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.

***

19th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299AC

Tyrek Lannister, the Golden Road Bridge

Tyrek Lannister was a dutiful squire and always did his utmost to fulfil the orders of his lord or knight. Being the late king's squire had been a heavy challenge, and not in the honourable way, the way the mettle of men was forged. It was a relief when his Uncle took him in as his aide.

Yet his relief was short-lived.

The Lord of Casterly Rock was nothing but demanding in every aspect. Shining his armour, spars, courtesies, drills, horseriding, warfare, other lessons, or even lesser chores had to be done with the utmost skill, precision, and speed. It pushed Tyrek to the limit, and he went to sleep each night tired, with his body bruised and sore.

After a week, he almost began to miss Robert Baratheon and his dismissive insults. Almost. 

"You might wonder why I do not request the same thing from Roland Moreland," Tywin said once Tyrek noticed his fellow squire was not as burdened as he was. Roland Moreland was a spindly red-haired boy one year older than him and the second son of Lord Moreland.

"I have, my lord," Tyrek bowed his head.

"It's because he is not a Lannister. Our family ruled the Westerlands for millennia, but not through mediocrity. You are my brother, Tygett's sole child, and I expect you to become more than just another knight who struts around after getting his arse knocked out in some joust by his betters."

The Old Lion had grasped his shoulders that day, pinning him with his steely gaze. "Being a Lannister of Casterly Rock is a matter of pride and excellence. Remember that, Tyrek."

The words were hard but fair, like everything else about Tywin Lannister.

So Tyrek gave his all, even when things seemed grim. A rider had come from King's Landing just now, half dead with exhaustion–the man had not stopped until he saw the camp and handed over the message before collapsing with a short explanation. Tyrek volunteered to bring it to Lord Lannister as a dutiful squire. Not many wanted to be the bringers of bad words to his uncle, for lately, any news was of the terrible variety, so the sentries were reluctant to take in a messenger.

What if they brought word of another devastating defeat, another bloody loss?

He still remembered that day when news of Jaime Lannister's death came. None had dared to take the message and bring it to lord Tywin but him. That day, Tyrek had learned even silence could be terrifying, for the Lord of Casterly Rock spoke no words and just stared into the distance, yet the young Lannister Squire felt like a thousand ants were crawling up his spine. 

Yet this time–this time was different. If the other squires knew what the tired rider had told Tyrek, they would have brawled to bring this message to Lord Tywin. Even the guardsmen had let the man pass with disinterest once they verified he was from King's Landing. Everyone was treating the messenger as a leper. But their loss was Tyrek's gain. 

The neat rows of crimson tents looked particularly dreary this evening, and he could see many disgruntled and morose faces gathered around the campfires.

The gloom had taken hold of the Lannister camp as of late.

"We're fighting alone," plenty of men-at-arms said. After three battles–three devastating defeats, it seemed that Lord Lannister had run out of allies. No relief force was coming, and they falsely thought Stark was too young to win against the capable Lord Rowan. 

Worse, the Westerlands were aflame at the mercy of Lord Oakheart, who was now pillaging as far as his outriders could reach while the bulk of his host marched towards Lannisport. Nobody thought Casterly Rock could fall, but the city nestled below was harder to defend than the seat of House Lannister.

Anger and a sense of powerlessness had gripped the hearts of the men–their homes were either being sacked or in peril, and they were far away, unable to defend their kith and kin. Worse, Stafford's army had been slaughtered almost entirely. Now, very few swords were left in the Westerlands: the Lannisport City Watch, a handful of garrisons and less than two thousand who had managed to survive the Reachmen's pursuit. 

The Crakehalls–the burly Lord Rolland and his three sons, had sworn eternal vengeance with House Oakheart over the brutal sacking of their seat. Nobody had survived the storming of the keep; cousins, aunts, uncles, wives, daughters and babes had all perished under the Reachmen's wrath.

"My lord, why are the Reachmen being so… brutal," Tyrek had asked when Crakehall had fallen. "They could have surely taken more hostages and not slaughtered the running levies."

"Because they can," the reply was as quiet as a grave, as his uncle did not lift his gaze from the map of the Seven Kingdoms. "Because war is a savage, bloody affair bereft of all honour, and all who claim otherwise are fools or liars. Because Ser Burton Crakehall, the castellan of Crakehall, dared to resist instead of surrendering, causing many to die in the storming. Because the Reachmen think they are winning, the victor takes all, and the loser suffers what they must."

Tyrek had not dared ask more. The Reachmen were not the only ones who thought Renly was winning–everyone in the Lannister camp was of a similar opinion, even if none dared voice it. Was this their fate? To be at the mercy of the so-called chivalry of the Reach?

Across the Blackwater Rush, Renly Baratheon and Mace Tyrell's forces had been arrayed as far as Tyrek could see. Their camp spread out from both ends of the horizon and was full of cheer, vigour, feasting, and even songs that could be heard late at night. Seven leagues downstream near the Kingswood was Cortnay Penrose, leading another fifteen thousand swords from the Stormlands, fervently building rafts and barges.

