Shrouded Destiny

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

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

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

***

4th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

Melisandre of Asshai, Warg Hill

She looked at the bright comet streaking betwixt the stars. Once, she would have thought it a sign from the Lord of the Light. Yet there were still no visions in the flames. 

Not that Melisandre needed them anymore. Now, her eyes were open, and she could see. She could see so much that it felt as if she had been blind before.

Subtle colours wiggled into ribbons and danced around or clung to men and beasts like cloaks of… something.

It was hard to make much sense of it all. But now, the dragon's breath tearing through the sky brought a rich, sanguine ripple through the sky.

She could feel all of her powers grow.

The direwolves seemed to feel it, too, for they howled in unison throughout the night, giving many a headache. 

"I can hear it in the grass," Leaf whispered next to her. "I can feel it in the snow. The world echoes with power along with the red messenger."

Night had fallen, and Warg Hill was quiet, aside from the sentries patrolling the walls.

"Indeed," Melisandre tilted her head and looked at the surrounding forest. "It has halted the Others' encirclement." For now, it remained unsaid, even though Leaf probably heard it. 

The Singers of Ice and Death, as Leaf loved to call them, had been repelled by the Watch. And it was done with laughable ease–the power of an ancient order backed by Seven Kingdoms and some Red Priests.

The competence shown was surprising.

Perhaps… perhaps she was wrong, and the Lightbringer was never the Red Sword of Heroes. Perhaps Azor Ahai was never human. Perhaps it was the Sword in the Darkness all along?

Perhaps it was. But Jon Snow was everything Azor Ahai was supposed to be. His efforts were not meaningless, and she could feel the change that rippled from his deeds. It echoed in the world, if in a very dull manner like a gong from the far side of a city or an enormous stone dropped into the middle of a lake.

In the end, it did not matter. Melisandre had chosen her path and would follow it to the end. The Great Other had to be stopped, and seeing she was far from the only one working towards this goal was relieving.

Even if Warg Hill fell and Melisandre with it, things would be fine. The fight against the darkness would continue, for many were now bearing the torch. 

"It's a quiet before the storm," Leaf muttered. "They would probably attack as soon as the comet is gone."

Melisandre sighed. 

"The Great Other knows it is losing the fight and returns to his slumber," she said. "But what is left of his cold children are unwilling to continue throwing their lives away. But they are unwilling to lose, too."

Not that it mattered. Even if the Others decided to assault Warg Hill, Jon Snow had made more than ample preparations. Besides, the wildlings seemed to fear waiting for the unknown more than they feared fighting.

Yet she could feel the fight approaching. It was not a vision or anything, but the cold thrum in the surroundings grew deeper and tighter in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. When Melisandre glanced at the frosted treeline of the Haunted Forest at night, she could feel them watching. She could sense their hatred for the warmth of life, the fire within the minds of men.

She could see the death creep closer, the miasma of rot and darkness reaching out, seeking a weak spot. But they found none, for Jon Snow had prepared.

There was not much she could do anymore but trust the path she had chosen, for their survival was all in the hands of Jon Snow and his unyielding valour.

Or perhaps she could try and tilt the scales of survival, if slightly, even if it would require the Singer's assistance. It was a bold idea bordering on madness and blasphemy, but she had already treaded such roads before, so what was once more?

"Raging against destiny is futile," Leaf muttered, staring at the sky as she lay in the snow unbothered. "If the men were so easily bested, Westeros would still belong to us, the singers and the giants."

"There's still a way forward, even for you," Melisandre chuckled.

"Twilight has come for my kin," Leaf shook her head. "If not now, maybe in three or four centuries. The giants shall follow, too. Yet they say the falling star burns the brightest at its end–we have decided to follow Jon Snow to the Seventh Circle of Hell if he dares tread there."

"Is this why you ignore poor Jarod? I grow tired of watching his attempts to woo you."

The old Liddle bastard was undoubtedly trying to catch Leaf's attention. It was subtle, but a skilled seductress like Melisandre could read the signs, no matter Jarod's caution. She could see the swirls of lust around him–a pink ribbon of desire. However, it paled before the intensity of feeling and passion between Jon Snow and his heavily pregnant wife. Theirs was almost like a blinding halo.

Some days, she wondered what it would be like to experience such raging passion.

What would it be like to feel such a genuine wreath of emotions? 

What would it be like for them to be reciprocated?

The strongest flames of desire could be fanned not only by lust but also by love.

But her feelings had long withered with time; the years of training in Asshai had ensured it. Any emotion she was capable of would be dulled at best and hollow at worst.

The singer's small shoulders sagged. 

"Perhaps if he were thirty of the man years younger—he has less than ten left… such a love would be too painful. I do not desire a fleeting moment of joy to be soured by centuries of mourning."

"Then find another," Melisandre pointed out. "Indeed, the leaf kin are not favoured with fertility, but you can have children with men, can you not?"

"It would still spell the end of us," Leaf muttered mournfully. "A human's seed is too strong, and any such children shall be more human than singers."

"Yet a part of your legacy shall live on."

Her friend gazed at her sharply with a pair of golden-green eyes. 

"What of you? Do you not desire to leave a babe of your own? A legacy in the flesh?" 

The priestess chuckled ruefully. Alas, Melisandre had forfeited the chance to have progeny of her blood for other boons in Asshai.

"I've had three sons before, but they expired quickly." She shook her head with a grimace. "Perhaps… but it might be for the better that this world never sees my children again."

