Epilogue-The Game Continues

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.

***

'Year 301 After Aegon's Conquest saw Aegon Blackfyre venture east with ships and basic crews begrudgingly granted to him by Shireen Baratheon. His passage through Lys was met with cold indifference; his presence in Volantis only received hostility from the populace, who blamed him for the city's misfortune and the ruling Archon, who was afraid of being usurped.

Many of the Essosi seem to have taken his abandonment of claims upon the Iron Throne as a sign of weakness. Yet time soon showed it was anything but.

Aegon Blackfyre landed on the coast of Slaver's Bay with eight thousand veterans at his back with one thought and one thought only–Conquest. Half were the former Tiger Cloaks of Volantis led by Maelor Maegyr and the last of the Golden Company's remnants commanded by Black Balaq, while the other four thousand were Westerosi Veterans–mainly Dornishmen, Stormlanders, and some Rivermen and Northmen, who were reluctant to lay down their arms and were impressed enough by Blackfyre's resolve to follow him overseas with the blessing of the Iron Throne.

Wasting no time with negotiations, he began to pillage the slaver manses along the Astapor heartlands and take control of smaller towns and settlements. At first, the Good Masters of Astapor tried paying the would-be conqueror off, only to be refused. Aegon sent them one chance to surrender, offering them to gather what valuables they owned with their hands and flee. None of the Masters took him seriously and sent seven thousand of their latest crop of half-trained Unsullied to face him, but they were crushed in the Battle of the Worm. Within a moon, Aegon conquered the city, executing all who refused his mercy and declared himself King of Astapor.

He spent a year rooting out all Ghiscari nobility that resisted and consolidating his rule with the rest. Within five years, he defeated the Iron Legions of New Ghis twice, conquered Yunkai and Mereen, who were already hard-pressed by Dothraki incursions and began to phase out the trade of flesh. Any mercy Aegon might have had died with Ser Barristan Selmy, who perished protecting the Blackfyre King from catspaws during a parley. That saw the end of Aegon's willingness to negotiate with slavers. Regardless, he was already ascendant in the region, and none could halt his rise. With a steady yet slow trickle of reinforcements from Westeros, where winter ravaged the land, numerous second and third sons, cousins, uncles, and ambitious, blood-thirsty knights under his beck and call, Aegon founded his kingdom around the newly-renamed Tiger's Bay.

From 305 AC to 315 AC, support from Westeros was halted due to the Braavosi Crisis, and Aegon was now on his own as he strengthened the grip on his newly-forged realm and saw five more children after his daughter, Laena. His goodbrother Maelor was rewarded with Mereen's lordship for his loyal service, becoming the second most powerful man in the kingdom.

He repelled many Dothraki Khals eager to extract tribute from the new 'Andal'. But the horselords only found steel and blood, especially after Khal Maro's coalition of thirty thousand screamers was ambushed while crossing the Khyzai Pass. The next Khals, eager to prove their mettle, were met with a similar fate while Aegon fortified the Ghiscari mountains and strengthened his kingdom.

Such a blatant expansion was only possible with Tiger's Bay and its neighbours greatly weakened by the Bloody Fall. Even the threat of the Dothraki had been lessened when tens of thousands of screamers died between the Norvos-Qohor war and the failed conquest of Saath that saw Garlan the Grim break one Khalasar after another. 

The fallen Tyrell knight's growing deeds and name attracted numerous knights, sellswords, and warriors who were unhappy with House Baratheon and how the War of the Five Kings ended…

Excerpt of 'Crouching Tiger Rising Dragon of the East' by Maester Artos

***

304 AC, Spring

The Bastard Regent, King's Landing

The crowd in Sowbelly Row was watching on eagerly. Peace and time had seen men return to the city, and many of the soldiers and men-at-arms had settled inside King's Landing instead of returning home after the so-called Sixth Blackfyre Rebellion. It was to the point where a third of the city's populace were former soldiers.

The young King and Queen were here with their courtiers on the wooden platform, observing with unreadable faces. Then there was Ser Ilyn Payne, the man who had executed his father in another life, who glared at Jon. Only Chief Justiciar Cregan Karstark was visibly happy at this whole affair, and seeing that particular man be all smiles and jubilation in his presence would forever be unnerving. 

"Ser Amos Follard, the Crown has found you guilty of rape, murder, and banditry. Any last words?"

A part of Jon wondered if his father had made a mistake with the reforms. The balance of power in the Seven Kingdoms had significantly shifted, but the main motive behind it was ultimately gaining a measure of sovereignty and peace for the North. That, and strengthening the Iron Throne enough so that Winterfell would not be called upon for distant wars that the crown couldn't fight alone thrice per generation.

In hindsight, the Iron Throne was anything but strong despite all the territory and direct vassals it had gained. 

Of course, the creation of the Greater Crownlands was fraught with woe and struggle. The crown never looked weaker, but Jon suspected if the young king eventually managed to quell all the unrest and consolidate the gains secured by Eddard Stark, things might make a drastic reversal. The future was more uncertain than ever, but Jon was content with it. 

The unkempt knight spat on the ground, bringing him back to the present. Jon suspected he would have aimed at him if his head was not pressed down on a bloodied oaken stump. Perhaps he would have demanded to take the Black or a trial by combat if he could speak, but his knees and jaw were shattered. Honourable men were easy to send to the Watch, but Jon had no desire to send droves of grudge-bearing fools to make life harder for his uncle.

Dark Sister's blade rose towards the sky, and the black, smoky ripples looked like hungry ink stains under the sunlight.

"Then, in the name of Tommen Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, I, Jon Steelsong, Lord of Snowhelm, Regent of the Crown, and Lord Protector of the Realm, do sentence you to die."

The sword descended, blood splattered on the cobblestones as the head rolled off and the crowd's erupting cheer threatened to swallow the square. The gold cloaks hurriedly carted off the body while their Commander, Ser Lancel Lannister, had the head carried off to be put on a spike over the King's Gate as a warning to all traitors and brigands.

While there was rarely any trouble in the city, the vast territory of the new Crownlands that rivalled the North in size was another matter entirely. And unlike the North, the Iron Throne lacked millennia to establish prestige and authority in every corner.

A tenfold increase in territory and the sprawling changes in the status quo his father had implemented gave rise to some disgruntlement and double the confusion. The aftermath of war was always fertile ground for brigands and outlaws, doubly more so one as bloody as Renly's Rebellion. The Maesters estimated that over twelve million souls perished in Westeros in the war and the following winter–even if the lion's share of the death was due to plague, famine, and the fierce winter cold–and Lord Beron Dustin's thorough scouring of the Honeywine. The Black Death had gutted much of the former Stormlands and the original Crownlands, and it would take decades to see the lands restored.

Naturally, such death and devastation gave rise to desperation and lawlessness. The cold and Eddard Stark's black fame had stayed many while he sat regent, but as soon as he left, it all erupted at once to the point where even Ser Kevan Lannister, the King's Hand, was captured by the Tumbleton Brotherhood. It was these troubles that forced Jon back to the South to take a mantle he never thought he would wear.

To Jon's chagrin, many called him the second coming of Bloodraven or the White Sorcerer of the North. A part of him was tempted to ignore the happenstance south of the Neck, but his own keep would take years more to be constructed, and he loathed every second of his stay in the dark and gloomy Dreadfort, doubly more so when he found the flaying chambers hidden underneath. The very foundation, down to the bedrock, stank of death, blood, and despair even after all those years.

Alas, his time in the South was incredibly busy, and Jon headed back to the daily Small Council meeting.

The council chambers were already full when he arrived–Tommen sat at the head of the table, Ser Kevan Lannister to his left, and an empty chair for Jon to his right. Lord Jason Melcolm of Griffin's Roost, the master of ships, faced Cregan Karstark, the master of laws. Last were Lord Commander Ser Godry Farring, spymaster Ser Gerald Gower, and Lord Daven Lannister of Goldengrove, the master of coin.

It was a group of warriors, all marked by war and bloodshed, even Tommen. At four and ten, his green eyes were like two cold emeralds. While the young king was half a head shorter than Jon, his golden doublet failed to hide his broad shoulders and sturdy body, betraying the countless hours of training he had spent in the yard. Yet he did not let martial pursuits distract him from the matters of the realm–every day, Tommen listened and watched Jon hold court and take petitions; he attended each small council patiently, learning and giving input where it was due.

And last but not least was Lan, the white lion of the Dothraki Sea the size of a direwolf, lazily napping in a silken cot in the corner. His coat was not only pristine but as smooth as silk, a testament to the care Tommen afforded to his companion. Or, if the rumours held any truth, it was Shireen who spoiled the murderous cat.

Thankfully, the beast had yet to maim anyone, if it was perhaps due to Tommen's strict training or the fact that Lan behaved much like a dog–or a direwolf, to be precise, after being reared by Winter. 

"Another brotherhood of bandits has emerged near the Honeywine in the Uplands," the Hand began gruffly, tugging on his greying beard still streaked with gold as he always did when worried.

"It's the third this moon," there was a hint of wariness in Tommen's voice. "And just after the peasant revolt in Fawnton."

"You have raised taxation too much, Ser Kevan," Jon pointed out.

"Is it my fault that the overproud lords can't tell the difference between taxation and theft?" Kevan Lannister's face reddened with anger. "With the Principalities now paying a token yearly tribute a mere fraction of what it once was and the tariffs and customs from cities greatly reduced after the Black Plague, the crown's ability to gather wealth has been greatly reduced. Even the Torrentine and Greenblood Dominions are set not to pay any taxes for the next decade to avoid sparking old tensions in Dorne. The Iron Throne must recover from the war as swiftly as possible!"

