him. The realisation finally sunk in; Shireen had chosen this cloudless late afternoon for the assault as it would blind a good portion of the Tyroshi as their harbour faced relatively west.

And sure enough, the Tyroshi's resistance was much laxer than he had expected–though it could be that the numbers were now in Shireen's favour after three victories, and the morale of the Westerosi was soaring.

With his good hand, the former smuggler held tight as Fury's reinforced prow rammed straight into the Purple Swan, the Tyroshi fleet's third flagship. The previous two had met their end in a similar manner at Shireen's hands in the last moons.

This one was no different, as the weirwood crossbow fired the first bolt straight into the Tyroshi captain's eye–nobody could claim the young Lady of Dragonstone didn't have a mean aim, especially after she spent countless hours practising.

The giant plank on the Fury's bow slammed into the enemy's Great Galleass, its enormous metal claws sinking into the enemy's deck, binding Fury and the Purple Swan together.

"BOARD THE SHIP!"

Shireen's hoarse cry, no longer sounding as childish as before, was followed by a horde of enthusiastic knights and mariners led by the ever-eager Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring. 

The enormous Farring knight moved with heroic boldness through the enemy sailors, undaunted by the great mass of foes, and his boisterous laughs echoed above the clamour of steel as his warhammer struck the Essosi down. In contrast, the Moth Knight was the opposite. He quietly advanced with deadly precision, his sword lashing out like a viper as he spearheaded the bloody advance of Dragonstone's finest knights through the lighter-armoured Tyroshi.

Usually, Davos would be aboard the Black Betha, but she had taken a heavy hit to her hull and was under repair in one of the harbours Shireen had captured, so instead, he was here, by Shireen's side, feeling quite useless. His sons led their own ships, of course, but not undamaged. His eldest, Dale, had lost an eye in the first battle around the Tyroshi straits to a stray arrow, and his second boy, Allard, had lost his left arm in the Battle of Pryr due to a cut that later got infected. Thankfully, that had sobered Matthos and Maric, his other two daredevils, making them learn a measure of caution; foolhardy vainglory earned a swift rebuke. Many had died in this newly dubbed 'War of the Narrow Sea'.

"So long as the Tyroshi die faster than our men, we are winning," Monford Velaryon had grimly claimed after the last battle, and Davos didn't know how to dispute him or if he even should. For every one of their mariners, three or even four Tyroshi fell, and the tide of the Essosi visibly dwindled. Perhaps the Lord of the Tides had the right to it–what did a former smuggler like Davos know of war?

Even now, he could see the Skagosi chieftains to the left, Harald Crowl and Dorlaf Stane, compete with the Knights of the Brown Hollow and Red Cave to see who could slay more Essosi. The damned madmen were laughing boisterously as they were covered in blood, and their foes started to flee, unwilling to face the demons. To the right, the Valemen under Ser Jason Melcolm and Galen Grafton were seemingly at a stalemate against the Tyroshi. It was all according to plan as a glance through his far-eye saw the Sistermen flank the repurposed trading cogs.

As an island city-state, Tyrosh had a mighty fleet and could call upon seemingly countless vessels, but Shireen had always concentrated on their warships since the very beginning, slowly but surely crippling the spine of their naval might. While new ships could be rebuilt with time, Tyrosh did not have the Arsenal like Braavos to churn out a warship per day, and its naval commanders grew worse with each hefty defeat. Training skilled mariners took years, and their loss hurt the Essosi just as much as the ships, if not more.

Their foes also struggled to replace all the sunken or captured vessels, and each battle saw Shireen fight fewer and fewer foes. Worse-trained, too, for they broke far easier. At Blackwater Bay, the Lady of Dragonstone had been outnumbered nearly ten times over, but now, the Tyroshi could barely muster four ships for every ten the new royal fleet commanded.

And Shireen had meticulously exploited that advantage to the fullest.

Even though nobody doubted their victory, Stannis' daughter carefully planned everything to the last detail and always commanded the battle from the Fury. She never shied from reading more on naval warfare or consulting with Davos, Lord Velaryon, the Mermen knight, or even the Sistermen and the Skagosi chieftains about their thoughts. Now, her stormy blue eyes were roaming around the Bay of Tyrosh, inspecting every inch of the battle, doubtlessly looking for problems or making notes in her mind on what could be done better.

"Lord Velaryon," her words were steely, brokering no disobedience as the last resistance of the Tyroshi flagship was stamped out. "Get your ships to reinforce the Clawmen on the left. I can see a handful of Tyroshi cogs trying to flank them."

Horns sounded, flags were raised, and the Velaryon reserves were quickly committed, but Shireen's gaze was drawn to the Bleeding Tower at the mouth of Tyrosh's harbour.

"You seem troubled, My Lady?" Davos coughed. He thought he knew Stannis' daughter but had learned of a new side to her in the last half a year. Shireen hated leaving anything to chance and did everything she could to tilt the scales of victory in her favour, no matter how minor. The mariners loved her for it, for each battle saw fewer casualties than everyone expected. 

Shireen frowned at the harbour. "I expected the Tyroshi to raise a chain to try and trap a part of my ships outside the Bay."