***

5th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

Howland Reed, Essos

A bright red comet split the skies like a red-hot sword. It appeared last evening and could be seen throughout the day, streaking above the clouds. It was an omen, but Howland couldn't begin to guess what exactly. But it looked sanguine–which meant bloodshed. Yet blood was being shed around the four corners of the world at any moment.

"This is a sign from the gods," Damon Dustin proclaimed loudly in the morning. "Our path will be ripe with fighting and plunder!"

Unsurprisingly, that got plenty of clamour. Yes, the Northmen were all too eager for fighting and looting, especially since the last battle was the stuff of legends–a heroic victory the likes of which had not been done. Defeating ten times their number of horsemen with scarcely any casualties was what the songs were made of.

Unlike other comets, this one was different. The red comet did not go away; it soared and spun through the sky like an angry red hornet, as if trying to chase something. 

The clansmen called it the Red Messenger, an omen of vengeance. Vengeance against what nobody could say. 

The Dothraki called it shierak qiya, which meant bleeding star.

Winter probably thought it was the moon because he was busy howling at it most of the time. Many of his pack had died in the battle, and the rest had dispersed into the wilderness.

Ned, however, remained silent, taciturn even. His demeanour had gone even more solemn after his beauty sleep, as the Red Wake liked to call it. There were other, more subtle changes that Howland could only spot because he knew his friend all too well.

Any traces of hesitation on Ned were gone, and he carried himself with even greater authority than before—as if he had ruled for a hundred years instead of twenty and fought in a thousand battles instead of a handful. Of course, the Northmen loved the change. 

The Lord of Winterfell always had his bannermen well in hand, but now they all obeyed his command with even greater ease and unmatched eagerness.

Heroes were forged on the battlefield, and Eddard Stark had once again proven himself such.

"What happened when you were asleep?" Howland had asked.

"Too many things, I'm afraid," was the only answer he received.

His friend had changed, yet the Lord of Greywater Watch couldn't decide if it was for the better or worse. 

Of course, there were some woes. The Dothraki who had joined them, now officially the newly sworn freeriders of House Stark led by Zolo, were like oil and water compared to the Northmen.

The language barrier was harsh, and the horselords had become accustomed to a different way of life. Although the defeat had shaken them badly, they still had some sort of savage pride in their ways.

Yet Eddard Stark did not need them to understand; he needed them to learn and obey, especially since they had sworn their lives to him. It was a new sort of tyrannical behaviour that did not suffer any questioning. 

The three riders who thought they could shirk Eddard Stark's marching formation or scouting orders were beheaded by the icy blade for disobedience. 

Tommen's training only increased in pace. Everything he was doing before, he was doing now, in addition to being taught by Ned in person and performing his page duties. 

Yet, he was on latrine duty every day for sneaking into the battle.

The golden-haired princeling collapsed from exhaustion every day, but he had won the hearts of the Northmen. His first battle at almost nine years of age and three kills with a sling!

With their numbers swelling to nearly fifteen hundred, their pace slowed as they headed south to Pentos. Even the leftover horses were used as beasts of burden to carry their additional supplies and personal effects. Another Dothraki had objected to using the horses as mules, only to be chased out, head shaved bald and without a horse. 

It was the last time the horselords objected about anything. Asking questions was allowed and encouraged, but defying the Lord of Winterfell was not.

"Why are we dawdling so much?" One of the Northmen had asked, looking rather homesick. He was far from the only one; many missed their wives, brothers, and children. They would take the cold, harsh land that birthed them over these stifling foreign shores that looked similar yet felt different. There were no weirwood trees here, no stuffy septs with their long-winded septons. A few days prior, they saw the first signs of life, of civilisation, even if only a handful of smaller villages nestled around the riverbends and shores. 

"I do not trust this land," Ned explained. "It is easy to ride forth on a road you traversed before through a land you know well, dealing with people you are allies or friends with. But there's neither a road nor do we have any allies or friends in this gods-forsaken place. Caution is not only advised but paramount."

Scouting parties, both Dothraki and Ryswell, screened their road. Every night, they made a camp surrounded by rows of sharpened stakes hammered into the ground.

Howland prayed the Mad Lance was wrong and that their way home would be smooth, peaceful, and worry-free, even if Eddard Stark had prepared to face all sorts of adversity.

The Northmen did not seem worried, but the Lord of Winterfell became more solemn by the day. He continued his tradition of riding at the head of the column with a different man each day, listening to their woes but not showing any favour towards one House or clan over the other.

Yet Howland's fears seemed to have been brought to life.

As the afternoon sun began to crawl westward, Ryswell's scouting party returned, all agitated. Howland cursed while the Northmen quickly flocked to the Lord of Winterfell.

"A Greyjoy ship was sighted, my lord," Rickard Ryswell reported breathlessly, his face flushed. However, Howland couldn't tell if it was from excitement or exertion. "Less than two leagues down the coast."

Rogar Wull spat on the ground.

"Fucken' squids. What are they doing here?"

"Reaving, probably," Morgan Liddle eagerly palmed the shaft of his axe.

Mallo translated to the Dothraki, who seemed pale. The sea scared them still for silly superstitious reasons, and those who crossed it were considered madmen. 

"I told you the red comet was a gift," Damon smiled savagely. "It's been ten years since I've killed some Ironmen, and my new blade is thir–"

Ned raised his hand calmly; all the clamour died instantly, and even the Mad Lance swallowed his boast.