"Do we? The Iron Throne's debts have all been repaid or forgiven, and the treasury is full after the plunder from the war."

"But a full treasury grows empty without the incomes to match the expenditures," Ser Daven said tiredly. It was not a particularly new point of contention, but it was one of the matters that had no correct resolution. 

"Aye, but squeezing the smallfolk and the lords after they've been exhausted by war, plague, and winter is what led us to our current predicament," Jon said wryly. 

"The repair of the walls, the digging of a moat, the rebuilding of the city's drainage and harbour do not come cheap," the Hand said, face turning stony.

"Aye, the stench is finally gone, and I would loathe to smell it again," Karstark agreed firmly. "A clean city is a healthy city–another outbreak of the Black Plague or another disease would be ruinous."

"Quite. But it's hardly the only project that requires royal gold. The construction of the new Citadel of King's Landing is also an expensive endeavour that we cannot delay further. And the rebuilding and refitting of the royal fleet is a constant drain on the coffers. Tyrosh and Myr now enjoy the protection of the Iron Throne but none of the duties, with the former belonging to Lady Shireen and the latter under Winterfell's protection. Your Grace, if your betrothed lets us tap into the taxation of Tyrosh-"

"I can hardly try and rob my wife-to-be of the fruits of her rightful conquest." Tommen glared at Kevan Lannister, who had the decency to blush.

"Ser Kevan." The master of ships leaned forward. "You might have forgotten that Lady Shireen is the royal fleet's biggest patron."

Ser Godry Farring grunted an agreement–those two were the future Queen's men through and through, just like Ser Richard Horpe, the white cloak guarding the council chambers outside. For all of Shireen Baratheon's famous disdain of the court and tittering noblewomen, her influence spread far and wide, and Jon knew she had managed to take back the control of the royal fleet, win the loyalty of the captains and promote her men to replace any that resisted. Eddard Stark had not only let it happen but subtly encouraged it, knowing what he did, and this was the result. Jon thought it was a good thing, for Stannis' daughter was the dutiful sort, if as stiff as her father and unashamedly smitten with Tommen.

"And the richest woman in the Seven Kingdoms and Essos," Lord Daven Lannister pointed out. "Speaking of riches, perhaps we can enlist the aid of the royal uncle. Tyrion Lannister has his way with coin, and is said to nearly rival his father in wealth already. How many wives does the Golden Imp have now?"

"Uncle married Alaena of the Summer Isles as his fourth at the beginning of the year," Tommen said with a chuckle. 

"It's no laughing matter, Your Grace," Kevan Lannister protested. "Such practises that undermine the already shaky power of the Faith only get tongues wagging and incur the displeasure of the High Septon."

"Let the tongues wag, for the royal uncle married under the auspices of Goddess Ynanna." Cregan Karstark smiled, his scarred mouth full of teeth. "The High Septon serves at the King's pleasure and has no say in the matters in Essos. Didn't Tyrion Lannister gift him a new grand sept made of black marble and silver in Tyrosh?"

"Let us return to the matter at hand," Jon raised his voice to halt yet another brewing argument. "We should ease the yearly tithes until summer, at least."

"And by how much?" Kevan Lannister asked darkly. "I see you give no numbers yet again. Such ideas are easy to speak and hard to implement, Lord Jon. The crown needs every ounce of gold and silver it can get–if we grow lax, we'll repeat the mistakes of Robert Baratheon, who was up the neck in debt. Worse, Lys has almost complete control of the Stepstones now, and they strangle trade flowing into the Narrow Sea with back-breaking tolls, which means less gold for the Iron Throne."

"We can deliberate on that matter later," he conceded. "Lord Daven, matters of gold are in your purview. I trust you will present a new plan within the moon?"

"It will be done, Lord Regent."

"What of the brigands making trouble near the Uplands?" Tommen asked, his green eyes roaming over the map on the table, settling on the former Hightower lands. "It's over a thousand miles from here."

"Aye, too far away from me to ride out and deal with the matter in person." Jon rubbed his chin. "I will ink down a letter to Lord Tarly and Manderly–the two of them are nearby and will deal with such nuisance quickly."

House Manderly had finally recovered their former seat of Dunstonburry, and Wendel Manderly was now its lord, with his brother ruling over White Harbour. 

Ser Gower, the spymaster, was the next to speak, "Ser Vardis Egen writes from the Eyrie that the mountain clansmen have begun to raid the lowlands aggressively."

"Perhaps it's time to send Lord Robert Arryn back home to deal with these matters?" Ser Kevan proposed. 

"He's still a boy of barely twelve with no appointed heirs," Jon pointed out. "Hardly an age to lead a punitive expedition against the wildlings hiding in the Mountains of the Moon. Should anything go awry, we might see the Vale of Arryn descend into another bloody squabble for the seat of Arryn."

"Then his regent ought to deal with it," was the harsh response. "If Eddard Stark would not fulfil his duties as his nephew's regent, he shouldn't have taken the post."

Success attracted envy, and House Stark was now at the receiving end of it. Jon was used to the disdain, harshness, or quiet dislike, but seeing his father being disrespected so openly grated on him.

"If the Arryn bannermen cannot defend their own lands, perhaps they ought to be replaced with someone who can," Jon hissed out. "Your Grace, with your permission, the crown shall allow them to muster a force–no larger than a thousand swords per Lord and deal with the matter at hand. Preferably, they must be led by a man loyal to the crown."

Openly calling the banners without their liege's permission or a due cause would raise many hackles as the memory of the war and the struggle for the Arryn regency was still fresh in many minds.

"Permission granted." Tommen nodded after a moment of contemplation. "I will have Ser Jonnel Serret and Ser Gendry lead them."

The former was a white cloak, and the latter was the most renowned bastard of Robert Baratheon if unacknowledged. It was an open secret, but the young king considered Ser Gendry to be his close and loyal half-brother.

"Merchants venturing into Dorne through the Boneway and the Sea of Dorne complain about corsairs and raiders," Ser Gerald Gower continued. 

"And of course, Lord Yronwood says he's doing everything in his power to deal with the matter, yet nothing changes," the Hand groused, tiredly rubbing his brow. "If the Martells were the biggest snakes in Dorne, Yronwood and Wyl were a close second."

"There are some problems in the Pendric Hills in the west, a rumour of some evil witch and dark sorcery-"

"An outbreak of the Black Death around the Shields-"

"A dispute turned bloody over Chequy Water and grazing rights-"

"Lord Fossoway of Cider Hall has yet to return from a hunt over the Cockleswhent for over two moons, and his wife requests royal assistance-"

"The mason's guild is demanding more coin-"

"Bracken and Blackwood are up to their usual petty trouble again, tying up Prince Tully in the Riverlands—"

"Mounted raiders attacked the builders of the Vypren bridge across the Green Fork-"

"Doubtlessly the doing of Frey–"

"None of our business, I say–let Prince Tully deal with it. Bigger problems to the east-" 

"Braavos won the war against Ibben and has been slow to disperse their war fleet, pikemen, and crossbowmen, and the Pentoshi magisters are concerned-"

"Norvos and Qohor finally agreed to a peace, redrawing their borders over the Darkwash and Dagger Lake-"

"Volantis is on fire again–and at this point, there's little left of the splendour and power the First Daughter of Valyria boasted-"

"Ser Damon Dustin has fought off another Khalasar in the Ashen Plains-"

From small matters to big woes, they all piled upon the Iron Throne, each demanding his attention. Each royal councillor, aside from Cregan Karstark and Ser Kevan Lannister, were lords in their own right, their attention and loyalties divided. While Jon wanted to help, he was merely one man and could hardly be everywhere at once–riding out too far would only see other matters erupt. Even his wolves were mostly spread out in the Kingswood–he had spent the first five moons of his regency after saving Ser Kevan Lannister, cleansing the vast woodland of all robber knights, brigands, and outlaws.

And while the royal councillors were eager to deal with all matters, the Crownlands were vast, and the woes sprouted faster than they could be resolved. Of course, all of that had to be dealt with one by one and with careful consideration of the future. 

The meeting continued for hours until their minds turned sore, and their throats were raw from speaking and arguing. Even the young king's eagerness dwindled, replaced by a frown–the tedium of rulership was a hard dish to swallow for someone young and hot-blooded, but Tommen was making a heroic effort at it.

Just as the royal councillors dispersed, Tommen requested him for a private meeting, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Only Ser Godry Farring in his lobstered plate of silver and white remained, glaring at Jon with distrust. A part of it was because of the unwashable stain of bastardry, some rumours of sorcery and black magic, but most of the animosity of it was losing badly to Jon in a spar after boasting loudly. For all his small-mindedness, the Farring knight was a skilled warrior of renown and a better Lord Commander than many.

Jon, of course, ignored the petty man. "How can I help you, Your Grace?"

"As you know, Shireen has turned six and ten, and we will wed on the seventh day of the third moon–the day of the Mother," he began, his voice subdued.

"An auspicious occasion to show the wounds of the war are mending," Jon agreed with a slight smile. "Even if the Lord Hard plans on a grand wedding and a tourney despite his worries over the crown's coffers. For all of his desire to squeeze the realm for more gold, he's not shy at throwing it at every matter, big or small."