"The Mouth of the bay is quite wide and would require a lengthy chain," Davos followed her gaze. "Perhaps too lengthy and heavy, lest it was hewn from dragonsteel."

"Perhaps." She hummed, looking with her far-eye at the Bleeding Tower, overseeing the mouth of the Bay to the North. "I see some fighting there, but it's none of my men."

The displeased tilt of her brow remained for the rest of the battle as Shireen vigilantly inspected the Tyroshi battlements and half-hidden alcoves for surprises as the fighting continued raging. Yet no such surprise came, and, as everyone predicted, the Tyroshi fleet broke again for the fourth and possibly final time. 

Vessels were sinking and burning, and the Essosi sailors had nowhere to flee as the Archon of Tyrosh had ordered all the gates to the harbour closed. Slowly but surely, the last Tyroshi mariners were slain under the eyes of all those watching from the city's walls.

"Burning the shipyards is easy enough now," Ser Rolland Storm gruffed from the side, his presence a constant shadow near Shireen ever since the fighting began. He had bested nearly a hundred hardy knights and lauded warriors for the right to be her sworn shield and took his duty more than seriously. "But while old, the city's walls are thick and tall and will be hard to take quickly. We will need sappers, trebuchets, scaling ladders, siege towers, and most importantly, time to overcome them."

"It doesn't matter," came the emotionless reply. "My royal cousin ordered the city sacked, and we must retrieve the hostages by any means necessary."

"Well," Davos rubbed his eyes as if not believing what he was seeing. "The gates are…opening?" He squinted, trying to make out the colours. "And… isn't that the Lion of Lannister?!"

The bright crimson flag was as eye-catching as the golden lion, a sight familiar to any Westerosi from the cold, snowy North to the deserts of Dorne.

"All the Lannisters ought to be in King's Landing or Casterly Rock," Ser Rolland said, suspicion dripping from his words. "Perhaps this is a ruse?"

Shireen hastily peered through her far eye, and her lips twitched. "Doubtful, unless they have the royal uncle's body double."

"I thought the Kingslayer was dead?"

"The other, shorter Uncle," she chuckled lightly before her face turned stony as she took a deep breath. "MEN, TO THE NORTHERN GATE!"

***

18th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

The Archon's Palace

Taking the city was far easier when the man heading its defence was a turncloak, especially the looming inner walls of fused black stone. Or, well, had Lothor Brune's cloak ever turned if his allegiance had always been to Tyrion Lannister, who had not run away to the Summer Isles as everyone had expected?

Of course, sacking the city took far more time than expected. Still, with the help of the city guardsmen recruited by Lothor Brune, who conveniently were all either former slaves or foreigners with no allegiance to the city itself, there was hardly any organised resistance–and those who had not surrendered had been slaughtered, save for the richer magisters who employed a century or two of Unsullied. Magister Zaphon Sarrios, who had five hundred eunuchs, would have been a hard nut to crack if Brune did not know his manse's defences inside out. Still, over two hundred men had died to sweep his small palace, and Tywin Lannister's son had been the one to slay the magister if the rumours were believed. 

"We must kill all the magisters for good, I say," Tyrion boldly proclaimed as they gathered in the bloodied Archonate's palace, his axe still dripping crimson from the earlier fighting. Surprisingly, there was a harsh, almost bloodthirsty glint in his mismatched eyes, as the infamous Imp had participated in all the earlier fighting despite his stunted stature–a wicked wound that crossed the bridge of his nose gave him a bloodthirsty countenance, proving he had not hid behind his men during the fighting. 

Rumours were he had 'liberated' a few of Sarrios' pleasure slaves, and a young translator girl with dusky skin and golden eyes was handed over to become Shireen's handmaiden. Even now, the former slave girl stood awkwardly in her purple silken robes by Shireen's side as if unsure what to do. 

The Archon had poisoned himself in shame once he saw his city fall, but his pregnant wife was spared the indignity after she had surrendered. The corpses of the palace guard still littered the hallways and even the grand marble hall, but the Skagosi were meticulously stripping the fallen naked and taking everything of value, including their boots, before piling the corpses on a small hill outside.

Surprisingly, the Lord of the Tides agreed with the Imp, "We ought to put an end to their slaving ways for good."

"Indeed," Tyrion rubbed his gloved hands. "You should take the City of Tyrosh under your rule, my lady. You have the right of it, the greatest one of all–the Right of Conquest!"

Davos was hardly privy to the games the highlords played, but he knew men. Even now, he could recognise the undisguised greed mixed with the petty vengefulness in the infamous dwarf. Clearly, the Tyroshi had somehow earned the ire, no, the hatred of the usually profligate Imp. The greed need not be explained; such a large city came with plenty of opportunities for smugglers, let alone sons of highlords, stunted or not. 

"Ruling such a large city is hardly an easy endeavour," Ser Merlick Manderly warned. "Handling the half a million slaves is no easy feat either. Breaking their chains is easy, but the shackles in their minds would linger, and teaching a chained man how to be free can be as hard as forcing a dog to grow wings and fly."