"Were there any other ships, Rickard?" 

"No, Lord Stark," Ryswell's voice quivered. "Only the single-masted dromond with a dark red hull…"

"One ship isn't enough to ferry us all back home, damn it," Ben Burley groaned with disappointment. Many others joined him, but Howland's gaze was on Rickard, whose face was pale as chalk. His agitation had not been from excitement but fear.

"This can be only the Crow's Eye," Wylis Manderly shuddered. "Balon Greyjoy's mad brother."

"What, the one that torched the Old Lion's fleet?" 

"The very same, but I heard the Lord of Pyke exiled him two years prior for some foul deed…"

That gave all of them pause. For even a madman like Balon Greyjoy to exile his flesh and blood, Euron must have done something unimaginably vile. 

"And what," Ned's voice was so cold it made Howland shudder, "was Euron Greyjoy doing when you saw him?" 

"Looting a fishing village," Ryswell grimaced. "Slaughtering the men and putting the rest of 'em in irons."

The mention of slavery darkened the face of many. It was a taboo in the Seven Kingdoms for millenia; the Old Gods and the Seven had decried such practices, and only the Ironmen still clung to their thralldom. 

"It's a terrible thing," Jory Cassell said. "But it's none of our concern, is it? This is not the Seven Kingdoms. These are not our lands or allies, so Greyjoy isn't breaking the King's Peace. By royal decree, the Ironmen have the right to raid and reave outside the Seven Kingdoms. In fact, as a fellow Westerosi, we have less reason to be hostile to him."

His words sobered many, and even Howland could admit the Stark captain was not wrong. 

"What do you suggest, then?" Rogar Wull scoffed. "Should we ask a slaver cunt like Greyjoy for aid instead? Or should we go around him?"

"Well, the Greyjoy heir is a hostage in Winterfell, is he not?" Ser Wylis muttered weakly. "Perhaps we could leverage that fact for assistance-"

"Enough," Ned's voice whipped through the clamour. "Some Ironmen can never be trusted, and Euron Greyjoy is one of them. We shall fight–and try to capture Greyjoy alive if possible. If not, we'll send the bones back to his brother. Mount up and get ready for battle. Rickard, tell me everything you saw."

***

Maelor of Myr, Essos

Another village burned around them. Maelor had lost count of how many settlements they had sacked and how many people had been slain and sacrificed, but it had to be thousands.

Greyjoy's mutes were mighty proficient at what they did. They struck quickly, cutting down any warriors or fools daring enough to resist. The women, children, and those who had surrendered were rounded up with practised ease as everything of worth was being looted while the houses were put to the torch.

It was an ugly sight but one you could see everywhere. From Yi Ti to Westerosi, they all did the same, no matter the tongue they spoke, the colour of their skin, or any fleeting claim to righteousness. From the plains of Jogos Nahai to the Arbor, noblemen would pillage and plunder when the opportunity arose. The so-called dukes and princes of Yi Ti, the barbarians of the far plains, the Dothraki, the Slavers of the Myr or Tyrosh, and the lords of the Sunset lands would all do it.

The strong devoured the weak. In this cruel world, there was no sin bigger than weakness. 

In three hours, all of it was done; the village was squeezed for its worth, as Euron loved to say in his rare bouts of wordiness. 

The silence the Crow's Eye loved so dearly was mighty unnerving. He loved drinking his shade of the evening and oft whispered to himself. The Greyjoy was mad in that there was no doubt. But there was a method to his madness, a goal.

Maelor would have lost his wits travelling on the Silence for so long if it weren't for the flames of his ambition roaring hotter than ever. They kept him warm, and they kept him sane down the dark road. Weakness was a sin, and he would grasp the ultimate power. 

Now, Maelor could feel the egg pulse with life in Euron Greyjoy's gloved hands. It was done, and only one thing remained to be done. 

"I can feel it. The power inside," the Crow Eye crooned with a wide, bloodthirsty smile. His gaze moved above at the sanguine dragon's tail whipping through the heavens. "And surely this is the herald of change."

"Yes," Maelor confirmed, his throat dry.

His powers had swelled by the day; now, he could do things he did not even think possible. Yet, as soon as the red sword split the skies, the Myrish mage could feel it in his blood. It was calling for him, his destiny.

Today was the day he would ascend, casting off the fetters of weakness and mundanity. 

"And you said it shall be done with thirteen innocent lives on a pyre?" Maelor nodded as Euron waved at the chained women and children huddled together as his men poured oil and pitch over the pyre of firewood. "Very well, it's time to hatch my dragon."

The tendons of the slaves were all cut so they could not escape, and their moaning bodies were tossed onto the pyre after being bathed in cooking oil for good measure. The egg was alive, and a living funeral of fire and blood had to be enough to hatch it.

He felt it in his bones. The red sword of destiny cleaved from the sky. It was time.

It was time.

He gripped his staff with all his strength and steeled himself–victory or death? 

The more he looked at Euron's back, the more monstrous the Crow's Eye seemed. The hellhorn was brought nearby while a mute approached his captain with a flaming torch.

"Thank you, Maelor." Euron's voice was joyful as he tossed the torch over the prisoners with one hand and the egg with the other. The flame spread in heartbeats.

The wretched screams of agony as the women and babes burned raked at Maelor's ears, but he ignored them. The stench of cooked meat choking the air, but all he could smell was victory. 

