Like Candles in the Wind

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.

***

12th Day of the 9th Moon, 299 AC

Ser Kevan Lannister, King's Landing

Kevan stood at the Red Keep's ramparts and gazed upon King's Landing and the Blackwater Rush, ignoring the petering of the rain as it slowly soaked through his cloak. There wasn't much else to do nowadays, at least until the rain passed. Some days, the rain halted, but the sky was overcast, and the wind coming from the sea was vicious, promising a return of the storm. And the storm would return the next day or the one after. Unsurprisingly, the Rush's waters had swelled, spilling out of their riverbed and flooding much of the surroundings after a fortnight, ironically including parts of the city such as the River Row, washing away his budding attempts at restoring the original docks. 

While the gloomy weather didn't help, the Conqueror's city had never been so quiet or empty. The outbreak of the Black Death had finally halted, but from the three hundred thousand souls left after the eviction and siege, barely twenty thousand still lived.

The Westerlands army fared no better, with twenty-five hundred men surviving–a paltry number for a kingdom that any powerful lord around the seven kingdoms could have mustered. Of course, Kevan didn't count the five thousand swords Tywin had sent with Shireen Baratheon, and for good reason. Word from across the Narrow Sea was sparse, and the damned storms that had taken the dark waters from the Fingers to Tarth kept raging. Some days, it waned, only to pick up strength again by nighttime, and no captain dared to brave it.

Not even the court and the lords escaped the Stranger's hand.

Of the nobles from the Westerlands, only one in three survived. With Ser Tylon Lannett dead to the plague, only Cregan Karstark and Shireen still lived from the small council. However, the Northman now limped around with a cane, courtesy of a wound that wasn't properly treated after Renly's final assault because there were no more maesters left.

Whether by Joffrey's wrath or the Stranger's Hand, there was only a single acolyte left in the city, and it was a pimpled boy of five and ten, only good with ravens and with no silver links or knowledge of medicine to his name.

Along with the severe lack of manpower and low morale, the stormy weather had slowed down the restoration of the Lion's Gate and the Gods' Gate; the two giant, half-melted holes in the city's curtain walls could be seen from afar, as if a volcano had exploded there. The breach wasn't wide open, thanks to the wooden skeleton of palisades and ramparts that had hastily been erected, but wood made for poor long-term fortification. The shell of a city lacked the manpower to rebuild the walls quickly. 

Then there were the scoured docks at the Rush's mouth, the makeshift piers two-thirds of which were washed away by the storm, hampering the city's ability to resupply by sea. There was also the pesky matter of the treasury being empty, of course. Plague and war had sapped any efforts to refill it by taxation, and the only respite to the royal coffers would be cut the Iron Throne was entitled from the plunder. The crown was owed a tenth of all spoils of war, but gathering them was another matter entirely, for each lord was quick to loot gold and slow and reluctant to part with any of it.

Not that there was a particular rush to repair, for the nearest enemy army was nearly a thousand miles away, and Brack and his eight thousand swords and lances stood in the way. Many were busy mourning the dead, and Kevan was no different. Two sons he had lost, not to steel and blood but to the disease. A nephew, a brother, his good-father, and countless cousins had been taken by the Stranger in merely a year.

King's Landing was finally unsealed, and smallfolk, traders, peddlers, and merchants could enter and leave–but scarcely anyone wanted to.

"A tomb of kings," Kevan had heard some of the remaining smallfolk call it. "Cursed by the Stranger for the greed and ambition of highlords and false kings."

Perhaps it was. 

The Lannister knight was not someone to hold a grudge, but he loathed Renly deeply. Yet, despite being the supposed regent of the king, he was powerless. 

Renly had lost, but so long as he proclaimed himself king, the war had not ended. Worse, more kings were sprouting up like shrooms after rain. Greyjoy, Hightower, Targaryen–a small mercy House Stark had denounced the last as a mummer and a liar due to his claim of being Lyanna Stark's son. Without Winterfell's support, the Riverlands would waver, and House Lannister simply had no strength left to fight anyone alone. 

Thus, Aegon the Bastard, as the handful of remaining courtiers liked to call him, remained scorned or dismissed outright by most lords north of the Red Mountains. 

The Iron Throne was empty, and there was no king to swear fealty to. The Ashen Plains of Myr were so close, yet so far away, and Kevan had no idea what was happening there, courtesy of the stormy shroud veiling anything beyond the Narrow Sea. 

With Tywin and Joffrey dead and Varys executed for treason, King's Landing was now in the dark conerning the bloody affairs of the Seven Kingdoms. It was as if the Red Keep was no longer the beating heart of Westeros, and things were spiralling out of control in ways Kevan did not even know for his lack of spymaster.

Robb Stark, now also Warden of the West by Tywin's will, was acting on his own. He had done it before with Joffrey's enthusiastic support due to his military success, but now he had dropped all pretence as he claimed the title. Lord Edmure Tully no longer responded to his missives about pursuing Renly to Storm's End. Instead, the Riverlord split his army into two, aiming at Goldengrove and Tumbleton without any particular haste. But the new, seven-year-old Lord Footly had surrendered and swore fealty to Tommen the moment he had heard an army was coming his way, and thus, the second part of the Riverlander forces entered the Stormlands. 

Last he heard, Lord Bracken, who was in command of the force in the Stormlands, had been content to clear the nearby fields and start sowing garlic, clove, and sage while he slowly made his way towards Bronzegate.

"Ser Kevan, I shall do my utmost to avoid the spread of the Black Plague and follow the royal command," was his brief letter. Not Lord Regent or Lord Hand, but just Ser. Many other lords no longer acknowledged him, as if he was just a knight holding King's Landing.

Perhaps he was just that, judging by the silence from the rest of the kingdoms. 

The clinking steps of greaves on wet stone echoed from behind him, but Kevan did not turn. "Father, you can get sick if you sit too long in the rain."

"A mere inconvenience. Common illness scares me not, now that I've seen worse."

"You oughtn't test the Stranger," his son sighed. "I cannot afford to lose you, father. King's Landing cannot afford to lose you."

Kevan scoffed. "You will find that I'm very replaceable."

"Not to me. What do we do now?" 

His son's reply eased the tension in his shoulders. 

"We hold the city and try to rebuild," he spoke softly as Lancel stopped beside him. "Prepare things for when Tommen returns."