"Indeed, Ser." The Imp nodded with surprising geniality. "But I have spent my last moons here, figuring out a solution to some of those woes. It won't be easy by any measure, but the two islands and the City of Tyrosh would make their ruler a rich man," he grinned at Shireen's unchanging stony face, "or woman."

"A permanent force will have to be maintained here," Lord Monford Velaryon added thoughtfully. "At least two thousand well-trained men, aside from a city guard. Though it might be easier to use some of the magisters that surrendered-"

"No," Tyrion forcefully interrupted. "Weed out the dastardly slave mongers root and stem and start with a clean slate. These men smile in your face and, once you turn around, will stab you in the back while still smiling!"

Ser Jason Melcolm snorted. "There's no doubt that the City of Tyrosh will be prosperous, but the amount of coin, time, and effort you have to invest to ensure everything is smooth can easily beggar anyone, especially in times of war-"

"You speak as if we're lacking in coin," the Borrel Lord chuckled. "Most of us have looted enough to swim in gold!"

"Don't forget the dragonsteel blades." Ser Grafton patted the ornate, sapphire-encrusted handle of a fancy-looking sword. "Three dozen have been found so far–and if Maester Thurgood's inventories are half as truthful, the city should boast over a hundred and fifty of them."

"Perhaps less-"

Ser Jonothor Cave spat on the ground, half his armour splattered red with blood. "Bah! I don't give a fuck about fancy baubles and shiny trinkets! I want my daughter back, damn it. Nobody has seen an inkling of her face here! If any of you lousy lot has killed or spoiled her, I'll have your heads!"

"An auburn-haired maiden with freckles and a bountiful bosom?" At Tyrion's question, the old knight nodded grimly, though his eyes grew flinty at the dwarf. "She and dozens of others were sold to Myrish magisters."

All seasoned, old, young, battle-hardened men from almost every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, all of far more storied lineage and stature than Ser Davos, grew silent and turned to the pensive Shireen, awaiting her decision. She was hardly half the size of some warriors here yet commanded their respect. The burden looked almost crushing on her small shoulders, yet she carried it with stubborn stiffness.

"Our next course was already set to the Sea of Myrth," Shireen began slowly. "Word has arrived from King's Landing–Lord Stark is stranded in the Ashen Plains by the city, looking for a way back home."

The Imp guffawed. It was a hoarse, jarring sound, like everything else to the dwarf. 

"Stranded?!" He took a deep swallow of wine from the flask on his belt and continued chuckling. "I suppose you haven't heard. The Tyroshi tracked the situation on the Ashen Plains closely and with wariness. I know not why, but I do know that Eddard Stark has joined hands with the rebelling slaves and wrecked Myr so badly they have given up on their hinterlands, now cowering behind their walls. Last I heard, the preparations for a siege were underway. I also know my nephew, Prince Tommen, is with him."

"STARK!"

The Northmen hollered as one, even the quarrelsome Skagosi and bloodied swords were raised in loud clamour, but the other lords quickly joined in with a "BARATHEON!" as if trying to outroar the Northmen.

"We must join forces with Lord Stark at all costs," the Manderly Knight spoke first once the shouts died out, a steely conviction in his voice.

"Aye, the Quiet Wolf is a dangerous man who can turn the tide of the war," Ser Jason quickly agreed. "His bountiful connections notwithstanding."

"Of course," Shireen said, and everyone quieted to listen. There was no doubt who was in command here. "We cannot leave my royal cousin stranded in Essos or the hostages taken to Myr either. I've taken one Free City, so what's one more?"

The words promised endless bloodshed, but none of the surrounding men seemed daunted.

"It will be a hard fight, but one we can definitely win." Lord Velaryon chuckled. "The Myrish fleet is not as plentiful or as good as the Tyroshi one."

"But what of Tyrosh?" Tyrion asked eagerly.

"I will give you a tenth of the loot, three moons, and two thousand swords from the men-at-arms your Father lent me for this campaign, Lord Tyrion," came the stony response. "I'll stop the sack–but the men may focus on the remaining magister's estates. If you haven't gotten the city in working order, you're to abandon this place and rejoin the war."

"Some might be disgruntled if we deny them their rightful share of the plunder, regardless of how much they had already taken." Ser Grafton pointed out gruffly. 

"Tally of the loot shall be taken, and those who have failed to receive their fair share shall be compensated from mine own coffers and with other honours and positions if need be," Shireen ground out. "But let it be known that I do not tolerate disobedience." The final words were said as her gaze bore down on Tyrion Lannister. "So, can you do it or not, Tyrion of House Lannister?"

The dwarf bowed so deeply that his splattered, messy mane of pale hair brushed against the marble floor. "You honour me, Lady Baratheon." 

***

Same day

Warg Hill

His apprehension and the unease that lingered in the air had made his mind wander towards things he had tried not to dwell on.

What happened to the Jon Snow of this world, to that boy who spent six and ten years growing up in Winterfell? It was not a topic he dwelled on because it hadn't mattered, with death and darkness looming over everything. And then, he had far more problems to think of it. Had he been sacrificed for Jon to come here?

The Old Gods could be cruel, even in their generosity. It didn't matter in the end. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he had been so happy to see his Uncle Benjen again.