More importantly, he could feel the power thrumming from the roaring whirlwind of fire and blood, and he couldn't help but watch with anticipation and fascination.

"You have been very helpful, my friend," the Crow's Eye turned to him, and chill crawled down Maelor's spine, realising that in his fascination, he had missed his chance to strike first. "But I'm afraid you're no longer of use."

He barely managed to avoid the axe of a mute and focused on his powers.

Petals of fire streaked from his staff. Yet Maelor had no way of controlling them–most harmlessly licked at the ground while a handful set some of Greyjoy's men on fire. Many mutes moaned, writhed, and rolled on the ground to douse them off; others rushed towards the sea while some tried to run Maelor through. 

He brandished his staff again, sending more streaks of flame, but it only hit a single reaver. The mistake became apparent to the wizard then. Maeloar's powers had swelled, but he had not dared practice and train openly lest Euron's suspicion was aroused.

Just as he tugged on his powers and brandished his staff for a third time, the air was filled with a hundred whistling sounds. Maelor's mind was frozen by confusion for half a second, but the brief pause was a grave mistake.

The Myrish mage gasped in pain, unable to even scream; all he could see were stars, and his body felt like it was on fire. Someone was shrieking in pain, and it took him a few heartbeats to realise the sound was coming from his lips. 

Even his staff slipped from his grasp as he writhed on the ground. Three arrows had sunk into his flesh, and he was barely aware that the ground around him was covered in a forest of grey-brown arrow fletchings.

The whistling rapidly approached again. A rain of arrows, Maelor realised. A pained moan escaped his lips as pain bloomed in his right calf.

"What?" Euron's furious yell echoed above, but Maelor couldn't care.

Jolts of agony ran through his flesh, and even breathing felt painful. Weak, wheezing breaths slipped from his mouth as he groaned with pain. Trying to suck in breath sent slivers of pain through his chest. One of the arrows had pierced his lungs, he realised. 

His hands felt sticky and wet. A dark puddle was pooling below him. 

Even his precious power was rushing out of the flesh like a river from a broken dam.

It was over.

Maelor was dying. He crumpled on the dirt before, coughing painfully. Yet his tongue only tasted iron as he struggled not to choke. Blood.

He was dying. The realisation made the Myrish mage slump weakly. 

"WINTERFELL!"

"WULL!"

"BARROWS!"

"RYSWELL!"

The fading yells… sounded distantly familiar, as if he had heard about them before. But it didn't matter, for Maelor could feel life and warmth quickly seeping away like wine leaking from a broken jug, the pain turning numb as his consciousness dwindled.

Something shrieked in the distance. 

He shuffled weakly, only to catch a glimpse of Euron Greyjoy, whose face was filled with loathing and fury. At least the damned Crow's Eye wouldn't succeed, either, judging by the tinge of fear in his blue eye as he struggled against a fierce steel-clad mounted warrior wielding a blade of ice.

Both of them would meet in hell together.

He could feel the frigid cold taking him as the world darkened. 

Maelor died choking on his blood while trying to chuckle at the irony. 

***

Howland Reed

He had the pleasure of escorting Tommen while making sure the prince didn't decide to try his slinging skills in battle again.

They were on a small hill overlooking the burning village nestled by a crescent beach. On a small dock, a red, single-masted galley looked like an ugly bloodstain amidst the green waves. 

A disgruntled Artos Harclay, two dozen men-at-arms and the rest of the retinues who were not fighters accompanied the Howland and the prince. While their new followers, the former slaves, did not want anything to do with fighting, the same could not be said for the mountain clansman.

Unlike the previous battle, this one was easy. They had the number advantage. The Dothraki peppered the utterly unprepared Ironmen from the south with arrows, while Ned led the charge from the north, and Dustin struck with a hundred riders from the east.

It was an easy envelopment, and the reavers, far smaller in number and drunk on their victory, stood no chance.

It was hard to see what was happening from the distant hill unless you had a myrish far-eye like the prince.

"Uh, they are folding," Tommen muttered as he peeked through the elongated bronze tube. "Lord Stark just lopped off Greyjoy's head. Wasn't this Euron Greyjoy a great fighter? He lost in less than a dozen exchanges!" 

"Pah, shitty Ironmen," Harclay spat on the ground. "Only good for pillaging and raiding villages and empty castles. No good even for a decent fight, not on solid ground."

"Well, a hundred unprepared raiders against an ambush from nearly a thousand horsemen in the open," Howland pointed out wryly. "Greyjoy never stood a chance. Besides, Lord Stark was mounted while the squid was on foot."

It wasn't even three minutes before the fighting was predictably done. Heavy lancers were the bane of disorganised footmen, and the reavers had never been particularly disciplined. And Eddard Stark was nothing but a deft hand in leveraging his every advantage and exploiting his foes' weaknesses. 

"Yes," the prince wisely agreed. "They couldn't even form up in a proper line. The fighting is done."

Somehow, the fire had spread to the ship by the time they rode down to the village.

The heads of the fallen Ironmen were being cut off methodically while their bodies were searched for loot.

They were met with a rather comic scene–a stern-faced Ned was facing off against Winter, who was munching on something.

"Spit it out, boy," he ordered.

The direwolf looked reluctant but eventually opened his maw full of razor-sharp teeth, and a pale, mangled thing of leather and scales rolled down on the dirt. It was as big as a kitten. 