Clad in a crimson cloak and an arming doublet depicting the golden lion of Lannister, his firstborn had long turned into a man. His previously soft face had lost all of its baby fat and innocence, turning harsh, with his eyes hardening like two gems. His gait was that of a seasoned killer, a warrior with many lives slain to his name. The lion of the wall, they called him for his ardent defence on the curtain walls.

"But how?" Lancel rubbed his tired face. "Even Casterly Rock's most leal bannermen only reluctantly pay you lip service and are rearing to return home and bury their kin. The Strongboar was very vocal about rushing back home last night at the barracks, and many seemed to agree. They might not say it, but I suspect many plan to join Robb Stark in the Reach. It wouldn't even be treason or desertion after Tywin's will was read out. With the next ruler of Casterly Rock bearing the name Stark and Baratheon and under siege in Winterfell, our hands are tied."

"So they are," Kevan acknowledged. Things would have been far worse if Karstark and Ser Swann weren't still listening to his orders. Kevan's own powerful retinue had been demolished to a paltry two dozen out of the hundred and fifty he had boasted before the war. "You and I might be of noble lineage, but we are not lords of the land but knights and stewards. We serve the head of the family first and the crown second."

His son scrunched up his face. 

"A Stark and a Baratheon."

"Our steadfast allies."

"Yet they are winning all the glory and honour and plunder while we bore the brunt of Renly's strength and the ire of the Gods and have nothing but death and destruction to show for it." Lancel's hand angrily motioned at the desolate streets beneath them. Some had turned into small streams of water under the unrelenting rain.

"It may seem so, but the fighting is far from over. We're not fighting one Pretender but four now," Kevan reminded grimly. "And they would love nothing more than to see us all divided and squabbling."

"But we are divided. All the Highlords supporting the Iron Throne are doing what they want. Robb Stark has sacked Highgarden instead of turning to Storm's End or the Dornish Marches, and the word is that he's scouring the lands around the Honeywine. Lord Tully does as he will, disregarding your command! You're the Regent, father. You are supposed to rule the kingdom, but even the last two white cloaks don't listen to you!"

The accusation hurt, probably because it was truthful. But as much as his son had turned into a man, he was still a child in some matters.

"That might be so, but I'm just as powerless as you are. What is a regent without a king and subjects? What is a ruler without an army?"

Lancel's shoulders slumped.

"Surely we could do something?"

"Indeed. Fight tooth and nail to keep what remains of the city in order." Kevan felt his own words sound weak in his ears. "Begin reconstruction, keep fortifying the walls, rebuild the harbour as best as we can, clean up the destroyed parts of King's Landing, and perhaps even Flea Bottom. If only we had the coin…"

But even the coin wouldn't help him elect a new High Septon. Every last member of the Most Devout inside the city had perished; the Septons and the Septas were taken by the Stranger when they attempted to fight the Black Death in the city with prayer and fasting.

Kevan had summoned more Septons from nearby, but those near had perished to disease and war, and those further away dared not venture into the city cursed by the Stranger. He could appoint some fool unrelated to the Faith to hold the position, but with the religious tensions and the Rose Septon alive and in Barrowton propping Renly's claim, such moves would only lead to a backlash.

Gazing one final time into the half-flooded city below, he headed back to his quarters.

House Lannister had been powerful and influential, but the war had changed things. It had squeezed them dry, not only in manpower but in prestige and respect, and now they found themselves woefully lacking in alliances. Even the Tully-Lannister marriage was to a cadet branch, and one of the main reasons it had gone through was that Cerenna's sister was to be queen. Alas, poor Myriellie had not been spared by the Stranger's Black Hand, just like her husband. But perhaps it was for the best, for the succession would once again fall into uncertainty if she had given birth to a son. 

On the other hand, the Starks had outplayed everyone so far. Baratheon, Tully, Greyjoy and Arryn–even if the last two connections had turned sour, that didn't mean they didn't exist.

They had all thought Eddard Stark a man foolishly clinging to empty honour, but it seemed that a cunning and ambitious highlord was hiding underneath the veneer.

"Ser Kevan!"

He turned to Jonnath, the sole surviving acolyte, and rushed towards him. Holding a raven's scroll, he looked like a half-drowned rat in his rain-soaked grey robes. Kevan immediately felt his heart sink. Dark wings, dark words.

"What is it?"

"A raven from the Vale. It comes from Redfort."

Kevan wondered what the cowardly Valemen possibly wanted from him now, but he recalled that Lord Horton Redfort, along with Lord Yohn Royce, had been among those who led the royalist faction in the Vale. But the latter had succumbed to the plague, while the former had fallen in the Trial of the Seven that Waynwood the Fencesitter had won. The new Lord Jasper Redfort married Bronze Yohn's daughter, and both houses had been ardent supporters of Joffrey. He took the scroll and hissed.

The thrice-damned Anya Waynwood, who controlled most of the Vale right now, had received an envoy from Aegon, of all people. And that was after turning away Tywin's letters.

While it did not mean Lady Waynwood favoured the Blackfyre, her willingness to hear the envoy out was concerning. 

16th Day of the 9th Moon, 299 AC

Garlan Tyrell, the Red Mountains

Drunken Dornishmen, busy revelling in an inn late at night, were hardly worthy opponents. There were no patrols, no lookouts, no guardsmen, for it seemed that this side of the Red Mountains was bereft of the banditry that had plagued the Marches for moons. 

Attacking drunken, unarmed men at night wasn't honourable. But he owed no honour to these curs, and his sister would not avenge herself for the humiliating atrocities she suffered.

Within minutes, the place of revel and feasting had been drowned by the song of steel and death; tables and stools were shattered, mingling with chopped-up limbs and broken pottery on the floor. Everyone inside was dead but a certain man and a young maiden. Garlan's gaze lingered on the corpses of the serving wenches for a moment–they had been mercilessly put down, too, save for one.

It was not honourable, but Garlan Tyrell did not feel like a knight anymore. Aldon Uffering, a lusty knight, had hiked up the skirt of what looked to be the screaming innkeeper's daughter, and Garlan didn't hesitate to draw his sword and behead him for disobedience, for the fool had discarded his helmet to do the dirty deed. The blood-soaked blade sang again, sinking into the poor maiden' who had started sobbing out gratitude as well, her voice halting.