He was just as he remembered. Perhaps his previous life was all a terrible dream–or an all too realistic vision by the Old Gods. A warning?

It didn't matter.

"What is it?" Jon exhaled slowly as he sat on his seat in the Warg's Hall and gazed at the approaching Thenn chieftain. It wasn't quite a lord's seat, but it was still more intricate and better carved than all the rest, standing atop the wooden dias. "I already said I will not fight against Isryn until one of his arrives to negotiate first."

"But what if he avoids negotiating?" Someone asked from the hall.

"Our blades and spears can do the talking if he keeps avoiding for another moon," he said. On days like this, Jon felt that the older chieftains were observing him like hawks—not for weakness but to understand him and figure out why and how he made his decisions. "But there's hardly any need for fighting if we can settle our dispute with words."

After word of Mance's death, Isryn had taken a few thousand men and hid in the Thenn's Valley–a place Sigorn and the rest of his kinsmen considered theirs by right. It was also technically part of the territory his Uncle Benjen conceded in his control. And now that the Others were no longer a threat and a tentative peace was forged with the crows, the remaining wildlings moved their attention to old feuds and dwellings. And there were plenty of both to occupy their attention.

It wasn't that Jon was reluctant to fight the more unruly wildlings, but instead that he expected word from his Uncle. A message that might change everything.

"It's not Isryn," Sigorn waved. "A half-dead crow rider arrived, his horse giving out under his arse from rushing too hard. Messages for you, he claimed before passing out."

Jon's heart felt full of trepidation as he accepted the two scrolls. 

"Weren't the crows all using black?" Morna curiously eyed the rolls of parchment.

While the smaller message one was from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the second seal bore not the bannerless shield of the Watch on the black wax but the running direwolf of House Stark, imprinted into grey. Jon was all too familiar with this particular design, for the signet ring that bore it had once been on his finger. 

"This is a message from House Stark of Winterfell." 

"Ah, your infamous kinsmen, har!" Tormund burped from the table under his seat, munching on another piece of chicken leg. "What do the great wolf lords want with poor old us?"

Jon broke the seal, and as his eyes roamed over the carefully inked words, fury and frustration surged in equal measure through his chest. Both doubled when he checked the second message from the Watch. Two dozen of the direwolves stirred, and the hall was filled with a symphony of growls, forcing Jon to take a deep breath and calm himself. 

"My brother has been laid low by vile treachery. Poison," Jon hissed. "Lingering between life and death, with none knowing if he will make it. My father is lost at sea, and enemies are attacking my ancestral home with reavers and zealots."

The desperation reeked from the dark ink, betraying how distressed his brother's wife, a princess of the realm, had to be to ask him, a bastard eking out a meagre living on the edge of the known world, for assistance. Your presence is direly needed in this dark hour as enemies beset the North on every side. It also lit a raging fire deep inside, lighting up the embers of something Jon had struggled to forget. 

Duncan spat. "Damned Ironmen!"

"What's the problem?" Sigorn Thenn frowned. "Your Crow Uncle commands far more men than you do and is closer. Can't he help them instead?"

"The Watch takes no part," Jarod Snow said, weather-worn face turning fierce. "Besides, half of Lord Commander Stark's men are from the opposing kingdoms, and should he pick a side, he might face a mutiny."

"Indeed," Jon agreed. "There is a reason why the Watch stays out of the wars of the realm." He knew the price of breaking it all too well. "Besides, my brother's wife is requesting my assistance."

Val walked over and placed her fingers on his shoulders in a wordless show of support, and the gesture drained some of his tension.

Morna shuffled uneasily.

"So you're leaving us, Lord Warg?" 

"Of course. My kin are under attack," Jon replied. "I have eaten the same food the Stark of Winterfell has eaten, I have taken the same lessons my trueborn brother has, and I have been raised under the same roof the Kings of Winter were reared for millenia, something countless souls have wished for but have forever been out of their reach. I am not some honourless cur to turn my back on the family that raised me in their hour of need."

As the final words left his mouth, the invisible burden pressing on his shoulders evaporated. Any of his lingering hesitations melted away, and Jon now knew what to do. No doubts about the future-past dead clouded his mind for the first time in what felt like years, and the road before him was clear.

"I'm coming with ye," Soren Shieldbreaker roared, raising his axe.

"Snow!" Wun Wun slammed his enormous foot in agreement, making the ground quiver.

Jon Snow slapped a hand on his knee, halting the wave of enthusiasm forming in the great hall.

"Do not be hasty," he cautioned, nodding gratefully at those who declared their support without hesitation. "I appreciate all the assistance offered. But make no mistake–it shall be a hard, bloody fight, and there will be no return to this side of the Wall."

"What do you mean?" Tormund's loud voice bellowed above the sea of confused murmurs.

"My uncle Benjen cannot technically allow wildlings to pass the Wall-"

"What-"

"Do not interrupt me, Tormund," Giantsbane shrunk under his stern gaze, swallowing his outraged retort. Many wildlings were starstruck at his current cold demeanour, but they didn't understand. The stakes were different now; the rules were no longer the same. He no longer had to be the leader of wildlings but something else. Something more. "It's the law of the land, not something my Uncle can control." Jon's lips twitched as he looked at Val's concerned face now resting on his shoulders. "But while wildlings can't pass, lords of the North and their men have always been allowed."