"Seven hells," Wylis Manderly swore. "Is that a bloody drake?"

"It was a bloody drake," Damon Dustin chortled, "but now it's a bloody chew toy."

"Gods," Morgan Liddle groaned, his face dark and his eyebrows singed. "I thought I was going mad when some flash of white started spewing fire at me from above!"

"What the fuck was that bloody fool Euron doing?" Rogar Wull burst out in a storm of curses. 

Ned, meanwhile, kneeled and picked up the small mangled thing.

"It has no eyes or legs," he said. Sure enough, the beast's colourless pale head had only two stubbly horns and a gaping toothless maw but not even slits for eyes. It even lacked hind legs–reminding Howland of a large, scaly white eel with wings. "Must have come out wrong from the egg itself. No wonder it was attacking everyone."

Cregan Knott came over, his surcoat missing and his brigandine covered in soot.

"Aye, that flying little bastard set the ropes on the ship on fire before Winter snatched it from the air. Now we don't even have a ship because the flames spread."

The hull was intact, but the vessel was useless to them without ropes, cordage, and sails.

"Dragons attack anyone who wasn't a Targaryen," Howland noted dryly.

"Well, good riddance, I say," the Mad Lance nodded wisely. "We don't need bloody fire-breathing beasts soaring through the sky again. One of these can kill hundreds in a minute if it grows, or worse, melt castles."

Many murmured with agreement, and Howland also nodded his head. When the Conqueror came, they bent the knee before the dragon. It did not mean they liked it, though. The Targaryens considered themselves above gods and men with those enormous, fire-breathing beasts at their beck and call.

Such power that could not be contested by anyone but other dragonriders invited fear, hate, and loathing when used. And many from the House of the Dragon never shied away from using it to get whatever they wanted. All you could do was bow and swallow whatever indignity they asked of you or die.

Howland shuddered to imagine what the likes of Euron Greyjoy or Aerys the Mad would have done with a grown dragon under their command. A madman with a sword could be defeated, but one with a dragon?

Ned sighed and tossed away the mangled corpse back into the waiting jaw of Winter. The direwolf quickly crunched through it with relish as many watched with morbid fascination.

Yet that was far from the only surprise. Half an hour later, the loot and some of the effects of the burning ship were gathered. The sailors claimed the Silence was cursed by all those souls Euron had sacrificed aboard his ship, so nobody shed a tear about it.

There was plenty of gold, gems, and good quality arms and armour, but that was not everything. 

For once, nobody was even glancing at the chest of wealth, not even the sailors, camp followers, or the Dothraki. 

"So much Valyrian Steel," all the eyes were on the small pile before Lord Stark.

"Have you not heard?" Damon Dustin tutted as he patted the scabbard of his dragonsteel blade. "If you're lucky, you can find these things around every corner in Essos. I read some book when I was young claiming there were nearly six thousand named blades here, and gods know how many unnamed."

"You wouldn't know a book even if it smacked you in the face," Artos Harclay jeered.

"Bold words coming from-"

"Stop squabbling like children," Ned said impatiently, cutting through the argument.

Knott, Slate, Liddle, and Manderly were almost drooling at the sight and were far from the only ones.

"I thought they didn't make armour from dragonsteel," Rickard Ryswell muttered as his eyes were set on the scaled mail coat taken from Euron Greyjoy's corpse. It was forged of overlapping dark, smoky rhomboid scales inscribed with Valyrian glyphs. The armour lacked a helmet and a gorget and had not saved its previous owner. Its collar was covered with crimson bloodstains, tokens left of Greyjoy's beheading. 

"Let us test it," Eddard Stark unsheathed his icy sword, filling the surrounding air with a soft chill, and he lashed out at the sleeves of the armoured coat.

TING!

The sword bounced off the dark metal, and Howland cringed as the air was filled with a lingering sound akin to a wounded beast's cry. 

"Definitely not ordinary steel," Walder grunted. 

"I shall be using this one," the Lord of Winterfell declared, daring anyone to challenge him. But none did, for he had been the one to kill Euron Greyjoy. There was also a Valyrian Steel dagger on the hip of its belt.

"What of the rest?" Damon Dustin pointed at the two axes, five swords, and seven daggers of various sizes on the pile. There were a handful of trinkets–rings, cups, pendants, and a few inscribed circlets hacked off by the barrowknight from some dark horn, but nobody seemed particularly interested. 

The Mad Lance already had a dragonsteel arakh and was not as eager as the others for such a blade.

Ned picked up a greatsword with a decayed and rusted golden lion-head pommel.

"Brightroar?" Manderly muttered.

"I think so," Rickard Ryswell tilted his head at the blade. "Did that mad bastard Euron sail into bloody Valyria?"

"That would certainly explain where he got a dragon egg and this much dragonsteel," Ned sighed. "Brightroar goes to Tommen."

Many nodded seriously, and the greatsword was shoved into the stunned prince's hands. It made for a comical sight, for the blade was slightly taller than himself at five feet.

Nobody objected. 

Not because Tommen could claim the blade through House Lannister but because it was taken from the corpse of Euron Greyjoy. It was Eddard Stark's spoils or war, and he was the one to decide what to do with them. Yet the declaration was made without any hesitation–none could ever doubt Ned's honour and integrity. 

However, the remaining weapons received many glances filled with greed and desire. They had been looted from Euron's captain quarters in the Silence, not taken in battle, which meant they technically belonged to Lord Stark.