It was quick–Garlan would loathe making her suffer.

And a quick death was a better and far more dignified fate than what his sister–and wife had received. 

"I said leave none but Moryn alive," Garlan's words felt like hot coals on his tongue. "We might be here for vengeance, but that does not mean we can stoop as low as the Dornish."

Worse, all the fools who faithfully followed him started nodding solemnly, with understanding shining in their eyes. Garlan wanted to roar with rage. 

He was a butcher, an oathbreaker, little better than many of the brigands he had hunted down. But these men… they loved him for it. They followed him with loyalty Garlan would have never expected. It was as if he was on a grand, righteous quest, not a bloody vendetta. 

"This is him, Ser Garlan," Ser Androw Crane reported, his body splattered by blood as two of the other knights unceremoniously dragged a beaten man before him. 

"I expected more." Lomas clicked his tongue. "He looks nought like a great warrior."

True enough, the man before him was wiry, gaunt, almost. His face narrowed like that of a vulture, and his eyes held the same look Garlan had seen on many an outlaw. 

And the silken surcoat with a yellow adder on black, a coat of arms with reversed colours that could only belong to a bastard of Wyl. 

"What else do you expect from a brigand!" Mern, one of the men-at-arms, scoffed. "He's nothing more than common scum."

"You," Moryn Sand's words slurred out, clearly drunken, looking at Garlan's breastplate. No, not his breastplate but the padded surcoat above proudly displaying the Golden Rose of Tyrell. "A flower with a spine… You've come to take revenge, is that it?"

"You've hardly left me any choice," Garlan said darkly, venom dripping from his words. "Did you think yourself safe from harm after committing deeds so vile that they offend gods and men?"

The bastard laughed shamelessly as though he wasn't surrounded by enemies, doubtlessly out of intoxication. 

"Why yes, Ser. The Boneway's swarming with Martell's men, so it is quite a surprise to see the likes of you here." Then his smile turned insufferably taunting.

"No flame burns as bright as the flame of righteous fury," the Red Wing coldly stated. "When Ser Garlan led us through the treacherous goat pathways, we all followed willingly."

Impossible for an army to pass, but a warband of two hundred motivated men carrying their own supplies led by a loyal guide from the Marches? That was an entirely different matter. Braving the steep, wild goat paths was not only challenging but perilous, for a steep ravine over a thousand feet deep on both sides promised a terrible fate, and Garlan had lost thirteen good men in the descent.

But Moryn Sand seemed to like the sound of his voice too much. Or perhaps it was the overindulgence in wine, for the man's gaze was half-unfocused, and he seemed to find everything amusing. But that was for the better–wine had its way of loosening a drunkard's tongue.

"Ah yes, the valorous chivalry of the Reach, led by the infamous Gallant Knight. Or perhaps it's no longer Ser but Lord Tyrell now. It seems everyone wants to trample the arrogant roses right now."

Garlan's heart sank. Surely Highgarden had not fallen?

"Enough drivel!" he bit out, trying to suppress the fury threatening to choke erupt in his gut. "What happened to the ladies that survived?"

The giddiness and the sick pleasure in the man's dark eyes made Garlan sick. 

"I suppose I can tell you. I've tasted a royal cunny and feasted upon the finest noble flowers the Stormlands and Reach have to offer, so I have to be generous to poor fellows such as you," he laughed giddily. Garlan barely managed not to jump the man and wipe the taunting smirk off his face with his fists. "And I just sold them to the Lyseni after my men and I had our fill, of course. A man of my tastes and station always needs more coin, and pleasure slaves are always in demand in Lys, you know." 

"So it would seem," Garlan hummed coldly. "Loryn, get the torturer here. Moryn here should be familiar with Castle Wyl's defences, at least."

"What?" After a moment of incomprehension, the bastard's face twisted in outrage. "Why torture, I'll just tell you-"

One of the knights holding him slammed an armoured fist into his jaw, busting his lip.

Garlan gazed at the bastard of Wyl, "You would just betray your brother so easily?"

The bastard spat out a bloody tooth before grinning madly, "I would fuck his wife and daughters if I could too."

The mere idea that he would cooperate with the vermin grated on Garlan's mind, yet he allowed the bastard to tell them all about the defences of Castle Wyl. Once done, he signalled for his men to bring the torturer regardless.

"Wait! I already told you every–" Another punch from one of his knights silenced the cur.

"And I never said I will spare you." Garlan turned as one of his men arrived with a cage of rats while another was busy with the fireplace. It was one of the most gruesome, undignified ways one could meet the Stranger. "Just in case, the pain might refresh your memory for anything you omitted."

It wasn't before long that the inn was filled with Moryn Sand's wails and moans of agony as Garlan prayed to the Warrior for strength and the Stranger for guidance. This was no Sept, and it was considered a bad omen, a death wish to pray to the Stranger, but his men knelt by his side and joined him.

Garlan had thought that a broken heart couldn't be hurt any more, but he was wrong. Amidst the screams, the Wyl Bastard spoke of something that shattered his heart again. The wolves had taken Highgarden, and the Tyrells were executed–aside from the women given to the Silent Sisters, for Olenna Tyrell had admitted to two attempted assassinations and poisoning of the Young Wolf.

And now, he was the new Lord Tyrell, the ruler of Highgarden. A worthless title–a Lord with a fallen seat, without subjects. A lord of a disgraced House that had raised the banner of rebellion for a man who abandoned them all. Another burden. If Moryn Sand wasn't lying, which he wasn't judging by the gleeful tone, House Tyrell was done. Any veneer of justice and righteousness were gone, and Garlan had no claim to them now. 

It didn't matter.

Garlan swallowed his grief and sorrow and focused on what was to come. Moryn Sand did not divulge anything else about the castle's defences, yet that would not stop him.

What he was about to do wasn't just, but nobody seemed to care. It wasn't right either, but he had started walking this road and was bound to see it all the way to the end.

***

17th Day of the 9th Moon, 299 AC 

The Onion Knight, Myr

Just as the Onion Knight thought the storm had ended, it started raining again, and the flooding turned worse; many minor rivers passing through the city were now spilling into the lower streets. A third of the harbour had been swept by the rush of water.