They had sent an envoy to negotiate–which had predictably failed, as neither side would budge. 

The next day, the skirmishes had begun–Mace Tyrell would try to cross the river in force in various locations, probing their defences. The heavily fortified bridge has not been stormed yet. Still, the war had turned into a contest of prodding–Renly's forces would test the Lannister defences, trying to cross the Blackwater or find a weakness, while the Westermen would try their best to prevent them from crossing and plug in any gaps.

Tens of clashes happened across the river every day, stretching for tens of miles as their foes looked for weakness. The Reachmen found none, courtesy of Lord Tywin's meticulous preparation and planning. For now.

Alas, the men were reluctant; they were reluctant to fight for Joffrey.

"The young boy king is cursed," Tyrek had heard a pikeman whisper around the campfires one night. "Anyone who fights for him loses!"

The other men-at-arms around did not deny it. He realised that fighting was not the problem then. It was dying and defeat–an ugly, undignified way to go. How many muttered the same thing away from the ears of the captains and their knights?

Desertion had become a problem–every night, more than a dozen men tried to sneak away in the darkness but were all caught and hanged by morning for everyone to see. Each time a word of defeat came, the resolve in the soldier's eyes dwindled, their faces grew grim, and their postures grew more slack. Every day, Renly's enormous army loomed on the other side of the river, more active, more vigorous, hanging like a headsman's axe over their necks.

Tyrek understood their fear. If they lost here… there would be no mercy, just like Stafford Lannister and the Crakehalls had not been spared. The levies, knights, and men-at-arms would be hunted down, and perhaps, if you were important enough, you would be taken hostage. If you survived the heat of the bloody battle, that was. 

And with every passing day, defeat had seemed more and more likely. Each day, the crows and vultures circling in the sky swelled in number like dark messengers of death waiting to feast on the flesh of the fallen. 

But not all was lost. Tyrek gripped the roll of parchment in his gloved fist as he finally reached the enormous crimson pavilion atop the hill where his lordly uncle resided.

The pair of red cloaks wordlessly let him in, their faces grim as if expecting bad news, and even his reassuring smile did not help. Tyrek couldn't even blame them…

As usual, his uncle was as still as a statue clad in crimson silk and golden velvet, leaning over a massive table with a detailed map of the Seven Kingdoms strewn over. He always did that as of late, as if he was looking for some way out, a road to victory. 

"Tyrek," Tywin acknowledged his presence with an emotionless nod. "What is it this time? Has the Wall crumbled down?"

Tyrek's mouth went dry, and his knees felt weak. His uncle had that effect on people even on a good day. 

"No, my lord."

"Has that bandit Oakheart breached Lannisport and somehow taken Casterly Rock, then?"

"No, my lord."

"Has Joffrey slipped down the stairs like his drunken oaf of a father and snapped his neck?" Tywin exhaled, his green eyes flashing with a feeling Tyrek could not even begin deciphering. "Or has Mathis Rowan bested the young Lord Stark? Which one is it this time?"

Tyrek was unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, but either would see him punished.

"Neither, my lord," he bowed instead. "Lord Stark has won a great victory on the banks of the Trident."

The Lord of Casterly Rock squinted his eyes.

"A great victory, you say," he muttered to himself, a single golden eyebrow slightly raised on his expressionless face.

"Yes. The messenger arrived from King's Landing just now," Tyrek almost choked, trying to push down his joy. "Lord Rowan's forces were flattened, and he barely managed to run away to save his life. Sixteen thousand Reachmen were slain, and word is Robb Stark had all of their heads cut off and lined on spikes along the shores of the Trident."

There was a pause as Tyrek witnessed the Lion of Lannister gawk, actually gawk at him, though it was so short, so fleeting, it could have been his imagination.

And then Tywin Lannister laughed. 

His chest shook, producing a harsh, rumbling sound that made Tyrek cringe and step back with fear. He had never seen his uncle even smile, let alone laugh. Many said the Lord of Casterly Rock was incapable of joy, but they were now all proven wrong, and it sent shivers down the boy's spine. 

"Give me the message," the lord shook himself, face turning stern as every trace of joy had disappeared as if it had never been there. "And go spread the word across the camp. Let my quartermaster bring out the barrels of ale and wine. Tonight, the men shall celebrate–each man can have a cup and an extra serving of mutton."

Tyrek dropped the message into the waiting hand as if it was aflame and hastily ran towards the quartermaster because he was a dutiful boy. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his uncle scared him. 

***

20th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

The Rose Queen

"How?" Renly's easy smile was gone; her husband looked like he had swallowed a lemon, and even his hair was dishevelled, for they had probably woken him up in haste an hour earlier than he was used to. "Sixteen thousand men dead! Wasn't Robb Stark supposed to be some green boy?!" 

They gathered in the royal pavilion as the morning mists from the river had wreathed it with a shroud of grey. Margaery couldn't help but shudder, but the sun was already peeking from the mist, ready to banish the cold.