But Ned was not one to cling to excessive greed or ambition, which meant some people would walk away with dragonsteel arms today.

"As for the rest… we shall count kills, and the top can pick amongst them."

It took another twenty minutes of pointing fingers, arguing, explaining, and counting until Ned figured out who killed how many.

It came to nobody's surprise that Red Wake Walder had killed the most. The Giant of Winterfell gruffly picked the bigger axehead, probably to mount it on his poleaxe. The man was terrifying even without a dragonsteel weapon, and Howland shuddered to imagine the carnage he could unleash on the battlefield with one.

Ned was second, and he graciously picked a Valyrian Steel necklace encrusted with a diamond for his wife. 

"Ah, the Lady Stark is a lucky woman," Damon Dustin chortled. He had been third in kills, courtesy of that dragonsteel curved sword of his that simply allowed him to slice through armour when ahorse. "If Lord Stark is so gracious in his choices, I cannot be any lesser! I'll take a ring for that lass I fancy."

"Since when did you even notice women?" Arland Slate sniggered. "Everyone knows you have eyes only for horses, lances, and swords."

"Pah, I like women well enough, you dolt," the Mad Lance snarked fiercely. "You can forget getting an invitation to my wedding."

Morgan Liddle got the second axe, Rickard Ryswell snagged a purple-tinted longsword, Rogar Wull took a dark greatsword, and the surprised Ashton Ironsmith picked another greatsword with sanguine smokey ripples. Jory Cassell won the final pale bastard sword.

"What do we do with the corpses?" Howland asked.

"Line their heads across the shore on top of spears and spikes," his friend decided. "Boil Euron's bones so we have something to send to Pyke."

"The damned reavers toss their dead into the sea," Rogar Wull gruffed. "To join that drowned god of theirs."

Yet Ned's face was an icy mask.

"It doesn't matter. True, Euron was a vile man, but so what? Today, we killed him despite not doing any of us any wrong. The least I can do is return his bones to his brother. Let Balon throw them in the Sunset Sea should he wish."

***

8th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

The Spider, King's Landing

"It's an omen of blood and murder," Cregan Karstark had claimed, looking at the red comet soaring above the clouds. "Of the resurgence of the Old Gods."

"Crimson for House Lannister," the king had declared. "My grandfather shall return victorious."

Varys was more inclined to agree with the Northman. The comet looked like it tore through the starry sky, weeping tears of crimson in its wake, like a gaping wound.

King's Landing was fully prepared for a siege; the gates had been fortified heavily, and the gold cloaks and all men-at-arms were drilling daily. 

Tywin had ordered everyone who could not gather three years' worth of food to leave the city on pain of death. The waterfront between the Blackwater Rush and the city walls had been scoured by flame, and all the houses huddled within five hundred yards of any of the walls were burned to ash.

Of course, many were slow to comply, and the city's citizens were becoming disgruntled.

The Fat One urging his septons to preach about heresy to combat the Rose Septon did not help. 

Alas, the war was not going very well for Joffrey. Three devastating losses left Tywin alone. Over five thousand Westermen had died in the disastrous defeat near Crakehall, and many more had been captured. With Crakehall fallen and sacked, John Oakheart now marched towards Lannisport completely unopposed. 

Dozens of raiding parties thirsty for gold and vengeance were ravaging the Westerlands unopposed as retaliation for Clegane's raids. 

The old Lion was dangerous, but no assistance was coming in. Robb Stark did not seem to have inherited the mind for battle his father possessed and even managed to turn away a lord with four thousand swords from his cause. Lord Mathis Rowan would doubtlessly block or crush the young wolf-pup at the Ruby Ford if he dared attempt a crossing.

The Lord of Goldengrove was an experienced veteran of many battles and three wars, and he had the numerical advantage, while the young Lord Stark couldn't be any greener.

Nobody doubted the outcome of that battle. 

Mace Tyrell, however, was a wily fox, and he would doubtlessly be wary of the cornered lion.

Penrose also showed restraint, caution, and foresight. After Jaime Lannister was slain and his host broken, he dug himself up at the edges of the Kingswood and started furiously chopping down lumber. Within days, three tall layers of palisade were raised, and the rest was piled up for drying. A few raids from the royal marines across the Blackwater Rush tried to stop him, but with no success. 

Tywin also had not dared to cross on the other side of the Blackwater and confront his son's killer, lest Mace Tyrell blocked his way back to the city–the only bridge across the Blackwater Rush was sixty miles upstream. 

"The next two battles are essential," Kevan sighed in one council meeting where Joffrey was absent, again busy with his whoring. "If we lose them both, it is over for us."

Nobody harboured much hope for Robb Stark, but the old lion had a chance to succeed.

"If that bridge is as narrow and as long as you say, Renly would have to paint the Blackwater red to force a crossing," Karstark hummed. "And even then, he might fail."

If Robert's brother wanted to take King's Landing, he had to take the bridge up the Rush that linked the Crownlands with the gold road. The Blackwater was deep with quick and treacherous currents, and the only fords were far upstream, deep into the Riverlands and useless to Renly's goals.

Yet it was not an easy bridge to cross, for Tywin was turtling up at its end with forty thousand swords and was dead-set not to allow Renly to pass. However, a tenth of that were all Essos mercenaries and unreliable. 