"Shireen is of a similar mind to yours, but if our wedding is not well-celebrated, what will it be?" Tommen retorted. "I suppose the feast and the tourney do not need to be overly generous. But I wanted to ask you for something else." His face grew pensive, and there was a distant look of longing in his eyes. "Will Prince Stark attend?"

Hearing the title of Prince attached to his father–or Edmure Tully, for that matter–still felt odd to his ears. But it didn't change the fact that in his pain and regret, the knowledge of Cersei's infidelity gnawed at Eddard Stark's mind, forcing him back home, swearing never to step foot South of the Neck no matter what.

"I'm afraid not." Jon patted Tommen's shoulder, and the young king wilted. "Your sister, Myrcella, and Robb, and your two nephews will definitely attend, of course."

"I just hoped… he would no longer be angry at me."

"It's not that he finds fault with you." Only with your father and bastardry. "It's just that King's Landing and the South hold many, many woeful memories for Eddard Stark. The war took a toll on many, and my father had to see many deeds that stretched the limit of his patience, honour, and abilities. Many lesser men would have broken where he stood firm."

"I know, I was there for most of it," Tommen muttered, his eyes downcast. "But to me, it seemed peace suited him worse than the war did. I know that he loathed the whispers behind his back of dark magic and ambition or the silent accusations of cruelty that many never dared to voice in his presence, but I hoped…"

"He has devoted his mind and heart to the matters Beyond the Wall," Jon said. "If it were a tad more serious, I would have even called it an obsession. But I have seen them, I have struggled and fought against the Cold Shadows lurking in the night. Venturing into the Heart of Winter and ending the Others for good is a goal too sweet and tempting to pass up on. If it takes a decade or two of planning and preparation, the cost would be meagre. But if you order him to come, he will–"

"No." His shoulders straightened up, and the steel returned to the young king's voice. "I have my pride, too–if the man who raised me with more love and care than my parents does not want to see me again, I won't force him to out of some nostalgic whim, doubly more so if he does it for duty. Lord Stark has his own duties, and I can shoulder mine own." 

A part of Jon was glad they had chosen as they did. While young, Tommen had the makings of a great king, deception be damned. "If there is nothing else, Your Grace–"

"One more thing, Lord Jon." Tommen coughed, looking somewhat abashed. "This is a far more delicate and personal matter. I heard my young bastard sister isn't holding out too well in White Harbour because of the gag order that Lord Tywin had negotiated with the previous Merman Lord. Even to the point where she doesn't know who her own mother is to keep the ruse. I want to bring Elayne to court, but her presence here under my protection will only inflame rumours of my mother's infidelity–doubly more so with her black hair and blue eyes."

The final fruit of Cersei Lannister's dalliances had long escaped Jon's mind; to this day, nobody knew who the father was. Very few knew of Elayne's existence, which was a deliberate move by Lord Tywin Lannister, and Eddard Stark had also chosen to keep the matter under wraps. Whoever had sired Elayne Waters had definitely been from the line of Baratheon, judging by the girl's colouring. It was a pity that Cersei Lannister had not done her wifely duties properly or sought out a new husband, which would have seen the little girl a Princess or Lady of the Realm instead of an unwanted bastard whose very existence was too shameful and damning to mention.

"The world is always harsh on bastards, regardless of their parentage." Jon shook his head ruefully. "Perhaps even because of it. I know better than most."

"That might be true, but Elayne never had a choice in being born," the king continued stubbornly. "I would request a favour of you, my lord."

"It depends on the favour, Your Grace. While I sympathise with the young girl's plight, my hands are full with my duties as a regent."

Tommen Baratheon, however, was undaunted.

"Nothing too cumbersome. I want you to take her as your ward to foster and raise. She's of a similar age to your daughter and can serve as her bedmaid and companion. I know Elayne would be treated well in your household. Your Lady Wife has no qualms in keeping the shunned Elinor Tyrell as her handmaid and cares even less about titles and bastardry." 

Truth be told, Jon almost regretted bringing his wife and children here. If only Val didn't glare daggers at the queen-to-be…

"One more child… it wouldn't be too much of a burden. I suppose I shall take her." Jon decided. "The coming rumours would certainly be interesting–but if I take Elayne to be raised with me, I will bring her back North eventually." 

"I already expected that," Tommen said. "I just want her to be raised well. Even after everything my mother did… Elayne is still my sister. Even if it would not be suitable for us to meet as the court scrutinises my every deed, I want her to live well."

***

A moon later, Elayne Waters arrived at King's Landing in the dark of the night. She was a small thing, a slip of a girl, but with a doll-like face and a shock of black hair and wide-blue eyes. She definitely inherited her mother's beauty, which would doubtlessly attract much envy and lust, especially without parents and titles to shield her from the scorn bastards received. 

"She looks like the stony-faced queen," Calla observed, tugging on her silver-gold hair as she stared at the uneasy girl brought forth by the Manderly knight. "But without the stony scales and the glare."

Aemon, the same colouring as his elder sister and Jeor, his twin, who had taken after Jon, were shyly hiding behind their mother's legs. 

Even the newborn Duncan had quieted in Val's bosom, looking uneasily at the new arrival. Elayne Waters looked so skittish, as if she was about to dash, though that could be Ghost and Shadow's lazy forms that were significantly taller than her despite being sprawled lazily on the floor.

"Are you my father?" Elayne asked fearfully.

Val snickered while Jon groaned inwardly.

"No child." He kneeled to look at her face-to-face. "But I owe a favour to your closest of kin, and he asked me to take you in."

"Err… am I a witch too?"

"My father's no witch," Calla protested angrily. "Take that back!"

"Ah, my apologies," Elayne mumbled, looking ready to cry.

"Now, now, don't get angry with our newest addition to the household," Jon placated his daughter. "She'll sleep in the room next to yours. Why don't you show her around the tower?"

"Ugh, the tower is boring; I'll show her the godswood instead with Shadow-"

And just like that, the two girls were fast friends. Calla was as wilful as her mother, distrustful of outsiders, but the moment she took a liking to someone, she trusted them blindly. His twin sons were led away by Elinor Tyrell, who oft served as their minder. 

"So this is the old queen's bastard?" Rickon asked mulishly as the two of them disappeared. "I expected more gold, not an inky mane or a garb of wool and cotton."

"Don't gossip like those tittering Southron ladies," Val chided. For all of Catelyn and Myrcella's efforts to turn his wife into a noble lady, they had only succeeded in teaching her courtesies and the ways of nobility. Even then, Val held Elinor Tyrell close to delegate most of the troublesome 'kneeler' matters to the poor girl.

"Most of the squires gossip, too." His brother shrugged. "And yeah, I know I have to keep her identity a secret, so don't fret–my lips will be sealed. Though knowing the rumourmongers, tomorrow the whole Red Keep would think you have a bastard daughter."

"Let them." His wife smiled proudly. "I already agreed to raise the girl as if she's my own."

"Uh-uh. If only your magnanimity extended to our Queen-to-be."

"That girl is unclean," Val hissed, looking like a shadow cat with her hackles raised. "I'm surprised she lasted that long!"

"It's treason to speak such matters aloud," Jon reminded. The irony was that his wife would have probably loved Shireen if Stannis' daughter had not been marked by Greyscale.

"Aye, I know to keep my thoughts to myself–which would be far easier if the scaled maiden didn't want my daughter as her handmaid." Val's face turned fierce. "What if she infects her?"

"Fret not, the disease is dormant. Besides, we already expected Calla's looks would garner such attention."

"Saying it was one thing but seeing it another entirely," his wife groused. "I can't wait to go back North. I loathe all these giggly Southron girls and the sticky heat that gets underneath your clothes."

"Two more years, and we'll be out of here," Jon reassured gently. For all of Val's complaints about the heat, she took to wearing elaborate silk and cotton riding gowns with ease, giving him a sight to feast his eyes on every day. "It takes time for a castle to be built. And no, a hastily raised wooden hall is an unbefitting seat for a lord of my stature."

He could see the conflict in Val's face–she felt stifled here in the South, even more than she had in the North. Most of the talk of the duties, prestige, and influence of lordships and nobility flew over her head or made her irritated. Eventually, she swallowed any objections and sighed. "I'll put little Duncan to sleep." 

Before she left, the spearwife threw him a hungry look–that very same look that meant she wanted yet another child.

Shaking his head, Jon tousled his brother's russet mane, earning himself a pout. "Tomorrow we ride out."

"Again?"

"We have to visit Lady Stokeworth and see what urgent troubles have beset her again," Jon yawned. "We depart tomorrow at dawn."

Rickon's face darkened.

"Doubtlessly another scheme from the fat thing to see you in her bed, or worse, try to marry me."

"Pray it's some brigands again, then," he drawled.

"Blackfeather didn't see anything suspicious when he flew over Stokeworth a sennight prior," Rickon whined. "Let's go for some bouts in the yard, brother. It's been a while, and all the other squires avoid me and the king."

"The king is too skilled, even if they dared to smack him in the yard, and you fight like a little savage."

It was as Rickon had suspected. Lollys Stokeworth tried to get Jon in bed again, and when that failed, talks of marriage with Rickon were again raised. It was not a terrible proposal, considering it would see his brother become a lord–if one could ignore the fact that the so-called maiden of Stokeworth was nearly three decades Rickon's senior. 

The campaign against the mountain clansmen in the Vale continued at a snail's pace, and it looked like Ser Gendry and Ser Jonnel Serrett would only return by the turn of the new year.