Like the stormy skies above, the last moon filled the city of Myr with unease, even though the bad weather drowned out most of it, and quite literally at that. 

"So, Lady Baratheon," Eddard Stark stood behind a heavy desk and observed the fretful Shireen sitting across him. "What have you decided?"

As usual, the crannoglord lurked by his side, always observing and never uttering a word. Despite his small, unassuming stature, there was something in him that frightened Davos. Rightfully so, considering they called Howland Reed the Bog Devil, whispering about him melding seamlessly with the shadows, canals, and swamps, striking at foes who never saw him coming.

Bog Devil aside, Davos didn't like the meetings with the new royal regent. Each time, it felt like he was entering a wolf's den naked. Lord Stark had chosen the manse belonging to a magister named Vaeltigar for his headquarters, though all the gold, silver, and gemstones had been stripped from the small palace, giving it the appearance of a snail that had lost its shell. The eerie sword of ice that always seemed to sit by his master's side or on his belt only unsettled him further. 

Of course, it wasn't wise to decline the summons of the king's regent–some would even say it bordered dangerously close to treason. Doubly so now that more than half of the captains in the royal fleet seemed to answer to him instead of Shireen. 

Royal favour was fickle, Davos realised. They had all followed the young Lady of Dragonstone as long as the king had propped her against the slavers. But now, the slavers of Tyrosh were gone, and so was Joffrey. 

Stark's unreadable, icy face and flinty eyes made Davos feel small in a way only Tywin Lannister had managed before. But unlike the Lion Lord, the Lord of Winterfell's presence was oppressive in a completely different manner.

There were no dismissive orders or promises as though he was commanding a mere servant, but his whole attention was focused on your being as if studying you for weakness or trying to discern what you wanted. And there was that aura of barely restrained violence, overshadowing even Ser Clayton Suggs, who the host now called the Butcher of Perfume Row. It wasn't just blind brutality and love for murder, but the demeanour of a man who had slaughtered his way through countless warriors and won many a battle. And he was willing to do it again and again.

The Heartless, some called him in hushed whispers far away from any of the Stark men, not for his icy face but for his seeming lack of concern for his family besieged at the North.

Not once had the Lord of Winterfell mentioned relieving his own kingdom of the numerous invaders. All concerns voiced on the reavers plaguing his shores, Hightower, Redwyne, or their zealots were met with a curt dismissal, "I have complete faith in the North's defences."

After over a year, Davos could say with certainty that Eddard Stark was not a schemer, but that did not make him any less dangerous. A knife in the dark you never saw coming was dangerous, but the sword that you did but couldn't stop was lethal. 

He had certainly dropped a jar of green piss on them by announcing the contents of Tywin Lannister's letter and letting Shireen and Davos choose. As if there was much choice between another war that Shireen had no way of winning on her own or a Great Council that she had no chance of winning.

"I… I don't mind being Tommen's Queen," Shireen's voice was quiet, but she resolutely met Eddard Stark's gaze without flinching. "But I don't want to surrender the post of Mistress of Ships, either."

Eddard Stark closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

"You've probably noticed your prestige amongst the fleet has dwindled, and your orders are no longer so easily followed," he paused, and Shireen nodded reluctantly. "Aside from Lord Lydden insistently requesting–or more like demanding–the return of his position as Master of Ships, three more skilled sailors, knights, and lords of no small renown have come forth in an attempt to vie for the same position. Nothing malicious, but they have made various claims on the matter of your dismissal, of course, from your safety to interrupted education or your young age."

Davos' mouth went dry. He had expected some trouble, but now that it came, it still made him feel anxious. 

Now, Eddard Stark held the reins of power, and the young Tommen happily listened to the Lord of Winterfell and was surrounded at all times by Northmen. Not even the Westerlanders fared better with the young boy King. Some had initially joined the host on Tywin's orders, whilst others had trickled in slightly later after abandoning Tyrion, but none who attempted to curry favour were met with anything more than cold indifference.

Not that there was much time to do so, considering Lord Stark seemed to be dead set on running the boy ragged, having him either drilling in the yard, shadowing him in court, or studying under the Northmen and a group of Myrish scholars. Personally selected by Stark, all of them were former slaves with shaved heads who were well-versed in the various methods of philosophy, governance, warfare, logic, commerce, taxation, and many more from Yi Ti to Westeros. 

Swallowing heavily, the Onion Knight grimaced as he met Lord Stark's chilly eyes. "But we need a trustworthy ma…person with skills to lead the royal fleet now more than ever-"

"That we do. But one of the men requesting the position is Lord Velaryon."

He could hear the grinding of teeth then, reminding Davos that Shireen was her father's daughter through and through.

"He dares?"

Her tone was deceptively calm and bereft of emotion, though the former smuggler knew she was furious.

Stark's lips twitched as if the whole situation amused him. 

"Monford is an ambitious man, and he has been careful not to overstep the boundaries of his vows. But he, along with the rest of them, are not wrong. Lady Baratheon, you must understand that a future queen cannot be needlessly put in danger. Any risk to your wellbeing is unacceptable, especially considering the current times of strife."

"But what about Tommen?" Shireen asked, face scrunched up with displeasure. "Is he not in danger by following you?"

"Indeed he is. For good or bad, a king must be well-versed in martial pursuits, matters of war and bloodshed," Stark's voice was as cold as the Wall. "It's his duty, and it is a risk he is obligated to take as the future Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, while a Queen's battles are of entirely different character. What worries me more are not battles but hidden daggers, poisoned words, and ambitious fools. Do you know the tale of Jaehaera Targaryen?"

Shireen stiffened.

"The only child of Aegon and Haelena Targaryen who survived the Dance. Dragonbane's would-be queen that was supposed to mend the rift between the Blacks and the Greens," her voice was small. "It was written that she was a simpleton and jumped from her window in Maegor's holdfast, killing herself in grief."

"That is one of the versions," Stark agreed solemnly. "But there is another, not as pleasant–that she was pushed out the window by the very kingsguard that was supposed to protect her on behalf of an ambitious Peake who wanted his daughter to become queen. I never gave it much thought until recently. But if there is one thing I learned in my short tenure as Hand, it is that the royal court is full of daggers hidden behind false smiles and loud proclamations of eternal friendship. It's easy for a young princess to be claimed simpleton when she was surrounded by enemies, probably scared quiet after all of her kin perished."