While Renly's host neared double the size Lord Lannister boasted, the old stone bridge was a narrow, long passage where numbers didn't matter much. However, according to Kevan and Karstark, Renly would fan out his forces, building barges and wooden bridges and force Tywin to stretch himself thin and defend many beachheads along the river.

Yet Varys professed to know little about warfare. 

He wanted Joffrey to lose, but not yet. The Old Lion was supposed to fight a long, brutal war and weaken both sides.

Tywin Lannister was not supposed to lose every battle. What happened to his lauded command and warfare skills?

Even fear did not work as much, for how could they fear a Hand who suffered three devastating defeats in a row? How could men be afraid of someone they now mocked in their cups?

Men planned and schemed, and the gods laughed. Aegon was far from ready. Barristan had filled the boy's head with dreams of glorious victory and the swill of breaking the chains of slavery. Or some worthless faded connection to the legacy of Saera the Whore. 

Varys still struggled to wrap his head around how they convinced Connington, let alone the Golden Company, to support a slave revolt in Volon Therys and start a bloody war against Volantis.

Now, he had no choice but to delay Joffrey's looming defeat as much as possible so that Aegon could return to his senses. If Renly won and had enough time to consolidate his place on the Iron Throne, his nephew's quest would become ten times harder, if not outright impossible.

Things were looking so bad that even the Imp had stopped sending sellswords. Or perhaps he had stopped looking and decided to cut his losses and move to the Summer Isles?

Alas, Varys had no connections in Essos–he was using Illyrio's network instead. His good friend was limited to Lys, Pentos, and parts of Braavos. The Free Cities were far more used to the workings of soft power, and spreading your spies and influence too far and wide unnoticed was a slow and costly endeavour.

Sadly, no matter how hard he wanted to aid Joffrey and delay his looming defeat, Varys could not conjure swords, spears, and knights out of thin air.

Mace Tyrell and Renly had solidified their force, and three victories only added to their momentum. 

Now, they were at yet another council meeting, trying to find a way to tilt the scales of war in their favour. Of course, Joffrey was absent, visiting his favourite whore, some silver-haired chit named Arael from the Mermaid. 

The establishment was an old pillow house founded by Roggerio Rogare, who sold it quickly after the Lyseni spring had ended. However, nearly two centuries later, it was still considered an upscale brothel employing women from Lys. All of them were freed pleasure slaves who had supposedly decided to continue plying their trade as free women.

"Have any of the ravens or messengers returned?" Kevan asked.

Before he departed to fortify the bridge, Tywin had sent many letters and envoys to Dorne, the Iron Islands, and even the Vale, trying to cajole some sort of assistance or alliance, but no response had arrived. Varys was dying to know what the old lion had offered in desperation, but Pycelle guarded his letters jealously.

The Grandmaester just wrung his wrinkled hands nervously. 

"None yet, I'm afraid."

"At least the Redwyne fleet has yet to leave the Arbor," Varys muttered weakly. And his efforts to smear Renly's name had continued. Rumours about his tendencies and unholy love for swords began spreading like wildfire, but it was too little to tilt the scales of victory.

Cregan Karstark scoffed. 

"This war shall be won on land. Besides, nobody wants to join a king in defeat, no matter what you offer." He cracked his knuckles. "We need one win. One victory and those who hesitate will turn amiable to our side."

"You speak wisely, my lord," the Spider bowed. "We shall pray harder for Lord Tywin's victory."

That only earned him a glare of annoyance; the Northman had no love for eunuchs. Yet Varys' words were genuine this time. He prayed for one victory to delay Renly's advance. Two, even maybe three, would be better. He had also prayed for Aegon to find his wits and abandon the folly he had undertaken with Volantis.

"Don't write off the young Lord Stark," the Northman grunted. "Edmure Tully still has over fifteen thousand swords despite his defeat. If he links up with his nephew, they can pincer Rowan and make him rue the day he allowed hostages to burn."

"Alas, he's too far to make a difference," Varys sighed. "The young Ser Tully is recuperating at Lychester, about two hundred miles from the Ruby Ford or Harrenhal."

Burning of captives had enraged many–especially the Northmen at court. The Blackwood boy and the other followers of the old gods had been fed to the fire by overzealous fools on the grounds of heresy.

The septon inciting them had been hanged, but that gate had been opened. The battle near Crakehall had told a similar tale, and the war was turning ugly. All wars were brutal, woeful affairs, but this one was shaping to be worse than most.

If hostages were not spared, who would surrender anymore? 

"Surely we can do something?" Lord Lyden bemoaned.

"Train hard to keep your sword arm sharp," Karstark snorted. 

"Pray harder," offered Varys.

"Hope for the ravens to return, accepting the Lord Hand's alliance offers," Kevan replied grimly.

Yet Varys knew it wasn't likely. Balon Greyjoy cared little for Greenlander wars, as he called them; Dorne would rather shank Tywin in the back than join him, and the Vale was busy squabbling over young Robert Arryn's regency. And Kevan or anyone else could do nothing but watch so long as the Bloody Gate remained closed and defended by Arryn's best men. 

"We can perhaps discuss the new kingsguard appointments," Lord Lyden coughed.

Ser Barristan was dismissed, and the Kingslayer, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Boros Blount had perished in the Battle of the Kingswood. 

The once-lauded order of chivalry and renown was in dire straits–halved in numbers and crippled in strength. Even now, Joffrey always had two with him while he allowed the other two to rest–the poor queen was not afforded the courtesy of a white cloak's protection.