Robb and Myrcella arrived a fortnight later for the royal wedding, the tourney, and the feast, all of which went without a hitch, and poor Elayne Waters found herself spoiled nearly rotten by her elder sister without knowing why. Edwyn's surly face lit up the moment he saw Calla and his younger brother, who was to be the future Prince of Casterly Rock. The three-year-old Brandon was looking at the Red Keep, all wide-eyed. It seemed that the revelation had not soured the union between Robb and his wife. 

Some days, Jon wondered how the realm would have looked if Cersei Lannister hadn't been such a spiteful slut and a terrible queen.

But what-ifs served no one. 

At least, unlike the last three royal unions, the one between Tommen and Shireen would be a happy one, judging by her rare smile in the ceremony–something that made her look far prettier than her usual frown. Her slim body and ample chest were the envy of many a maiden, even if her scarred face was not.

If there was any doubt about the love–or at least duty, of the royal couple–it was quickly removed when Shireen Baratheon's pregnancy was announced a moon later.

Jon, however, felt uneasy–not because of the many woes and struggles that awaited him, but something else entirely. It was a foreign feeling of looming danger that he could not place into words that put him on edge. Ghost, too, could smell malice in the air aimed at Jon and was constantly on guard. Not the usual dislike or suspicion, but a shadow of death looming over his head. It wasn't cold like the presence of the Others who desired to see his demise, but more subdued and hollow.

Even though the war was merely a bad memory across the Seven Kingdoms, trouble still continued to simmer underneath the veneer of peace, and the situation in Essos was worsening. 

Ser Davos–Shireen's loyal smuggler turned spy, and Tyrion Lannister cautioned that Lys was expanding the fleets with unprecedented pace and Braavosi envoys were a common sight in the Perfumed City. Conflict over the northernmost regions of the Disputed Lands with Myr was also brewing in the air, and Jon and the royal council struggled to deal with the many problems that arose across the vast Crownlands.

War was the last thing the crown needed, with the realm still exhausted and rife with trouble, but it finally got the squabbling councillors to take the threat seriously–and no more complaints were voiced about the Queen's patronage of the royal fleet.

Eventually, the small council concluded that they needed to delegate the defence of the Crownlands. After another five moons of arguing over the specific duties, powers, and candidates, they finally reached a compromise.

The Crownlands was to be split into eight new spheres of influence, given to trusted and proven lords, though none of the titles would be hereditary. Lord Alekyne Florent would be the Defender of the Honeywine, responsible for keeping the peace west of the Red Mountains. Lord Wendel Manderly of Dunstonbury would be the new Defender of the Mander, responsible for the heartlands of the Reach. The Defender of the Western, Central, and Eastern Dornish Marches would be Lord Tarly of Horn Hill, the legitimised Lord Roland Caron of Nightsong, and Lord Balon Swann of Stonehelm. Lord Mychael Mertins was to be the Defender of Cape Wrath and the Rainwood, while Ser Jonothor Cave, the knight of the Red Cave, would be the new Defender of Crackclaw and the Bay of Crabs. The last belonged to the king, who would be responsible for the Kingswood, most of the Northmarch, Massey's Hook, and the lands around King's Landing.

Of course, changes such as these were slow to materialise; each new Warden–because they were wardens in all but name, despite Kevan Lannister's reluctance to see a return to the obsolete title that washed down royal authority–had to be summoned in person to accept their new titles and duties in full view of the court. Then, the heralds and ravens would spread through the Crownlands to announce the new appointments.

"It would take at least a year for such drastic changes to come to fruition, not to mention the time required for the newly appointed Defenders to surely use their new position to increase their martial forces." Robb mused before he departed to the Westerlands to deal with the trouble that demanded the attention of the Lord of Casterly Rock. Genna Lannister was an able woman and a good steward, but not skilled or influential enough to run a kingdom for too long or deal with the troubles that were arising.

As the days grew longer and the weather turned hotter, Jon's niggling feeling of looming doom grew stronger. A warrior like him feared no battle, but the vipers in King's Landing did not fight fairly. They did not fight with swords but with false smiles, honeyed words, daggers in the dark, and poison, as his father had warned him.

He had three hounds pick his and his children's choice of food, two food and ale testers and tightened the guard in his quarters and around his family. Dark Sister never left his hip, and Jon started wearing a light brigandine Tobho Mott specially forged for him. It raised many eyebrows, but it was far more practical and subtle than wearing the armaments of frost looted from the Others.

There were attempts to meddle with his food a few times–seemingly innocent mistakes from the cooks and the servants, but it only made Jon grow more paranoid.

It all happened half a moon after word came of Leona Tyrell's disappearance from Lannisport.

The scullery maid that brought the midday meal to his solar–an orphan maiden named Jeyne who had lost both of her parents to the Plague, looked wrong.

No, not wrong, but her gait was slightly more different from the way she shifted the weight of her steps to the lack of nervous tugging of her chestnut braid, and the shy yet suggestive smile that Jeyne would usually give him was now slightly off. It was so subtle, all too subtle, down to the fleeting difference of her scent.

Coincidentally, Ghost was accompanying his wife and children in the Godswood right now; the hounds that lounge over the kitchen were asleep after gorging themselves on auroch leftovers.

As she was about to place the platter with food on his desk, Jon's fist was already on Dark Sister, all the alarm bells ringing in his paranoid mind. 

"My lord, let me attend to you." The inexperienced yet sultry smile looked wrong on her face. And there was something on her lips, a glossy shine. Poison? Or perhaps a composite that would turn poisonous with whatever she had put in his meal.

Was he being too paranoid?

But if there was anything a warg was good at, it was dealing with his emotions. Ghost's presence in his mind only loomed closer as the direwolf dashed through the hallways and stairways, doubtlessly upsetting countless servants. 

"Join me," Jon whispered with a soft smile, pulling over a chair for Jayne. "I dislike eating alone."

When she hesitantly sat down, he knew this was not Jeyne. The real Jeyne well knew he liked to eat in silence and solitude when he wasn't with his family.

"You first," he urged, motioning to the platter of food.

The heartbeat of indecision betrayed her, and Jon sprung into motion, leaping backwards as Dark Sister's tip landed on Jeyne's neck.

"M-My l-lord?" Jon would almost be fooled by the trembling voice or the streaming tears if all of his instincts didn't scream danger.

He pushed Dark Sister just enough to draw blood, and after beheading and killing countless men, he knew the feeling of flesh under his sword was wrong. This was not skin but something else.

With a gentle motion, the rippled tip peeled off a layer of skin, and Jeyne swatted the sword away with her left hand and lunged at him with a drawn dagger.

Jon caught her wrist, but the woman–or whoever showed surprising strength. Strength that ought to belong to a trained warrior, not a slim maiden of eight and ten whose greatest exertion in life was cutting cabbages, cleaning dishes, and carrying platters of food to his solar.

The knee aimed at his groin only elicited a pained grunt as it met his codpiece, and Jon kicked the assailant away. As tempted as he was to behead the catspaw, he needed to know who sent her. She moved with the swiftness of a sparrow, but Jon was quicker. Dark Sister cleaved through her offending hand instead, and a kick to her knees saw her crumple on the floor. He severed the tendon in her left hand and knees for good measure and summoned one of the guards to get the maester. 

But as Jon returned to his room, she was already dead, her mouth full of pinkish foam.

A slew of curses erupted from his mouth after he carefully peeled the eerie fleshy mask off her face, revealing a scarred woman underneath. He rushed towards the royal quarters immediately as with a single thought, all of his direwolves and hounds rushed to surround his wife and children in the godswood. In hindsight, running through the Red Keep's courtyard with a bloodied sword in his hand was not his brightest decision, but the courtiers, servants, and guards were too stunned to bar his way. In less than three minutes, Jon rushed into Maegor's holdfast, only to hear hysterical screaming from afar as he arrived. Lan was tearing one of the servants apart with a savage snarl in the hallway.

Bernard Slate was holding the pale-faced Tommen back while three more white cloaks stood before the king with their swords drawn, reading to put down the beast despite the young king's protests. 

"Wait," Jon urged breathlessly. "There's something wrong."

"The lion has gone feral," Ser Harwin Vypren said in the same tone one would speak to a lackwit. "As expected of a wild beast, truly."

"After years of loyally following the King with no issues?" Jon scoffed but controlled his emotions — it was not the time to argue. "Perhaps there's a reason. Let me deal with this."

"A reason, you say?" Ser Godry Farring scoffed, pointing the dragonsteel blade at Jon. "Perhaps it was not the lion, but a skinwalker like you-"

"Let the Lord Regent try, Sers," Tommen urged, his voice full of anger and confusion. "Let us not throw empty accusations in haste."

"Thank you for the trust, Your Grace," Jon bowed lightly and approached the white lion, fresh blood still dripping from his maw. 

The hrakkar regarded him with a pair of angry amber eyes, but Jon only glared back, putting all the violence and death he had seen in his gaze. Eventually, the lion stepped away as more men-at-arms rushed into the hallway.

Jon kneeled down by the mangled corpse and reached for the bloodied neck. Surely enough, the feeling was much the same. The white cloaks started cursing up a storm, and Tommen gasped when Jon peeled off the corpse's face to reveal an entirely different visage underneath. 