"What are you saying, Lord Stark?" Davos asked. "Someone is plotting against Lady Shireen?"

"Contrary to what many seem to be claiming as of late, I'm not a dark sorcerer with mastery over the unnatural who knows everything." Stark's voice thickened with amusement, and even Shireen chuckled weakly. "So I have no way of knowing. But if, in the heat of battle, an opportunity presented itself for an accident, there might be those who would act on it. One ambitious fool with sufficient luck is enough. It would be relatively simple to arrange, too–a misfired crossbow, perhaps, or a push down the stairs or overboard into the sea. I may seem paranoid, Lady Shireen, but Prince Tommen and I were poisoned with the Tears of Lys in the very Tower of the Hand in the centre of royal power. The court is not safe. I highly recommend you procure the services of several food tasters and strengthen your personal guard."

"Then… why do you want to send me to court, Lord Stark?" Shireen's face scrunched up.

"Unlike Princess Jaehaera, you have actual lands and vassals from which to draw power, Lady Shireen. I have great respect for Lord Stannis, but his preparations for your well-being will not last forever, and you lack powerful relatives to back your interests. Of course, you have leal knights who are willing to die in your name, and it would be an opportune time to reassert Dragonstone's influence to recruit and promote loyal courtiers. Lords with daughters, granddaughters, nieces of the appropriate age, ladies-in-waiting, hostages in all but name. Besides, I'm not sending you to court. That is why I gave you the choice. You can continue leading the royal fleet, but you cannot take a crown at the same time."

"Who will lead the fleet if I agree to the betrothal?" 

"A split command between Ser Wylis Manderly and Ser Jason Melcolm," Stark said. "The time of open warfare at sea has ended, of course, and I intend to split the forces in two for the time being. There is no major enemy with a fleet remaining-"

"The Redwyne and Greyjoy Fleet are both superior in number and experience to ours," Shireen reminded quietly. "And both of them are attacking the North from the western coast."

Eddard Stark hummed thoughtfully, his fingers drumming over the desk as if deliberating an important matter.

After a painfully long minute, the tense silence was broken.

"Perhaps that was true a few weeks ago. But there are hardly any Greyjoys and Ironmen to make trouble. Hightower and Redwyne won't last much longer; the daring fools have ventured too deep into the North."

"But there hasn't been any word from the North for over a moon since the storm began," Davos protested. "Last we heard, things were… dire." 

"Perhaps they were dire then, but a moon has its way of shifting the tides of war, and the North does not lack brave men ready to defend their homes." Stark's face somehow turned frostier, a feat the former smuggler did not think possible. "What I'm about to say here must not leave this room."

"Yes, Regent Stark." Shireen immediately agreed, and Davos nodded uneasily.

"I have it on good authority that my son, Jon Snow, has come down from Beyond the Wall and decisively defeated most of the Ironborn in two battles, and the bulk of the Iron Fleet has been captured intact. Hightower and Redwyne will be next. I am only telling you this so you can rest assured that things aren't as desperate as they seem."

Davos' jaw dropped as he struggled to formulate a reply to such an outlandish claim–but that would definitely explain why Stark wasn't worried about his home better than the claims of callousness. That and Winterfell's fame as a sturdy fortress. Shireen managed to keep her composure–or was too stunned to do anything for a heartbeat, before nodding as if believing the Regent's words without question.

"There's still Renly, the Dornish and your self-proclaimed nephew, Aegon-"

"That boy is no nephew of mine," the highlord interrupted, voice thickening with distaste, then murmuring something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like 'even my young sister wouldn't have been foolish enough to name a child of hers after the Conqueror'. "But fret not, House Martell's insult in propping up a mummer and a fraud will not go unanswered. If anything, this war has drawn out all the ambitious vultures, giving us a chance to squash the Iron Throne's enemies once and for all."

"Lord Stark," Howland Reed spoke for the first time, almost making Davos jump in fright–He had forgotten the man was there. "Perhaps there can be a compromise. Lady Baratheon can continue holding the office of Mistress of Ships–allowing her to enjoy greater prestige and influence for longer, if only symbolically, while Sers Melcolm and Manderly lead the fleet under her authority with new positions."

"Even this would be a temporary measure." Lord Stark leaned forward. "What of a decade later? What if the royal fleet was required for a conflict at sea, and you, the Queen, have a newborn or are heavily pregnant? The royal fleet must be ready for war upon urgent notice at any time, and so should the Master of Ships. What if you are ambushed like the unfortunate Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden? Or even captured? Your royal husband would have to agree to any concessions no matter how humiliating–or abandon you altogether if the price was unbearable for the crown. I do not deny your prowess at sea, Lady Baratheon, but there are other, less risky ways to prove yourself. And there is hardly any need for further glory or merit for a queen–you have already proven yourself."

"Fine." Shireen's nose scrunched up adorably. "I already said I'll be Tommen's Queen, and my answer hasn't changed. But I want to know where the fleet will go–a good part of the ships there are sworn to my House, after all."

Stark rubbed his brow, looking tired. 

"That is definitely another problem to be rectified. The royal fleet has to be independent of other Houses and answer only to the crown," Stark said glumly. "Your father accomplished commendable work on that front before the Tyroshi torched most of the fleet, but now I have to start everything from nought. But most of that can wait until this blasted rain bloody stops.

"I can be of assistance," the future queen offered, her lips twitching. "My father did give me most of his plans and explained all the reforms in the fleet, after all. But the question remains–what happens with the fleet after the rain stops."

"Ser Jason Melcolm shall strike at Plankytown," Lord Stark clasped his hands. "Afterwards, the trade fleet that transported the Golden Company now lingering in the Sea of Dorne, too, and the Dornish shore has to be scoured clean to deny them mobility, resources, and the opportunity to ferry supplies via the waterways. If Doran Martell thinks he can use my dead sister's name for his schemes unpunished, he's gravely mistaken."

Davos winced. 