"So you want to make kneelers out of us in the end, eh?" The disgruntled question echoed from the lower tables.

"Any assistance would be welcomed, but this is a path I can tread on my lonesome if I must. Do what you will," Jon stood up, his hand resting on Dark Sister's hilt as all the direwolves stood up in unison, and Ghost's enormous form padded to his left as Val stood to his right. "My kin calls for aid, and I shall answer."

Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle joined his side with no hesitation, and Dalla, holding the youngest Jon in her arms, followed after her husband, if with a slight scowl on her face.

"Our promise stands. We're going with you to the end," Leaf stirred from the shutter. The rest of the Singers in the hall slowly but surely flocked to him.

"Snow," Wun Wun's rumbling response echoed across the hall, even more insistently than before.

"Pah," Sigorn spat on the ground but stood up, half the Thenns following after him. "I've always wanted to see if these kneelers were any good in a proper fight."

Soren again waved his axe, if not as enthusiastically as before. "I'm a man of my word, and I already said I'll fight fer ya. 'Suppose becoming a kneeler won't be as bad if it's you we are kneeling to."

"I want to see those infamous stone houses of yours and if they truly reach the stars," Morna, uneasily leaning on her spear, proclaimed loudly as if to convince herself more than anyone else.

One after another, more warband leaders and warchiefs stood up, but a glance told Jon they were less than half, and most of them were young, without wives and children. Of the most notable, Tormund and Gavin the Trader remained silent, the old foxes doubtlessly figuring out how to exploit the situation to their advantage.

Still, far more than he expected arose to join him. 

"Well, prepare yourself, for we march at dawn for the Shadow Tower with all haste," Jon ordered with a tone that brooked no disobedience. A tinge of nostalgia tingled at the back of his mind; it was the same tone he had used as a Lord Commander and King in the North. But despite everything, even the wildlings seemed to recognise the steely authority in his voice, as all complaints and grumblings were silenced. Even Tormund swallowed his question, though the old bag of wind would doubtlessly find a way to ask him in private later.

Within a minute, the great hall of Warg Hill was emptied as the wildlings dispersed, save for one final annoyance.

"A bold move, Lord Snow," Melisandre walked over, amusement dripping from her voice. "Some might have mistaken your caution and honesty for cowardice, but it seems a wolf has been hiding underneath all along. I have seen tens of kings and khals, emperors and archons who struggle to muster half of your presence. For some reason, when I close my eyes, a most fitting image appears in my mind. A crown resting upon your brow while you order your bannermen with practised ease."

Had the Red Priestess always been so perceptive, even without the flame visions of R'hllor? Or perhaps she had grown perceptive because of their loss.

"I'm a mere Lord of the Seven Kingdoms by royal edict," Jon Snow chuckled coldly, yet the priestess caught the hint of warning and lowered her head in subservience. "But that does not mean I shall tolerate disobedience. From hereon, my men's showing will reflect on me, my name, and my children."

Dalla and Val, each with a babe in their arms, looked worried, quite possibly at his new demeanour. But even they sensed the seriousness of the situation and said nothing. The sisters had expected he would most likely return to the other side of the Wall, but Jon suspected they had not yet realised the depth of the implications. Lordship, kings, crowns, armies, laws–all those words were distant, far away and strange to them and the rest of the wildlings. Things they had heard about and oft dismissed but never seen. Jon knew a lengthy talk with Val would await him sooner or later for more reasons than one.

Still, despite the looming difficulties and the seemingly perilous situation hanging over the North, the blood in his veins sang for battle. Last time, his hands had been tied, and Jon had to stand on his post as word came of his family tragically perishing one after another. But this time?

This time, things would be different. This time, there were no vows to hold him back, and nothing could stop him.

***

21st Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Arianne Martell, Sunspear

She still remembered the day word arrived from Lys. 

"The son of Lyanna Stark?" Arianne had ground out once the final negotiations were concluded without her knowledge or input again. "This is an outrage! An insult!"

"This insult shall make you a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," her father had said, not unkindly. "Did you not want a match worthy of your station? There is no better!"

She swallowed her furious retort, trying to think things through. Perhaps… perhaps this wasn't that bad. It would also give her her cousins back, along with other friends and allies–and, of course, the children of House Martell's most leal bannermen. Perhaps Gerold would be disappointed, but he was merely a landed knight, unfit to be her consort. And he could hardly put a crown atop her head. If what Arianne had heard, this Aegon took after his father in looks, so her father's arrangement wouldn't be such a chore. 

"Will Dorne and the Golden Company be enough to win the Iron Throne?" She asked begrudgingly.

"It should be enough," Doran Martell had sighed, looking two decades older. As of late, even the healing incense in the corner brought him no respite, and his wrinkled brow was weighted by worries, especially since the Sacking of the Water Gardens. "The numbers are plentiful and fresh, and we shall have seasoned commanders like Selmy and Connington on our side. Besides, this is our chance to deal with our unruly bannermen without much trouble."