***

4th Day of the 7th Moon, 304 AC

The Black Rose, Lannisport

The gilded decoration and slender, handsome buildings of Lannisport were just as Garlan remembered, and the air was as fresh as spring. Everything else, however…

Spring had seen warmth return to the land; the deathly chill in the air and the coat of white blanketing the landscape was merely a bad memory now. Azure skies, fields of lush green and bustling ports were a common sight on his voyage here. Yet compared to the Seven Kingdoms Garlan remembered during the Long Summer, it looked empty, nearly desolate. The fishing villages and port towns along the way here bore the mark of the cruel happenstances. Some had outright been torched, never to be rebuilt, and those who were spared had nearly empty docks and streets. The occasional fisherman or smallfolk avoided anyone who carried a sword, their gazes jaded, their bodies thin and oft scarred. It was common to see sleeves hanging loosely, telling a gruesome tale of lost limbs, a consequence of last winter's cruel chill or the fire and sword of war. 

"The Black Death and Winter of Sorrows have taken quite the toll, I see." Ser Mern Beesburry muttered in the Sarnori tongue as his blue eyes roamed the bare cobbled streets. "Last I was here, these streets were flush with traders peddling their wares, a crowd of eager men and women going about their day, and much more."

Hundreds of men had volunteered to come on this quest, but Garlan had only picked six warriors and two sorcerers, for secrecy would serve them better than numbers here. He himself was dressed in bright velvet and pretentious jewellery in the guise of a Qartheen silkmonger with only an ornate sword on his hip. But under the gilded hilt, diamond-encrusted pommel and intricate sheathe hid a rippled blade of Valyrian Steel, reforged from Khal Aro's great arakh. His companions posed as his hired sellswords, clad in deliberately colourful and mismatched styles of armour from every corner of Essos. The disgruntled sorcerers were dressed as plainclothes scholars and healers from the Far East.

"At least it smells better," Ser Willem said, ever the optimist. He also spoke in the tongue of Sarnor, earning themselves a few inquisitive glances from nearby smallfolk. But as soon as one of the knights glared at them, they hastily scattered away. 

They had agreed to avoid speaking the Common Tongue or Bastard Valyrian here to ensure their secrecy further–the Saathi dialect of Sarnori was scarcely ever heard beyond Ibb and the Sarne Delta. 

"It's estimated only one out of every three survived the Bloody Fall and the Red Winter here, according to our merchants," Rhaelle Selmy supplied helpfully. "King's Landing barely has fifty thousand souls; Gulltown and White Harbour are at half. Oldtown has been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self, if only because of the Wolf's Wroth. The plague scarcely spread beyond ports, towns, and cities, but the winter cold and snows took a heavy toll on the smallfolk deeper into the hinterlands."

As usual, she had insisted on coming along and now all-too-happily posed as the silkmonger's paramour, along with her own retinue of a dozen servants–skilled spies, provocateurs, and merchants loyal to her. Nothing had happened between the sharp-tongued beauty and Garlan despite her best efforts. The last half a decade had seen the strict paymistress of the Stranger's Sons bloom into a reserved beauty with a significant presence. At one and twenty, Rhaelle was in her prime. As usual, she wore a modest black gown slashed with silver that failed to hide her womanly figure.

Many knights and warriors in the company tried to court Rhaelle Selmy, but she only had eyes for one man–him. Garlan, however, was hesitant to respond to such affections.

"The city watch is quite lax," Lorex observed as they walked through Cobblers' Street. His former squire had grown half a head taller and turned into a fine man and an even finer knight. It was a rare source of pride for Garlan to see that he could nurture and guide, not merely destroy and kill. 

"The last time Lannisport's high walls were threatened was five years ago by Oakheart's army and Greyjoy's reavers," Garlan offered as his hand fiddled with his dyed whiskers. He still felt like a jester with his moustache and beard painted dark purple, but it made him look 'exotic'. "There's no need to fear anymore. Now, the Reach has been folded into the Crownlands, and the Ironborn are just a bad memory."

"The War of the Five Kings has ended, but didn't we hear tales of daring brigands and outlaws, hedge knights and lords turning to robbery?" Ser Willem Wythers asked, tugging on his greying mane. "Daring corsairs make their presence known across the Dornish shores too."

"Even such can only fade quickly before royal power," Rhaelle scoffed. "I have heard many tales of the Iron Throne's weakness, but they're just that–tales. The Crownbreaker makes short work of them with surprising efficiency–it didn't matter if they hid underneath a rock, deep inside a woodland, a village, or even a castle. But the Crownlands has grown too vast for one man to keep the peace from the Honeywine to Crackclaw Point. Some of my spies believe the cunning Bastard of Winterfell keeps spreading rumours of the Iron Throne's weakness to bait the Crown's enemies into the open and deal with them once and for all."

"Perhaps, but we ought to know hearsay is hardly reliable," Garlan said. "Even if it were true, such deeds also saw the Sealord of Braavos ally with the First Magister of Lys and reach out to the Bearded Priests of Norvos to counter the expanding royal influence over the Narrow Sea. Tensions are running high, and the Iron Throne might see another war."

With the city of Lorath coming under the complete control of Braavos after their whaling war with a now-humbled Ibben that had lost all of its fleets, such a coalition threatened Tyrosh, Myr, the allied Pentos, and the Crown's possessions in the Narrow Sea. It was the perfect time to come to Lannisport, for the Iron Throne could hardly care about the movements of an exiled knight like Garlan, even if he was now a commander of four thousand heavy lances.

His group finally arrived at their destination.

They quickly reserved all the rooms in an upscale inn called The Golden Spurs, with a striking facade of dark yellow bricks and its own courtyard and fruit gardens. And Garlan once again waited. Despite waiting for years for this very moment, he struggled to suppress the impatience swelling within his belly. But he ultimately endured, for Garlan knew his skills didn't lie in subterfuge beyond ambushes.

His father always said, "An ambitious Lord tries to be good in everything, but a skilled one knows where his talents lie and employs skilled and loyal men to assist him where he's lacking." Garlan had taken this lesson to heart. In the last four years, he had embraced killing and warfare and turned them into an art, an act of devotion for the Stranger and the Warrior. 

He had faith in those he had chosen to trust with service of import, but Garlan had been very careful in his selection. Robert Baratheon's folly was a reminder of how trusting skilled yet disloyal men ended. Garlan succeeded, whereas the Demon of the Trident failed because Rhaelle had the uncanny ability to smell bad apples and root out those with divided loyalties. It was a valuable thing in a newly formed sellsword company and one of the reasons why Garlan had reluctantly expanded as much as he had.

As the days passed, Rhaelle began to skillfully paint the situation of the Westerlands for him.

"The Young Wolf is in the Westerlands, rooting out bandits and robber knights around Clegane Keep and Deep Den."

"Cleganes…. that's not a name I thought I'd hear again. I thought all of them perished?"

"So did many, but it seemed the Mountain's third wife gave birth to a daughter a couple of moons after his brother slew him," Rhaelle chuckled. "The poor girl was named Myrielle for the Autumn Queen and has no allies and only her father's enemies and infamy since her mother perished to the winter chill."

"So the Wolf Lord sits in his mighty castle in the North, his firstborn is in the Westerlands to enforce his wife's claim, and his bastard rules in King's Landing," Garlan summarised as the old hatred welled in his heart. "Where the Tyrells shrunk to only a small handful, the line of Stark has swelled. One more son and five more grandchildren through Lady Dustin, the Young Wolf, and the Crownbreaker in merely four years."

"And two more bastard nieces from Nymeria Sand after her occasional visit to the Wall, only to return with a swollen belly." Rhaelle's voice was filled with concern. "It is folly, Ser Garlan. Revenge would see you walk down a road with no return. Worse, your chance of success and victory is questionable at best."

"I knew that long ago," he bit back stonily, not bothering to speak in Sarnori. "But why would a man of the Stranger like me fear death? It is a man's duty to take revenge for the unjust death of his kin. My eldest brother, my grandmother, my cousins, whether trueborn or not. Could I forget all of their faces?"

"Damn the revenge!" she hissed out, her heart-shaped face losing its legendary composure as it flushed red with anger. "Your dead kin would want you to live life well, not seek to join them in death!"

A part of Garlan remembered the solemn vows of chivalry he had given upon his knighting. Defend the young and the innocent. Protect all women. How many children had met their demise at his hand? How many women had perished by his sword or word?

He no longer considered himself a knight, for his vows were as good as words in the wind.

"I can hardly know what they would want since they are gone." Garlan's voice turned cold. "Killed by Stark's hand. I have lived for this for years. Once I free my kinswomen from the Silent Sisters, nothing will hold me back. Death shall be but a respite."

"Many men rely on your leadership, and even more would miss you should you perish." Her voice turned into a whisper, and her eyes softened, full of pleading. "Even me. I don't want you to die, Garlan."

"Yet you're here, helping me anyway," he noted.

"As I said I would," she said boldly. "Life is so bright and full of possibilities, no matter how dark things might seem–I should know. I could perhaps persuade you to change your mind, for I would rather have you alive and distant than a cold corpse for me to mourn."

She swiftly unlaced her dress then, revealing a supple body hiding underneath, naked as the day she had been born.

Garlan stubbornly closed his eyes, for if he kept on looking, he wasn't sure he could resist. Her approaching footsteps sent tremors through his heart, and then he felt her arms wrap around him. 

"You would still deny me so?" She whispered, her tone laced with grief and disappointment. "Am I not enough for you?"

"You are," Garlan murmured, doing his best to stand still.

"...Is it because I have been despoiled and used as a whore?"