Yet talking about the Kingsguard was futile–Joffrey did not like anyone from his name-day tourney besides Ser Robert Brax, who had been honoured to don the white cloak. Yet the Brax knight was not half as good as Moore or Trant, if better than the late Boros Blount, which was not saying much.

They couldn't even agree on who they wanted to promote to the next Lord Commander. Moore had the most experience, but nobody liked the dead-eyed Valeman. Trant and Oakheart hailed from the Stormlands and the Reach and hadn't done anything of note to be awarded the lauded position.

Alas, the meeting ended again without much success.

They were cornered, and they knew it. Varys despaired inwardly.

How could Renly have all the competent men and numbers under his command while lackwits followed Joffrey? Surely there would be at least one capable commander? At this rate, he might need to cut his losses and disappear.

As he prowled through the lower, less traversed hallways of the Red Keep, Varys heard stifled moans and shuffling of clothes behind one of the less visited passages.

Alas, even as the kingdoms went to shit, it seemed lust knew no rest. Varys didn't know much about lust other than that it made both men and women lose their wits. It wasn't rare for some handmaiden or scullery servants to have a hasty affair with some handsome red cloak, rugged man-at-arms, or dashing knight serving at the royal seat.

Yet he was unable to suppress his curiosity, and he silently approached. He was the master of whispers, and it was his job to know such things.

Behind the corner stood a looming tall, muscled man with a golden wool cloak over his shoulders. A petite woman with pale white limbs clutched his body like a monkey would a tree trunk. 

The men taller than seven feet in this city could be counted on one hand. And there was only one of them in the gold cloaks. Besides, Varys had seen this one before, and the messy raven-like locks were a dead giveaway.

Gerold Waters was one of Robert's many bastards, a butcher's grandson and now a rising star in the city watch under Balon Swann. He was taller than his father and just as strong; if rumours were true, he would become a captain in the city watch within three years. Varys had not expected Robert's baseborn children to last that long, but with Cersei stuck in the Maidenvault, there was nobody to even bother with them.

Seeing the bastard follow in his father's footsteps wasn't that surprising. Not nearly as startling as the golden-haired maiden he was fucking.

It was Myrielle Lannister, Joffrey's wife and queen.

And she was wearing the garments of her Lanny handmaid, which meant they had probably swapped places for the day.

The formerly elegant and noble maiden moaned and shook like some wanton whore, clearly enjoying herself all too much. By the sound of it, Gerold Waters seemed far more skilled in pleasing his partners than Joffrey. 

Varys cautiously stepped away, careful not to produce any sound. Once he managed to put enough distance, he started to giggle quietly.

Oh, the irony! The gods were surely laughing at House Lannister. Nothing was worse than a spurned lioness; history seemed to repeat itself.

Would Myrielle's children come out looking dark-haired and blue-eyed?

This knowledge wouldn't help Joffrey's cause much, but Varys would gladly add it to his collection of secrets. If that turned out true, it would help to douse any rumours of his parentage.

Yet, as the day slowly dwindled, the Spider busied himself with his birds for hours. When he finally emerged from the secret passages, he found the Red Keep in a rush of panic as guardsmen ran around almost like headless chickens.

"What's happening?" Varys approached an agitated red cloak. Had they caught poor Gerold Waters so quickly?

"There's a riot in the city, and Lord Karstark is sallying out of the Red Keep to clear the streets and find His Grace!"

The sky was already darkening as the setting sun dyed the clouds to the west red. The crimson comet could still be seen streaking through the sky–an omen of blood and murder.

The Spider hastily made his way atop the Red Keep's curtain walls while slowly piecing the story from the passing servants and guardsmen. 

Joffrey had gotten drunk. It wasn't a new occurrence since the boy desired to emulate his royal father. However, unlike Robert, Joffrey did not easily take to heavy amounts of wine, and he had gotten heavily inebriated. 

Drunk enough to almost run over a septon and quarrel with a disgruntled crowd. Drunk enough to demand the septon's head–and the bloody imbecile Ser Mandor Moore had beheaded the priest without any hesitation. 

And once blood had been spilt, everything had gone into a frenzy. And, of course, Joffrey had called for all of their heads.

Varys could imagine it now; the increased taxes, customs, and tariffs made too many chafe. The tension between the Faith and the old gods, the schism, the war, the heresy, and possibly Tywin attempting to kick out a good chunk of the people living in the city had too many on edge.

All it had taken was a single spark to ignite a raging bonfire. A spark that Joffrey had carelessly provided in his drunk rage.

Atop the ramparts, the city could hardly be seen. Fires–torches, lanterns, were like rivers in some streets, yet couldn't be seen in others. With some struggle, Varys could gleam the streets churning with blood and death as the echoes of pain and agony reached even Aegon's hill.

Would Joffrey's terrible luck ever end?

This was too much to be a coincidence, and even Varys was unwilling to admit it.

Were the gods punishing Joffrey and the Lannisters for their numerous crimes?

"Father above," another horrified cry of a nearby guard caught his attention.

Varys spun around and traced the man-at-arm's pointed hand.

His heart skipped a beat.

To the east, the Blackwater Bay was choked with ships and flames. The royal fleet was surrounded and on fire, strangled by a ring of enemy vessels. 

He knew their sails. The purple snail was the sigil of a Free City. Varys loathed surprises with a burning passion, and this day had been too full of them.

Why in the seven bloody hells was the Tyroshi fleet attacking them?!