Her brother stirred from his side, seemingly waking up from a dream as he rubbed the stub of his missing finger on his left hand. Something he started doing since he lost it against those bandits up the Greenblood–Quentyn had been different since then, though her father simply alluded to him being blooded. Arianne would have agreed if not for the eerily serene smile that seemed to be constantly plastered to his face, a stark contrast to his previous nervousness.

"Because they'll be forced to answer your call to arms?"

"Indeed," had been the soft response. "You shall be the one to lead the Dornish banners, of course. And those who refuse can be smashed with the aid of the Golden Company."

"Err." They had all looked at her youngest brother, Trystane, awkwardly scratching his nose. "Why are we hearing of this son of Lyanna for the first time now? Why would he be with Connington in Essos?"

"Essos is vast, and it's nigh impossible to find a needle in a haystack if you're not looking for it," Doran had patiently explained. "It is a smart ruse by Varys, in truth. Though I have some doubts, not that it matters…"

"Doubts?" Arianne had echoed cautiously.

"The timeline certainly matches." Her father had continued, speaking more to himself than them. "I have counted the days myself more than once. Do you know how many moons passed since Lyanna Stark seduced the Silver Prince until that fateful battle at the Tower of Joy?"

Quentyn had tilted his head, his brown eyes gleaming with… something, "Two years?"

"Almost. Over twenty-one moons, and for at least eleven of them, the Silver Prince was probably fucking the Stark girl while everyone else was busy slaughtering each other." Doran Martell had exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "Then he got your aunt with babe without any care of the world before rushing to his death on the Trident. So Connington's claims that the Spider spirited away Lyanna's son on the order of Rhaegar are plausible, for even I struggle to comprehend what went in the Silver Prince's mind even after two decades."

"Wouldn't Stark know if his sister gave birth?" Trystane had asked.

"The kingsguard wouldn't leave any witnesses behind if it were Rhaegar's orders, nor would they betray his secrets," their father had laughed bitterly. "The only way Stark would ever know is if Lyanna somehow quickened at the last moment and gave birth just in time for him to show up. It is highly unlikely that such would be the case–over ten moons passed since Rhaegar finally showed up in King's Landing, and Stark rode to Starfall to return Dawn. The chance of such would be like finding a needle in a haystack–one in a million."

Arianne had scowled, "It's not like we have a choice anyway. Lys wouldn't even sit on the negotiation table without Aegon and the Golden Company, and we would have to stomach the utter humiliation of the Sacking of the Water Gardens. Even the Young Dragon didn't take so many hostages as the Lyseni did that day!"

"Sometimes you're forced to trade one humiliation for an indignity, if lesser in scope. Aegon's terms are more than generous, probably restitution for the wrongs his mother caused us-"

"Easy for you to say when it won't be you spreading your legs for a potential pretender playing us like a fiddle," Arianne had fired back, unable to hold her temper. 

"You never had a problem spreading your legs, daughter mine," came the cold, emotionless response. Had she been so… obvious? Arianne struggled to keep the mortified flush rushing up her neck while her youngest brother turned red and looked away. "You would be shocked at the lengths I went to keep rumours of your affairs under wraps, Arianne."

"...But you never said anything?"

"Would you have listened?" Her father had tilted his head, his eyes hard like two black pearls, and Arianne's retort died on her lips. "A king's wife must be above all reproach, however. All of your lovers shall soon meet a tragic end–if they haven't already."

"What?!" Blood hammered in her ears as her world felt faint. 

Her father had leaned forward, his face like a mask of stone. "Did I stutter? Gerold, Daemon, Aiden-"

"I hate you," Arianne had hissed.

"Everything has a price, Arianne, even your sense of unrestrained freedom. For now, others pay the price of your frivolities, but that might not always be the case." At this moment, she loathed Doran Martell, the pity that practically dripped from his gaze, but her father was not phased by such mundane things as feelings. "Hate me all you want, but know I'm doing this for your own good. There shall come a time when you will look back on this moment and be thankful for how I shielded you from future trouble and protected your good name even from yourself."

"So," Quentyn had cleared his throat loudly, and Arianne thought she heard him mutter something that suspiciously sounded like 'Mother Rhoyne grant me strength'. Had her brother abandoned the Seven for the Old Rhoynish Gods? "Must I marry a Lysene woman?"

"A year of fostering in Lys, one marriage to a Valyrian beauty from a storied lineage for two isles and dozens of hostages are terms we wouldn't have dreamed of achieving without Aegon and the Golden Company on our side," Doran said. He called it fostering, but they all knew it was just a veneer for handing over a hostage without looking weaker than they already were. "The price of peace with the Daughter of Valyria shall not be easy, but this is an opportunity to turn the disaster in our favour, and I have faith in you, my son."

Her brother nodded calmly, yet Arianne could see in his eyes that he felt apprehension. After swallowing heavily, he asked, "Who will lead our bannermen to war while I'm not here?"

"Areo Hotah or Manfrey Martell can lead this campaign while you're missing, and Trystane will squire for one of them," was the slow response. "It would be preferable if you could do it to gain experience, but Lys wants to seal the peace by blood. Still, if you can pick a suitable Lysene bride in a moon or two, I'm sure your return can be arranged earlier."