"No. Never that–I cannot fault you for such grim matters that were no fault of your own, especially when you have shown yourself pious and filial." The earnest words sounded hollow on his tongue, so he sighed and cracked his eyes open to meet her swimming blue orbs, trying to ignore everything else. "You are beautiful, capable, and loyal–everything a man could want in a wife," he admitted reluctantly and sealed his eyelids shut again. That didn't stop Rhaelle from sitting in his lap, hugging his chest and resting her head on his shoulder.

She smelled of jasmine and sweet grapes, like the flower garden of Saath.

"Then why?"

"Because if I accepted, I would be tempted to give up." He chuckled bitterly. "Because if I held onto you with both my hands, I would have something to live for. Something that would erode my desire for revenge and my devotion to the Stranger. Why would I chase death and revenge if I have a woman like you by my side?"

The weight on his lap disappeared.

"Stubborn, stubborn fool!" She wept, her quiet sobs breaking his heart yet again. "Fine, t-then. Damn it all. But c-can you handle the sorcerous magic of the Starks?"

"Why do you think I brought a Mind Walker from Nefer and a Shadow Binder from Asshai to battle their First Men sorcery?" Garlan huffed. "I know it's a risk, but many of the arcane practitioners are mighty interested in Westeros now, even if they are wary of Jon Steelsong's bloody powers. But those can wait–Robb Stark is far less troublesome of the wolven lot and far closer. Even if I die taking him down with me, it would be enough to satisfy my fallen kinsmen. But first… first comes my mother, my aunt, and my cousins. Will you aid me this one last time?"

"I will," she choked out reluctantly. "I will–I would have never come here if I wasn't going to help you. If you had revealed all of this to your men, they would have followed you here."

"This is why I didn't. A merchant with a handful of guards can slip into Westeros unnoticed, but a company of hundreds, let alone thousands of warriors? They would have stopped us at Dorne."

"What of the Sons of the Stranger? What will happen to them should you fail to return?" Her voice cracked at the end.

"Ser Androw can lead the men when I perish. He is ready, and the warriors respect him."

"It wouldn't be the same." Rhaelle's whisper made his insides twist. "Damn you, Garlan. Why did I have to fall in love with a stubborn, cold-hearted mule such as you?"

He did not open his eyes until he heard the sound of clothes shuffling back on, and she left his quarters with an angry huff. He shook his head and prayed to the Stranger to cleanse his heart from temptation and steel his resolve again. 

Three days later, Rhaelle finally found an opportunity to move, which meant Garlan had to venture deeper into Lannisport. The Silent Sister's penchant for always veiling their face and remaining silent made the whole thing far more complicated, making his kin all that much harder to identify. Of course, his paymistress had planned around it.

The whole plan was too shaky for Garlan's taste, but he trusted Rhaelle's ability to get things done. And while he was willing to resort to violence, the risk to his mother, aunt, and cousin's wellbeing was too much to act hastily.

The Silent Sisters of Lannisport were in a small chapel at the back of the Golden Sept. Despite Garlan's trepidation, no city watch or red cloaks barred their way. A silkmonger of Qarth visiting the place of Faith would at most raise an eyebrow. While not uncommon, the Faith had visitors from Essos occasionally. Wealthy merchants often tried to procure the services of the Silent Sisters despite their lack of nobility by making generous donations to display their wealth and prestige.

Three hundred taels of gold in patronage and donations was the price of purchasing the services of the Silent Sisters. It was the way of the world, but Garlan still found it ridiculous that with the right words and enough coin, you could open many doors that would otherwise be forever closed. The power of gold and appearances scared Garlan more than any enemy, even if he wasn't afraid to use it to his own ends.

The building itself was a two-story chapel with a slate rooftop, coloured glass windows and a pink facade with a seven-pointed star carved over the wooden gate. The place was silent, and even the occasional Silent Sister robed in grey could be seen tending to the herbal garden outside, which looked more like a shade, not even an inch of their skin exposed.

Each chapter of The Silent Sister was run by a Septa or two well-versed in sign language to facilitate communication and command the Stranger's Handmaidens when necessary. This one was no different, and an old, wrinkled woman named Cerysse greeted them in the drafty antechamber. 

"It is rare to see a Qartheen in Lannisport," she greeted them at the entrance, but her hawkish green eyes inspected Garlan with distrust. Her next words came out in rough Qartheen, "You're our second such patron in the last three decades, Magister Xorosos."

"I find the rites of the Seven fascinating," he replied in fluent Qartheen, lessening the old Septa's suspicion. Garlan could feel the sweat running down his spine; this level of suspicion was too close to comfort. The countless hours Rhaelle nagged him to master all the tongues they came upon was finally bearing fruit. "One of my favourite nephews passed away on the way here, and I want to prepare his body for a burial back home. I heard that your Order's skills in preserving the recently departed were the finest in the Sunset Lands."

"Even the Silent Sisters cannot preserve a body for more than a moon, and the voyage back to Qarth should see you sail for six times as long," Septa Cerysse explained raspily. "They will have to boil the bones or burn the flesh, cleanse the bones, and store the ashes if you're amenable."

"Agreed. I want your finest priestess tasked with this," he stated, arrogantly lifting his chin in the same manner he had seen many magisters do over the last five years. It seemed that his mannerism fully convinced the Septa.

"Magister Xorosos is willing to gift double the agreed-upon amount to give the respect his nephew is due," Rhaelle added solemnly, then subtly glanced at him with a look that screamed, 'trust me'!

Seeing everything play out mostly as intended, Garlan resisted the urge to rush inside the cloister to see his mother, aunt, and cousins. Giving an imperious nod to the wrinkled old Septa, he turned around to leave as Rhaelle explained how he demanded the most respectful send-off for his nephew.

A cleverly phrased request for the highest-ranking noblewomen in the chapel to attend to his 'nephew's' body. An arrogant demand, just in line with the overly rich Essosi merchant from the Far East, that the Silent Sisters had no reason to decline. It was another matter entirely if they would actually send Alerie Hightower and the Tyrell noblewomen or someone else to the inn.

It was a calculated risk, of course–should they send his kinswomen, Garlan could spirit them away easily, and if it was someone else, they could be convinced to tell him his family's location. As for his nephew, he was nothing more than a fresh, good-looking orphan's body purchased from the gravedigger last evening. He returned to the Golden Spurs and waited. There was no fear of Rhaelle's safety in Lannisport, not with Ser Mern Beesbury serving as her guard.

It seemed that the Seven smiled upon him today, for half an hour later, Rhaelle led a procession of eight Silent Sisters, sought his gaze as soon as she entered the inn, and gave him a subtle nod. Each had their faces veiled by a grey hood and scarf and was clad in thick, roughspun robes.

"The deceased is upstairs," Rhaelle supplied expressionlessly at the silent yet expectant figures.

Three of his men stayed behind to ensure he was not disturbed by the innkeeper or his wife and son while Garlan led his family upstairs. The rest of his guards stood at the stairs and the door.

As soon as they were in the privacy of his quarters, the Silent Sisters busied themselves around the body, some bringing out jars of flesh-eating bugs. There was a sense of seamless cooperation in their movements.

"If I might take a moment of your time," Garlan said, his voice cracking heavy with emotion. His voice gave them pause. All of the Silent Sisters stiffened in their tracks, and he could feel the weight of their gazes.

"N-No," a voice weak from disuse rasped out. "Garlan?"

"We're not supposed to speak," another whispered hoarsely. "We have given vows of silence and chastity-"

"This is my son," a voice that made his heart flutter raised in challenge. "Garlan, is this you underneath this purple beard?"

"Yes, Mother," he uttered, swallowing back his tears. Gods, he wanted to weep, he wanted to scream, he wanted to shout from joy and fury and thousands of other emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, but in the end, he just grew numb, and words ripped through his dry throat. "I'm here to save you from this punishment. Mother… please. Let me see your face."

The woman at the front slowly removed her cowl and unfurled her scarf, revealing the face he had dreamt of longer, if with a hint of wrinkles around her eyes. But unlike in his dreams, she made no move to come forth and embrace him. The others also remained around the boy's corpse, cautious, motionless and silent.

"We all awaited word of your exploits in Essos with eagerness," a younger voice echoed from the back. Was that young Leona? Or not so young, seeing she ought to be six and ten already. "Each victory, each fight, each mention was precious to us. The Khalsbane, they call you now."

He waved off the words humbly. "Merely luck." 

"One doesn't slay thirteen Khals and break their Khalasars just by luck. They say Saath is about to reconquer the entirety of the Sarne Delta from the Dothraki by virtue of your presence. Yet… you shouldn't have come." Alerie Hightower sighed. "This is too dangerous for you."

"How can I abandon my family?"

"We have given vows." His mother bowed his head. "House Tyrell has sinned greatly, and this is our way of atonement. This is our lot, and we have made peace with it."

"Mother," Garlan gritted his teeth. An obedient son like him was never good at defying his parents. "Forget the vows and do not fear. I have everything planned–we can leave Lannisport tonight with none the wiser. The arrangements have all been made. You can be free of this," he waved at her roughspun garb, "indignity and service."

"And at what price?" She gave him a brittle smile that failed to reach her eyes. "We'll be claimed forsworn by the Faith. The High Septon will denounce us to the point of Anathema, and the measure of peace you have earned yourself from the Crown will be forever discarded. The Lannisters of Lannisport would be duty-bound to chase you to restore their broken honour, for we are under their protection here."