"Begging your pardon, lord regent," he began slowly, struggling to keep his voice composed under the highlord's harsh gaze. "But there's just traders and smallfolk in Plankytown and the other fishing villages. They haven't done anything wrong and aren't going to fight-"

"These smallfolk and traders and fishermen feed the Dornish army," the Northern Lord interrupted. "Their taxes, given in kind or coin, arm the Martell knights and men-at-arms and pay their wages. True, they might not care to support Aegon as Doran Martell would, but it doesn't change the facts. It certainly didn't stop the Dornish army and Rhaegar from looting and burning their way through the Riverlands nearly two decades prior. Such is the way of war, Ser Davos Seaworth. And now, they have raised the false banner and will pay the price."

After a brief silence, the Lord of Winterfell took a small gulp of ale, shook his head, and continued. 

"It speaks well of your character that you consider the well-being of your foe. But even Lady Shireen ought to know that there is a time and place for mercy." She stiffly nodded at Stark's words. "You are not the advisor of Doran Martell or a knight sworn to him, Ser. Your charge is Shireen Baratheon of Dragonstone."

They were promptly dismissed then. Shireen was quiet and contemplative while they headed for their headquarters, while Davos felt… drained. Gods, he hated war. How many had to die before this whole madness ended?

***

18th day of the 9th moon, 299 AC 

Nymeria Sand, Myr

The last moon felt as if it had passed in a dream. Distant, rushed, and distorted, as the fallen city of Myr was busy rebuilding. There wasn't much destruction in the city proper–aside from the broken curtain walls facing the Ashen Plains and the flood, but the matter of new governance, restructuring, and planning the future war seemed to take everyone's time and effort.

Being House Stark's hostage was… not what Nymeria expected. Aside from not letting her near any steel or poison, she couldn't complain. 

Like any self-respecting daughter of Oberyn Martell, Nymeria Sand held no particular favour or love for House Stark. The short affair with Benjen Stark was supposed to be a moment of quick fun, merely quickly scratching an itch with a man who had caught her fancy.

Yet it had been the most dangerous itch Nymeria had scratched to date, considering the current outcome. The Lyseni were very careful with their captives, extensively exploring each and every connection to ascertain their worth–whether as a prize to be auctioned or a hostage to be ransomed. She had been raised in Volantis and was no stranger to the slave trade, but it was an ugly thing to see men, women, and children being peddled like cattle; she had never expected to be on the receiving end with a mother from the Old Blood and a Prince of Dorne for a father. Yet fate had a taste for irony. 

Of course, a pregnant hostage was doubly a matter of importance, for that would be another child that could be ransomed, and the Lyseni were dying to know who to ransom it to. 

So, unsure of her fate–let alone that of her unborn child, Nymeria had reluctantly spoken the truth. And to her chagrin, the Lyseni had become far more terrified than anyone in Dorne could have possibly made them.

It took her some time, but the Sandsnake realised why-Benjen commanded ten thousand battle-hardened veterans at the Wall. This shouldn't have been such a big issue for the Lyseni because even the Essosi knew the Watch took no part, but the remainder of House Stark was no less impressive. The Young Wolf was said to be unstoppable on the battlefield, and Eddard Stark, the man whom everyone thought to be lost at sea, had not only survived a shipwreck but was thriving. Or, well, crushing the city of Myr, its armies and countless mercenaries with laughable ease despite being heavily outnumbered.

The admiral, Matteno Pandaerys, explained in great detail that the Lyseni knew of the comings and goings in the Ashen Plains because they had spies and were funding some of the rebels and the sellsword companies supporting them.

That was how she found herself gifted, like chattel, to the Lord of Winterfell, a royal regent and currently the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, despite not being in Westeros.

Even her presence was an afterthought, nothing more than the womb that had birthed Lord Stark's bastard nephew. All the Westerosi treated her with distrust and suspicion or outright avoided her, and Eddard Stark always seemed busy with something as a proper royal regent ought to be.

Unlike his younger brother, Eddard Stark was all ice, with his cold blade hewn from frost always within reach or that scale coat of armour out of Valyrian Steel. Nymeria had never heard of armour made of dragonsteel; such things were only supposed to belong to the more powerful Dragonlords of the Forty and were all lost to the Doom, according to her mother's family records. 

And with it, Stark looked every bit the sorcerer-lord that many whispers about his unnatural control over beasts made him out to be until one of the rare moments he had time to watch over Osric. Then, he seemed almost peaceful, like a quiet uncle. He was ridiculously good with newborns, too; his ability to effortlessly calm the usually fussy Osric still made her envious to this day. Only Ellaria was so good with newborns. Alas, her father's paramour was back in Dorne, doubtlessly having retreated to Hellholt to raise Nymeria's four half-sisters under the protection of their grandfather. 

Her stay in Myr was not as lavish as that in Lys, but Nymeria had been free to move across the city if under the vigilant gazes of two silent Stark guardsmen. They were there to prevent her from fleeing as much as for her protection.

As if she would run away, leaving her newborn son, who was far more defended than her, without a mother. The nursery was deep inside the manse Stark had taken for his temporary residence, under three different layers of defence that were only second to the way Tommen Baratheon was protected. 

In complete contrast to the distrust Nymeria received, half the Stark household seemed to dote on Osric, along with that enormous grey beast who always seemed to hover over the babe. At first, it made the blood in her veins freeze, but her concerns slowly dwindled as Osric never came to harm. And her son only giggled and seemed to revel at the direwolf's presence. 

Winter, they called him, a suitable name for something the size of a warhorse and so dangerous. Nymeria was not deceived by his lazy posture or fluffy fur that made him look like an overgrown dog as he curled on a rug by the corner, for she had overheard plenty of tales about the direwolf's savagery during battle, including tearing armoured warriors apart with ease, killing charging warhorses, or eating newly hatched dragons in one bite. 

'As though it were so easy and common to hatch dragons.'

What scared her the most was the intelligence in those yellowish eyes, as if the direwolf was studying her. Judging her.

"Are you expecting an attack, Nymeria Sand?" Stark was hovering at the door of the nursery, gazing at her son's chubby hands that happily tugged on the direwolf's grey fur as Osric giggled happily. Nymeria castigated herself–she had not heard him coming at all. As usual, he was dressed in fine silk and leather, and the queer crystalline sword never left his hip. "You are always tense."

"So would you be, were you surrounded and held hostage by your enemies," she bit out.

The Lord of Winterfell frowned at her, and for a moment, Nymeria felt as though someone had dunked her in a pool of cold water, and she couldn't help but take a step back.