"Can't this fostering be delayed until after our war?" Quentyn frowned.

"I will see what can be done," her father had miraculously relented. "But don't get your hopes up too much. The Lyseni holds the leverage at the moment. You can always try to convince them to let you return early."

Quentyn gave a thoughtful nod, and his brow scrunched deep in thought.

"Will I also be sold for some alliance like Ari and Quent?" Trystane had asked faintly, looking even smaller in his chair. 

The Prince of Dorne sighed, his face softening. "We must all do our duty when the time comes." 

"Just like you did, marrying for love?" Arianne had mocked as she stood up and curtsied. "Or like Uncle Oberyn perished in pursuit of fiends, myths, and dreams of glory?"

Knowing she was testing her father's patience, she fled the solar before the undoubted chastisement coming her way. 

Doran Martell had not raised the matter further, but Gerold Dayne had been found with his throat slit by a jealous whore later that night–a clear warning.

It had taken her three days, but Arianne had managed to swallow her disgruntlement. Yet the bitter taste on her tongue would not go away, nor would the fury at her father, but she held no illusions that she could escape. But even if she could, would Arianne abandon her position as a Princess of Dorne for the uncertainty of war that had crept into every corner of the world?

She had dreamed of being a queen like every other young girl–not a tragic one like her Aunt Elia, of course. Despite her initial reluctance, she had started inquiring about Lyanna's son; what little she had heard of him was rather benign. Yet Arianne vowed to reserve her judgment until meeting him in person.

There were other, more important questions she had forgotten to ask in her fury, like, wouldn't Renly and Joffrey find out about their alliance with Aegon soon enough? But after some contemplation, Arianne realised it didn't matter. The lion and the stag were facing off in a bitter struggle for Aegon's city, neither having the men to spare to deal with Dorne or the Golden Company.

Quentyn had already sailed away for his year of 'fostering' in Lys, and today was the day Aegon arrived with his retinue and the freed hostages. A part of Arianne would admit she was far more excited to see Spotted Sylva, Ellaria, and her cousins again. She badly needed a confidant in these trying times, and while Garin and Drey offered their support, she missed Sylva and Tyenne more than any other.

And so, Arianne awaited with a hefty Martell delegation under the watchful eye of Areo Hotah on Plankytown's docks as a fancy Lyseni carrack slowly sailed in, its Ynana's nubile form shamelessly fluttering on its enormous red sails.

As the ship neared, her gaze roamed over the familiar faces of her cousins, the other Dornish taken from the Water Gardens, the sailors–then paused on the very vision of beauty. Garbed in black and red with his silken pants held up by a leather belt adorned by a gilded dragonhead buckle, a dashing young man with ethereal silver-gold curls was staring at her with two purple eyes that shone like amethyst under the sunlight. If this was Aegon, she wouldn't mind. He was thrice as handsome as Gerold, and his smile made her insides flutter.

Perhaps being a queen wouldn't be so bad after all.

The ship soon docked, but there was no grand ceremony where everyone was heralded–they had decided to keep things with Aegon under wraps for as long as possible to buy time for the Dornish Banners and the Golden Company to position themselves most beneficially. 

Yet Arianne's attention was drawn to her cousin's worried faces, which quickly sobered her. They all looked a tad thinner than before, with heavy bags under their eyes but otherwise unharmed. A second glance made her frown as her stomach turned. All of the noble and baseborn children who had been in the Water Garden that day were here—a list she had learned by heart out of fury and guilt—all but one.

Losing her taste for courtesies, Arianne didn't mince her words and directly asked, "Where's Nym?"

"The Lyseni would not give her up even when we offered ten times her weight in gold and gems along with a dragonsteel blade," an older knight with a stiff, hardy face and a messy mane of crimson hair grunted. "They said Nymeria Sand would be treated with the highest dignity and afforded the best luxury Lys had to offer but would not be released to us no matter what."

That was easily a king's ransom and Dragonsbane's royal brother had been ransomed for less. Last she heard, Nymeria's maternal family had fled to Qarth with their meagre possessions after Volantis' fall, so it wasn't them. Arianne stood there with a blank face until her muddled mind finally moved, finding the only reason that had made any sense. 

Who had her cousin fucked of such importance that even the shameless magisters of Lys wouldn't budge with a whole army on their doorstep?!

Yet her thoughts were once again halted by the dashing sight of what could only be Aegon moving closer, and Arianne felt a flush creep up her neck again. If perfection existed, it would be the man before her; The ethereal Blood of Old Valyria in the flesh was breathtaking in a way words failed to describe, not the pale imitation like the unfortunate Ser Gerold Dayne. At that moment, all the previous thoughts in her mind were forgotten.

"Pardon me for my uncouthness," she bowed, giving her best smile and curtsy.

***

22nd Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

The Young Wolf

His mind felt drowsy as the distant voices echoed.