"Call it for what it is," Garlan countered, trying to suppress his anger. Why, why weren't they happy to see him? "This is merely a chain that binds you, a pious prison under another name."

"Is it truly, my nephew?" It was Janna Tyrell's voice. "It might be a chain, but it is also a shield for us. A shield for you. We were willing to endure this so long as it ensured your freedom in Essos."

"But there's no need for such things if you all come with me," he urged, balling his fists. "There is no need to endure this any longer, for the Iron Throne's hand barely reaches beyond the Narrow Sea. We can be free together!"

"Sweet promises of different kinds of struggle." His mother walked over and ran a calloused finger through his cheek. "Oh, my poor, poor boy. You were so happy, so kind, and filled with righteous resolve, yet I now only see fury and death in your gaze. These are not the eyes of a man seeking to unite with his kin. You do not want our freedom but seek it out of obligation and sentimentality."

"..."

"Do I speak wrongly?" She challenged, yet Garlan couldn't meet her gaze. For the first time in years, he felt shame creep down his throat. "Where is the gallant knight that always made me smile? Where is the bright boy who eagerly spoke of righteousness and justice?"

Garlan couldn't meet his mother's gaze.

"...I see." The disappointment in her voice was like a dagger to his heart, more painful than anything else he had endured so far. "And what do you plan to do after freeing us? Will you come with us or… seek further vengeance?"

"House Stark has much to answer for-" a slap halted his words. He saw the hand coming and almost avoided it but decided not to.

"My son. We played the Game of Thrones, and we lost." Alerie's face grew pained. "Your grandmother tried to assassinate the Young Wolf not once but twice and failed. Then he was honour-bound to take revenge and look where it got us. Say you go on your quest and somehow manage to kill enough Starks. What then? What if one survives and comes to seek vengeance upon everything you held dear? How many more innocents will die in the process? When will this senseless cycle of hatred ever end?"

"Do you think the same?" Garlan challenged the others. "Aunt Janna, do you not desire vengeance for your husband? Alla, Leona, do you not desire vengeance for your father and brothers? Magga, what about you?"

"As if vengeance would bring them back!" Janna rasped out angrily. "Perhaps if you had come in the first year… Now, we're the Stranger's Handmaidens, and we've made our peace with it. We've given vows of silence that you have forced us to break just now."

"Vows taken under sword point are not valid in the eyes of the gods," Garlan reminded, torn between laughter and fury.

The Seven were mocking him. For so long, he had solved his problems with violence and daring, and now, where the sword was of no use, he felt like a fool. Perhaps he was a fool. For a second, he considered kidnapping his mother and the rest, but if they resisted, the city watch would be upon them before they reached the docks, and it would only see everyone die needlessly.

An angry finger stabbed at his chest, "You want us to leave to assuage your conscience while you tread on a doomed quest for vengeance. Garlan, my nephew, you have grown arrogant and drunk on your success." Janna Tyrell discarded her cowl, her dark eyes glaring at him with fury. "Just as you have your pride, so do we. Stranger's wives, we're called, and we serve the Stranger just as you do, if in our own way."

"It warms our hearts to have seen you, my son," Alerie added, her voice a mixture of pain and longing. "The Seven are my witness, I'm glad… but I'd rather have you alive and far away than chasing death. You can still leave–forget all this silly matter of revenge and offending the Faith-"

"I'm not afraid of the Faith, and I'm not afraid to die!"

"And it's what breaks my heart." The pity and regret in his mother's gaze broke Garlan's heart again. "What mother would I be if I was glad to see my last child rush to his death? You are a warrior of power and renown, with a fair maiden willing to follow you in your follies." She nodded to the stiff-looking Rhaelle, who looked as though she wanted to disappear into the ground. 

"You are lost in the memory of what has once been, blind to treasures under your nose. Go back to Essos and live. Live, my son, live long and live well."

"Mother…" Garlan felt his vision swim. "Is there nothing I could say that would change your mind?"

"What mother would I be if I urged my son, my last child, towards his untimely demise?" The pain in her voice stabbed in his chest. "The war has already taken my father and my brothers; it took my husband, my firstborn, and my little rose. If you perish chasing vengeance against House Stark, what reason would I have left to live?"

Garlan swallowed heavily. "I do not fear the Wolf Lords and their magic!" Yet his words burned like hot coals upon his tongue.

"Perhaps you don't, but you ought to fear the blood and steel they command or the alliances they have established," Janna snorted derisively. "No man is an island, nephew, and you cannot bear the ire of the Seven Kingdoms alone."

He wanted to deny it, to decry it all, but it would be a lie, for Garlan already knew all of it deep inside.

His mother tip-toed to kiss him on the brow, the same way she would kiss him when he was a small child. Then she gently hugged him, even if she barely reached his shoulder; her hands brought a sense of long-forgotten warmth and comfort.

"My poor, poor boy," her whisper was like a balm upon his tortured soul. "You have been alone for so long, and the burden on you has been too much. But you're stronger than this, Garlan. I know it…"

"If I give up… on my vengeance, forget about House Stark, will you come with me?"

"Do you still need your mother to hold your hand?" She smiled sadly at him. "Go and forge your destiny in Essos, my son. You do not need an old thing like me to remind you of what has been. I am old now, and the service here has brought me peace and quiet. No matter what you do, promise me, Garlan. Promise me you won't throw away your life for some meaningless vengeance."

Alerie wanted to deny him his vengeance. To forget and forgive… to let go of his hatred, of his vengeance. Garlan was reluctant, but what son could deny his mother's sincere request?

"You are a cruel woman, mother…"

"Promise me," Alerie begged, turning to kneel before him.

"...I promise," he uttered mournfully as he grabbed his mother before she could prostrate herself on the floor. 

Garlan sighed, feeling… empty. What could a filial son like him do but listen to his mother?

Yet vengeance had been the only thing that kept him going. That and meeting his family–and now he had nothing left. 

What would he do now? He had not planned this far, and if he was not going to hunt for the Young Wolf and could not save the unwilling… he had to return to Essos and continue selling his sword for gold.

An indignity Garlan had swallowed out of necessity, a foolishness that had become his life, even if he tried to fight for righteous causes. 

Could he just keep going as if nothing had happened? Did he have the strength to just forget? 

The thousands of men that had joined him over the years still thought he would return–or die in an epic blaze of glory, taking down many a foe with him, an end befitting of the songs. No, he would not abandon the last duty he had taken up. The weight of thousands of brave fools that followed him blindly felt heavy on his shoulders, but it prevented him from simply lying on the floor and giving up. A part of him wanted to claim that they would be fine with Ser Androw Crane, the Red Wing, in charge, but the daring madman would simply lead them to avenge Garlan.

Damn it all!

The Sons of the Stranger needed their Lord Commander, and Garlan Tyrell would lead them until his body gave out. His pride as a warrior demanded as much. It was a shaky reason to keep going, but it was his only reason.

"Very well. I suppose this is farewell, Mother, Aunt, Cousins." Then he gazed at the other Silent Sisters. "...Unless any of you want to come with me to Essos?"

Just as he numbly turned to leave, a small voice broke the oppressive silence. 

"I… I want to go with Garlan," Leona proclaimed, shifting uneasily under the judging gazes of her sisters and cousins.

"It would be better if we all stay here," Janna said sternly. "Don't be selfish, Leona. Going with Garlan will only make his uneasy relationship with the Iron Throne sour. It's one thing to be an exile who snuck in once and another entirely to be an acknowledged enemy of the crown."

"But I've done nothing wrong," the veiled maiden protested hoarsely. "I-I didn't ask for this life of asceticism–I was to be a Lady of a Castle, a wife and a mother."

"Don't be childish-"

"I'll take her," Garlan declared fiercely. "I'm not afraid of trouble. But be warned, Leona. Life in Essos is far from easy and lacks the comfort you have seen in Highgarden. It is full of danger and hardship, unlike the quiet tedium you have endured in the Silent Sisters."

"And you would risk the ire of the Crown and the Faith for a distant cousin?" his mother asked, a strange gleam in her eyes. "Her absence will be swiftly noted, I assure you. Even if we refuse to utter a word per our vows of silence, and you depart Lannisport within the hour, the truth will come out eventually. When it does, you will encounter many difficulties, and you and your descendants will be considered enemies of the Iron Throne and the Seven."

Leona shrunk at her words and hastily bowed her head, "I'm sorry, Ser Garlan, I was selfish-"

"I did not get this far by fearing a little adversity," Garlan's words slipped out of his mouth unbidden. He felt, then, a spark ignite in his heart. Not the red fires of vengeance but the bright flame of the warrior's fighting spirit. Vengeance… he could not pursue it. Valour and glory mattered little to him, but he relished the challenge. "If you want to come with me and have a taste of life in Essos, come. I will weather the storm when it comes."

"I… I'll come, then," she said shakily, bowing her head. 

"Then you must all leave at once," Alerie said, her face torn between pride and sorrow. "We can linger here for seven hours to take care of the corpse before suspicion of our delay arises–you must be gone by then. Farewell, my gallant son, and stay strong."

"Farewell, mother," Garlan choked out.

"Come, let's change you into proper garments that won't bring scrutiny," Rhaelle urged the maiden. 

No more goodbyes were said, though his mother promised as they busied themselves over the nameless orphan's corpse, "We will await word from your exploits eagerly, Garlan. Don't be afraid to live, and," she glanced at the fussing Rhaelle, "don't be afraid to love."