To this day, she was not sure how to speak to the man. He exuded an odd blend of melancholy and harshness–though neither seemed to be aimed at her. The adamant refusal to become the new king of Myr had been all the more a surprise; Nymeria had never seen a man look so unwilling at the mere idea of becoming a monarch.

To Stark's chagrin, the refusal seemed to elevate him further in the eyes of the former slaves. And now, the new Myrish council had unanimously agreed to swear fealty to House Stark. Of course, there were many arguments because they had yet to decide anything else–quarrels even if the gesture would be symbolic. The extent of the obligations involved was the main point of discourse, but the former slaves led by Royce knew they couldn't truly hold the city on their own against other Free Cities, pirates, and Dothraki and needed a powerful backer.

And they were dead set on the idea that House Stark was the best backer. Even Ser Robar Royce, the main leader of the revolt that had prevented the slaves from being utterly crushed within a moon and actively participated in every step of the post-war discussions, wasn't treated with such blind veneration. Whether because he was merely a second son or too young, Nymeria did not know. But while the Royce knight was eager and a dangerous warrior, he still felt a bit lacking in experience and dealing with anything not warfare-related. 

Eddard Stark certainly had the indomitable presence of someone who had emerged victorious from many battles and a dangerous highlord who ran the largest kingdom in Westeros.

"A hostage? You are free to leave," he noted dryly. "But my nephew stays."

"I will not be forced to part with my firstborn like Ashara Dayne was-" 

"Is that what they say of me in Dorne? That I'm a callous, cruel man who tears children off their mothers' teats?" Eddard Stark looked more amused than disappointed, and a rush of anger swirled in Nymeria's belly.

"While my uncle and father never spoke of it, everyone from the Red Mountains to the Broken Arm knows of the tale of the plucked Flower of Starfall. The most beautiful maiden in Dorne, despoiled by a wolf, chose to take her life after a slain brother and a stolen child, by her former lover, no less."

It probably wasn't a good idea to throw it in the face of the man in question, but her patience had grown thin. 

"I have neither slain a Dayne nor ever lain with one," Stark chuckled. "My brother certainly tried to arrange the latter during the unfortunate Tourney of Harrenhal, but when I proved reluctant, he had no qualms on bedding a Dornish beauty of Ashara's calibre."

Nymeria was aghast.

"But–that's not how the story goes!"

Worse, she had seen plenty of braggarts and liars, and the Lord of Winterfell was neither. He spoke little, but when he did, it was direct.

"Hearsay is hardly a reliable source of knowledge." Eddard Stark shook his head, but she could swear there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I found Lady Ashara as pretty as anyone not blind, and I did propose to wed her, but only out of a foolish desire to cover that my brother heartlessly dishonoured her. Gods, I was greener than summer grass back then! And the Sword of the Morning didn't fall by my hand either, but I never told that story, and everyone assumed otherwise. I'm more surprised you don't know that Ashara Dayne had a stillborn girl."

"The Daynes turned reclusive after the Rebellion, and the lord refused to speak of his dead siblings," she shrugged uneasily. Why was Lord Stark so imposing one moment and feeling utterly harmless in the next? Gods, she was confused. "But why would you raise your bastard along with your trueborn children if he didn't have two highborn parents? 

When Stark's face darkened, Nymeria hastily bowed her head. "My apologies; that was presumptuous of me."

"No insult was received," he waved dismissively. "I was just surprised–you're the first to ask why. Even my wife never found the courage to do so. But why would you think Jon's mother was a baseborn woman? Or that I didn't love her dearly?"

The answer only made Nymeria feel more foolish–it was a taboo, an insult even, to be nosy about the affairs of lords, let alone powerful highlords. 

"I… why are you so kind to me?"

He raised his eyebrow.

"Besides being my nephew's mother? Benjen might not be able to raise his son, but I am in a position to do so in his stead. But while an uncle can somewhat play the role of a father, I am no substitute for a mother. It's a tragic plight for a child to grow without both parents, and it would be easier if you were in his life."

Something ugly reared in Nymeria's heart, and she felt conflicted. Stark was painfully honest and forthcoming in the most disarming way. Gods, she wanted to hate him but could not bring herself to it. Her gaze fell to Osric rolling down on the lion pelt, from one paw of Winter to the other; the direwolf's tail wagged happily as if it was a small pup rather than a shaggy giant of fur and fangs.

"Our Houses are at war," she thinly reminded. "You plan to have Plankytown sacked and kill many of my friends or possibly even kin. Are you not afraid I will reveal your plan to my uncle if you let me leave now?"

She hated this, the war, the terrible dilemma her child was putting her through. She loved Osric fiercely, as fiercely as a mother can love a firstborn, but that did not make the blood in her veins any less Dornish. 

"You can leave now, but no ship in the harbour shall sail to Sunspear before I give my permission," Stark's face turned frosty. "After the deed is done, your transport and safety back home will be guaranteed. But these are just personal matters. Your Uncle has levied a personal insult to me and mine and raises the banner of a mummer attempting to borrow House Stark's name, and I mean to teach him the price of ambition and war, something he seems to have forgotten."

Nymeria deflated. She knew of her uncle's grand designs. Not in any significant details, of course, but the fact that they existed. Why would a bastard like her be trusted by the tight-lipped Doran Martell when he kept his own daughter in the dark? While Nymeria never cared, her father had slipped a few vague hints of her uncle's ambitious plans–and they weren't small. Aiming for the crown made all too much sense. 

But Stark was right–there was hardly a greater tragedy for a child to be raised an orphan. She had seen many Dornish bastards treated well but kept distant by their parents, a curiosity, an annoying obligation that they only upheld because of their public image, or worse, a tool. Dorne didn't consider bastards taboo or sinful, but that didn't mean they were treated the same as trueborn. She had seen many natural-born scions striving to achieve excellence or recognition that would never arrive just because they were born on the wrong side of the blankets. 

"I'm not leaving my son!" She declared, and Stark's face softened, if ever so slightly. "But for how long will House Stark's generosity last? You surely won't keep a useless hostage like me around until I die out of the goodness of your heart."

"House Stark isn't so poor as to not be able to afford to feed or house two more mouths," Stark clicked his tongue. "You can find ways to make yourself useful in Winterfell in the future if you truly desire to do so; the North doesn't lack for work. You did manage to learn of my plans to attack Planky Town, though I could have sworn I only spoke to my commanders about it."