"Should have poisoned him days ago-"

"The damned beast keeps lingering around, and we can only administer small doses while it's away, and Maester Arryk keeps an eye on his supplies like a mother hen-"

Robb could not recognise the whispers, but their hostile intent was unmistakable. He struggled to open his eyes and move his mouth, but his body refused to obey. But where his body felt like a cold stone, something else, on the very edge of his mind, felt clearer than ever. Robb tugged on it, and before he knew it, an enraged growl was followed by yelps, screams, and sounds of scuffling and bones breaking before the quiet lingered.

Once he focused, Robb saw himself staring at his body, thinner than before, on a sickbed. Warm blood dripped from his snout, the hot, metallic taste pleasantly lingered on his tongue, and he realised he was seeing through Grey Wind's eyes. But unlike the previous dreams, this one was far easier to control. It felt as if he had found a new muscle he had not known existed.

It wasn't before long that a horde of angry guards rushed in with their swords drawn, and the direwolf lolled out his tongue lazily as if nothing had happened. But Robb knew things would look troublesome, so he focused, and Grey Wind tore off a flask of foul-smelling substance on the man's belt and offered it to the Stark guardsmen before darkness took him again.

***

The next time Robb awoke, he could feel his limbs–his real limbs again. Grey Wind's reassuring presence lingered clearly in his mind, and he could feel the direwolf curled by his bedside, seemingly asleep but still vigilant.

"So," his voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper, and his body felt weak but surprisingly full of strength. "What happened while I was out?"

"Lord Stark," Daryn Hornwood's lightheartedness was still there but tinged with a newfound grimness. "Nothing much aside from three catspaws trying to murder you and then a bunch of acolytes hailing from the Northmarches trying to finish the job by slow-acting poison with none the wiser but your direwolf. You should have seen Greatjon Umber hang each acolyte and maester by their feet from Crakehall's battlements, threatening to drop them on the rocks below, until they all started singing their place of birth, relatives, every woman they had ever lain with, along with every clandestine deed they had ever done. Lord Wells and Hallis Mollen have designed an elaborate triple-layered defence around your person at all times to guard against future assassination attempts."

"Wine," Robb croaked out, and the cold mouth of a wineskin was sealed to his lips. The liquid was bitter and spicy in equal measure but soothed his parched throat.

"Even this wine goes through three throats before reaching yours now. You were lucky as Maester Arryk claimed a lesser man would have died twice over in your stead," his friend continued to prattle on, but Robb didn't feel particularly lucky. "The maester didn't allow his acolytes near anything dangerous in sufficient amounts, or they would have probably poisoned you far earlier. All seemed fine when the maester declared you were out of danger on the third day, but you just wouldn't wake, and the men began to worry-"

"Tell me of Oakheart," he interrupted. The maesters–or the acolytes might prove a problem, but that was something to be dealt with later. "Tell me of the North and King's Landing."

"The Reachlord continues fortifying his position. Half the lords wanted to rush back North while the other half wanted to march down the Ocean Road and storm Oakheart yesterday, and Greatjon barely managed to make them hold still and wait." Daryn swallowed heavily and continued speaking while Robb's face darkened with every word leaving his friend's mouth.

While his stiff joints groaned in protest and his muscles screamed, Robb pulled himself up from the bed but was interrupted by his friend's cautious warning, "The maesters said that you ought to rest for at least a sennight more."

"I've rested enough," Robb said, cautiously putting some weight on his thinner-than-usual leg. But not all the meat on it had melted away, so he managed to stand up with some difficulty, even if the exertion felt tiring and his joints protested the sudden weight. His belly rumbled greedily, loudly requesting food. How long had it been since he had last eaten?

"There's one more thing," the Hornwood heir added, face unreadable.

"Well, out with it!"

"The Lord Hand wrote that Lord Stark is alive. It was no jest either–Lord Eddard has been spotted near Myr with a retinue of Northmen."

Robb froze. Did he dare to hope? Was this yet another feverish dream?

Yet the aches in his body, the stiffness in his joints told him otherwise, for good dreams were never so painful.

Gods, he would be glad if this was true. Yet… it felt unreal, fleeting, like the wind in the skies. A part of him would not believe it until he saw his father with his own eyes. A part of him feared that if he blinked or closed his eyes, it would all disappear, a mere product of his imagination.

"Can you… can you repeat what you said?" His words came out raw, far too vulnerable to show before a man who would be one of his future bannermen.

But Daryn gave him an understanding nod.

"Lord Eddard Stark is alive, the old lion claims. Your father was stranded in Essos until now, and no word reached us because of the wars in the East."

Robb closed his eyes. It felt unreal. It was unreal. He wanted to cry tears of joy but couldn't. He wanted to celebrate, shout out to the skies, pray before the Heart Tree, and thank the gods they had protected his father. Oh, how he wanted to talk to his father, ask for his advice and guidance, hear his reassuring voice once more. 

But the colder, reasonable part of him that had awakened at this war won out. His sire was far away, and if he had failed to return to Westeros for so long, it would be long before he found his way home and his presence was felt again. The world seemed brighter for it, but… nothing had truly changed here and now.

 "Get me some stew and summon my lords here," Robb barked out. "The war waits for no one, and if these Reachmen are so eager for bloodshed, who am I to deny them?"