And just like that, one hour later, Garlan was aboard the Jade Beauty. Rhaelle's meticulous planning paid off again, and their departure was smooth–she had even made a tidy profit on the goods she had brought from Essos in the previous days. Meanwhile, Leona, dressed like a handmaid, smiled shyly at Garlan while her gaze slid back to Lannisport further in the distance.

The earlier upheaval had left his mind numb while his well-trained body went through the motions on its own. Abandoning his vengeance… was hard to swallow, but he would do it. He had promised his mother. It made him feel confused, hollow, and strangely hopeful. Only Garlan was afraid he had forgotten what it was to live for the future.

But when the naked Rhaelle slipped into his bed the next night, he did not chase her away.

***

In late 304, Garlan the Grim was declared an enemy of the Faith and the Iron Throne for forcefully breaking Leona Tyrell out of her oaths to the Silent Sisters. Every man loyal to the crown was to seek to either slay or undermine the Grim's name and efforts, and deny him succour. Killing Ser Garlan Tyrell would be generously rewarded instead of punished.

Ser Theodred Lannister, the Steward of Lannisport and his sons swore a heavy vow never to rest until they could salvage their broken honour by slaying the oathbreaking Tyrell Knight and departed to Essos to seek the Black Rose. The fear of the rise of a second Golden Company was strong in King's Landing, but the Iron Throne was too busy in the Narrow Sea to intervene or pressure Saath directly. 

The War of the Five Kings had seen Myr and Tyrosh join the Seven Kingdoms, with Pentos as a close ally. Such unprecedented expansion of territory and influence over the other side of the Narrow Sea had frightened many, especially as the royal fleet only seemed to expand in power and numbers.

In 302 AC, Norvos and Qohor finally ceased hostilities, and by the end of 303, Ibben was thoroughly defeated by the Braavosi; their fleets burned and their harbours and shipyards destroyed. Braavos opted for a merciful peace with five years of surprisingly reasonable reparations that would leave Ibben burdened but not broken.

By the middle of 304, Lys finally managed to swallow all of the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones aside from the Veiled Isle and the Dustspear on the coast of Dorne. Tensions rose with the Iron Throne when the Royal Fleet and the Lyseni Fleets began skirmishing over them.

Such gave the beginning of the Braavosi Crisis. Seeing the weakness in King's Landing and the unrest in Westeros, the Sealord of Braavos sought to ally with the Bearded Priests of Norvos and the First Magister of Lys in a new Triarchy to check the Iron Throne's quickly expanding power in the Narrow Sea.

Year 304 had also seen Shireen Baratheon officially wed Tommen Baratheon, to the dismay of many–she was oft described as one of the least popular queens in the Seven Kingdoms.

It seemed that her age had turned Stannis' daughter more warlike; her love for reading treatises on martial matters and law was well-known and usually mentioned with disdain until then. Her influence was undeniable, for she had become the patron of many knights, sailors, captains, and lords who had served her father or in the Conquest of Tyrosh. Where other queens preferred to act demure and engage in charity, piousness, and binding alliances through their ladies-in-waiting, Shireen Baratheon had taken a page out of her father's book and cared only about duty and justice. There was barely anything womanly in her square, scarred face at six and ten. The Queen of Scales was taller than her younger royal husband, styling her black locks into a severe braid that fell on her ample chest; many called her Stannis Baratheon with teats.

Yet all attempts from the courtiers and ambitious lords to see the young yet influential Queen put aside were met with cold dismissal from Tommen. The biggest surprise was House Stark and Steelsong's staunch backing for Shireen's seemingly shaky position from the very start, despite the rumours of unpleasantries between the regent's wildling wife and the young queen.

The divide in the royal court and the unrest in the realm had spurred the Second Triarchy to act by the end of 304 AC.

As the Second Triarchy mustered its fleets and gathered its armies, four assassination attempts were made on Tommen Baratheon's life within a moon. All foiled by the king's pet hrakkar and the sorcerous regent, whose direwolves could even sniff out faceless men many a time. At first, some even pointed fingers at the heathen sorcerer, claiming he had orchestrated the attacks, but such accusations were met with a thrown glove and a duel to the death and quickly died off along with the men brave enough to issue them. 

Naturally, Braavos denied all allegations of assassination, but nobody was fooled, as pirate attacks along the Eastern Coast of Westeros began in full. Even Steward Tyrion Lannister of Tyrosh put the city on a war footing and barely saved his shipyards from a night raid.

There was no official declaration of war, and envoys were going back and forth with demands, excuses, but to no avail. 

The royal council and even the usually harsh Regent Jon Steelsong were not yet ready to commit to an all-out war over the Narrow Sea with the New Triarchy with daggers in the dark threatening the young king, and unrest brewing in the Crownlands, the Vale, and former Dorne. But the stalemate was broken by the most unlikely figure. 

The pregnant Shireen Baratheon sailed out with the royal fleet despite all advice after saying, "We cannot give these bankers and slavers an inch, lest they take a mile. A bad peace is worse than war, so I'd rather fight than bandy empty words!" 

Being the main patron of the royal fleet, her control of the crown's naval powers was greater than that of her husband. 

Like her uncle at Summerhall, she defeated three fleets the same day before they linked near Tarth, the last of which had seen the birth of Princess Argella Baratheon. With the queen not only invested in the war but also victorious in the first battle, the Iron Throne began to stir, even if the birth saw Shireen bedridden and forced to return to King's Landing–which was the last time she led a battle, even if it did not stop her from running the royal navy in the shadows. The experienced veteran Lord Jason Melcolm led the naval campaign from thereon, but everyone knew he was the Queen's man through and through.

Any hesitation about committing to an all-out war evaporated. But Westeros still bore the scar of Renly's Rebellion, the cruel winter, and the Black Plague. Many lords from the Greater Crownlands were slow to answer the call to arms, and those that did hardly had a significant number of swords to offer. The new principalities sent token forces and fleets, and the coming conflict was shaping up to be a hardy test for the Iron Throne. 

After three moons, Kevan Lannister sailed with four thousand swords to Pentos and helped them repel the Norvoshi attacks by land, and the Winter Wolves–the newly-formed Northern martial order led by Ser Damon Dustin helped Myr defeat the Lyseni incursions by land. Lord Wylis Manderly sailed from the White Harbour with the Northern fleet to join the scuffle in the Narrow Sea.

The Master of Ships proceeded to break the Lorathi fleet and the Braavosi reinforcements that were blocking Pentos and waited until Braavos' infamous arsenal had produced a third fleet two moons later to sink it in a series of three quick battles. But Braavos was a tough nut to crack, Norvos was too deep in Essos to retaliate against, and Lys had fortified its coastline and the Disputed Lands.

After the Pentoshi armies methodically started to swallow most of the Braavosi coastline and their precious forested hills that were the main source of timber for the Braavosi fleet, the Bastard Daughter of Valyria had no more cards to play.

Many used the chaos of war and the absence of the Hand who coordinated the battles against the Triarchy from Pentos to revolt against the Crown, the most important of which were Yronwood, Jordayne, Cafferen, and Darry. From Dorne to the Vale, many were unhappy with the outcome of the War of the Five Kings, disliked the new warden reforms, or thought the Crown's grip on the realm was too weak. Only the Iron Islands and the North were spared the unrest but still saw most of the realm aflame, the worst in the Westerlands against Lady Genna Lannister, who served as Myrcella's steward.

With the Iron Throne's attention divided, things were not looking good. Under the guidance of his sorcerous regent, the fifteen-year-old Tommen Baratheon swiftly and methodically mustered leal lords to deal with the unrest that threatened to spill across the whole realm.

But Eddard Stark and Tywin Lannister's appointment of loyal and capable men in the right place made a difference.

By the end of 305 AC, Lorath was subjugated, the Norvoshi were beaten back, and their heartlands were set ablaze, and the Bearded Priests agreed to peace after giving hostages and paying tribute to the Iron Throne. 

Lys, however, proved far more resilient with its grip in the Stepstones. The naval campaign against the Braavosi had struck a severe blow to the royal fleet, giving the Lyseni time to recover. While the Myrish, Ser Damon Dustin, and his Winter Wolves were stuck in the quagmire of sieges in the Disputed Lands, the Perfumed City failed to lay siege to Tyrosh and was bested at sea by Lord Jason Melcolm the next time they attempted to match the Iron Throne at sea. 

Braavos was surrounded, boxed in its own Great Lagoon. While the attackers were unable to enter, so were the defenders unable to leave.

Just like it looked like the war would be a game of waiting with Lys and Braavos to see who would falter first, the First Magister of Lys and the Sealord decided that the cost of war outweighed the price of peace.

The concessions the Iron Throne demanded were firm but reasonable, making the agreement to peace far easier. The princes and priests of Lorath would be replaced with ones favouring the Iron Throne. Lys would cede the northernmost chunk of the Disputed Lands that Archon Robar Royce and Ser Damon Dustin managed to conquer.

Braavos was to recover all the territories lost, pay a token tribute, and give a small trade concession with Pentos, but only if the House of Black and White were exterminated to the last Faceless Man–a deed which would only be acknowledged under the purview of High Priestess Melisandre of the North accompanied by three of the kingsguard, and a Pentoshi delegation led by a Wind Singer of Asshai. 

The troubles during the regency were but a herald of things to come for Tommen the Daring's reign…

Excerpt from 'The Great Upheaval' by Maester Armen