"Many tongues wag, and it's normal for nobles to see the servants the same way as furniture." Nymeria shrugged, "Befriending them is always beneficial, even if they do not realise their gossip could be deadly. Knowing this, you are willing to trust me, a daughter of the infamous Red Viper, in your household?"

She almost felt flattered if it didn't make the otherwise dangerous man beside her seem foolish. A part of her would be suspicious Eddard Stark was looking for a paramour, but his gaze was clear and bereft of lust.

The straightforward reply surprised her.

"Oberyn Martell is well-regarded in the North. A heroic death against the Others has won him more respect in a single day than any deeds done in the South ever could. In Winterfell, Osric can enjoy the same tutoring on martial and scholarly pursuits any Stark of Winterfell has been afforded–something your son would never enjoy in Dorne or anywhere else in the world. What will House Martell be willing to provide for you and your son that you won't have in Winterfell?"

Nymeria closed her mouth–she knew that her uncle Doran didn't truly care about her. Arianne… the Sand Snake wanted to claim that her cousin would miss her. And she probably would, but with a crown atop her head, Arianne's fate was in question. While Nymeria loved her sisters, they were all on their own now and safely back in Dorne, unlike her. Worse, their father's demise felt as though someone had torn a silken veil that had shrouded the harshness of the world from them. 

The other Sand Snakes could hardly aid her in mustering a dowry to find a proper husband when they had just enough to enjoy a life of luxury. Her Princely Uncle would not spare a single coin if it didn't benefit his plans–which probably met some political arrangement that she would loathe.

Even if Nymeria wanted to go the way of marriage–something that she wasn't even sure of–finding such a man would be hard, considering Osric's existence. Most men were creatures of fierce jealousy and loathed to share affection. With her maidenhead long gone and a bastard to her name, Nymeria's prospects as a wife had dropped sharply, doubly more so now that she had turned twenty-five three moons earlier, old enough to be considered well past the prime marriage age. A few more years, and she would be considered a spinster.

All those woes aside, Dorne wouldn't be very safe soon. 

Without the favour and support of a Prince of Dorne, things had started to change for them in Sunspear, and the Sand Snakes had been forced to think of their future. 

Gods, she hated the war. She hated House Lannister–and a small part, deep inside her, detested her Uncle for his ambition. None of it would have happened if he had done what House Martell had done best–stay out of the wars of the other kingdoms. And here he was at it again, staking House Martell's fate on a pretender, of all things.

But she loved her son. Osric was just a bundle of joy, crying and laughing, but she loved him more than anything else. 

And perhaps Nymeria could visit Benjen again, even if he was Lord Commander now. Perhaps slap him for all the trouble he had put her through. Or kiss him. Or both.

Gods, she had sworn never to touch a man again during the birthing bed; just the memory of the agonising ordeal made her shiver. 

A booming cough behind had Nymeria leap in fright and reach for the dagger to her hip that hadn't been there for what felt like an eternity. It was the giant of Winterfell, Walder, who loomed nearly two heads above her.

"Lord Stark, we found an oddity," he said. "An odd, scrawny man swimming out of the flooded sewer with four pet turtles, swearing he has important matters to discuss with you in exchange for a pardon. Something about Pentoshi cheesemongers and sordid plots."

"Scrub him clean and bring him to my meeting chambers," Stark ordered. "And you, Nymeria of Volantis. I have yet to hear your decision."

"I already said I'm staying with my son," Nymeria drawled. "I go where he goes."

"Very well," he allowed, eyes softening like an autumn fog. "I shall trust you as a part of my household for now. A retainer, if you will, with all the obligations that it entails. Your full loyalty should be to your son now–to House Stark. You can continue to keep your ears peeled for gossip or information that you believe would be beneficial to your son and, by extension, myself and my House. Of course, I shall not request you to betray your kin's confidence, but expect no mercy if you betray me or mine."

Nymeria Sand swallowed heavily as Stark left the nursery after a polite nod. While short, his words were brutally direct and honest, and deep down, she knew it was not an empty threat. Osric started crying, and the direwolf pushed him with his nose towards her. She bared her chest to feed him, for he was as fond of her teats as his father was, if not even more. 

Her mind, however, was drifting. Stark's suggestion was such–not an order, not a demand, but merely… a test. A test to see if he could trust her. He had already proven his word, and now, he placed her in a position where her mettle and character were tested.

It wasn't until later during the dinner that she saw the Lord of Winterfell sit beside a scrawny man with a ratty face named Sply N'tar, who was supposed to be one of the lesser magisters of Myr, but directly working under the now defunct Conclave.

While not amongst the richest, the man peddled curiosities and secrets instead of gold and flesh and was one of the most well-connected of Myr's magisters, with informants in all the Free Cities and even as far as Qarth. He had an odd obsession with Rhoynish giant turtles, and if the gossiping hens around her were to be believed, the four he risked his life and all his wealth to save were the descendants of the Old Man of the River itself!

She did not truly believe that, of course, but she could not help but feel a certain kinship with the whole matter. 

Nymeria was seated on the table beside the head one amidst a vast array of blonde and silver-haired women with clearly noble upbringings and the poorly disguised pride that went with it–the wives the Northmen had taken from the city. Nymeria stood out as a sore thumb with her sun-kissed skin, but only the petite Maela, the Red Wake's wife, was willing to speak to her. For now. The more she sat amongst them, the more the others seemed to warm up to her and accept her presence there. She was still a bastard, while they were all nobility and clung to their pride and arrogance despite having fallen into the hands of the victors. 

It would take time, but she would turn the caution and distance into trust, or at least acceptance. 

But Nymeria was not in the mood for gossip, and she tried to ignore the chatter flowing around her and focus on Lord Stark's guest. Never had she seen Stark so focused, and her curiosity was stoked. It was hard to hear anything from the commotion, so she excused herself and headed for the back door–which conveniently was just by the high table and allowed her to overhear just a little.

"Pentos… Magister Mopatis… funding… assassination… dug further… connections with the Golden Company…"

Well… that certainly didn't bode well, considering Eddard Stark's stormy face. He had noticed her pretty quickly, judging by the raised eyebrow thrown her way.

Was Pentos involved in the bloody war now?