However, the royal council was filled with grim, disgruntled, or angry faces for the first time. Even when the Mountain had been burning down Septs and slaughtering villages by the score, they were not as worried. Margaery felt queasy; she had seen death in a tourney before, but trying to imagine sixteen thousand heads lined across the length of the Trident made her feel sick. 

"Rowan underestimated him," Tarly coldly pointed out.

"He was far from the only one," Paxter Redwyne muttered, shaking his head.

Renly slammed a fist on the table, making the wood groan.

"Was not Mathis Rowan a veteran commander, a seasoned warrior of many battles?" He hissed, face beginning to redden. "He had more men, bloodied in battle against Tully. He had the superior position. And he bloody lost against a green boy!"

Even Margaery shuffled with unease at this outburst. Her husband had always been charming and mild-mannered. Yet now, when faced with adversity, with defeat, he looked like a completely different man. Her father had always said defeat was a bitter dish to swallow, and it seemed he was right. 

The Lord of Horn Hill glanced at the map. 

"Stark traded numbers for speed, and it worked. Rowan expected him later and was unprepared, for the Young Wolf arrived too quickly. He baited a part of Lord Mathis' forces towards the White Bridge five leagues downstream, but it seems like five thousand of his heavy lancers had already crossed." Tarly dragged his gloved finger downward at a dot just above the mouth of the Trident. "Probably at the legendary Widow's Ford."

"A costly mistake," Baelor Hightower grunted, a fierce frown on his face. Margaery didn't need to know how to read minds to know what her uncle was thinking–arrogance was a sin, and the gods had punished poor Mathis Rowan for it. If you won–it was because the Seven willed it, and you had their favour. If you lost, it was clearly the reverse. Such dangerous thinking had spread like wildfire across their camp, and men thought their cause was righteous and could do whatever they wanted if they won. "How did the scouts not see his movements?"

Tarly just shrugged. 

"Vile sorcery, no doubt," Paxter Redwyne muttered, face pale. "We've all heard of the witchcraft and sorcery of Eddard Stark. Surely, he would teach his son as well."

Whispers around the tent told of the direwolf seen with Robb Stark. Some claimed the young Lord could also turn to one, while others warily looked at the ravens surrounding their camp. Was it because of that red comet that bled across the sky for days, showing favour for the Lion of Lannister?

Her husband had swallowed his anger, though his knuckles were still white as he squeezed his gilded sceptre. 

"How can his army move so fast? You told me it would be weeks, if not a whole moon, before we even had to deal with Stark!"

Margaery knew Renly harboured a heavy dislike for the wolves of the North for some reason, but this small victory had caused him to lose his cool and impeccable dignity. It was like a worm gnawing on his insides. 

"It is possible," Randyll Tarly's words thickened with begrudging respect. "If he has no supply carts, camp followers, or infantry. Should every man be mounted, mule or horse–even the marksmen and the supplies."

"It doesn't matter," Baelor Hightower raised his chin, face filled with righteousness. "This cruelty must be repaid in full!"

"That's how all of this started, Ser," her father pointed out coldly. "Tywin sent his brigands to sow fear, and he reaped the fires of vengeance. The hearts of men were aflame when the battles happened. Joffrey raised the matter of heresy, and our side had to respond in turn. Besides, what do you want us to do? The West is already burning, and Rowan pillaged a fifth of the Riverlands. This must be Stark's response to the death of the Blackwood boy."

None dared meet her father's heavy gaze, even Margaery. 

She felt ill–when the crown was placed atop her head, it felt like a grand achievement, as she was on top of the world, and everything would be a path of flowers and sunshine. And now, tens of thousands were dying for it. It was not just knights and men-at-arms–old crones and greybeards, young boys and girls, women were despoiled or even slain, and the babes at their breast were not spared either. 

Yet it was too late to turn back. The crown was already resting atop her head, Renly's son was growing in her womb, and they could only walk the path to victory, no matter how many corpses would pave it.

Margaery, however, had steeled herself. Her childish notions had already been broken, and the Game, as her grandmother called it, had to be won, even if the wanton death and savagery saddened her. The cruel Lion of Lannister would do much worse if he won. 

"It is not all doom and gloom. At least we have managed to capture Theon Greyjoy." Her father's face turned pensive. "Mathis Rowan is sending him this way with all haste. The heir of the Iron Isles is an invaluable hostage-"

A hurried Eryk Cafferen entered the tent, making all of them pause. The Lord of Fawnton was the new master of whispers, appointed with Margaery's insistence. She had aimed for a man from the Stormlands so the Stormlords would not feel slighted over being left out of the small council. Of course, her husband had chosen Cafferen, a silent, short man with a face that reminded her of a brick and an eerie gaze that unnerved you the more you looked at him.

"What is it now?" Renly barked out.

"The Tyroshi blockade on King's Landing has been lifted," the master of whispers coughed. It was another bitter topic.

Paxter Redwyne rubbed his face tiredly.

"How?" He asked. "The royal fleet is gone. Did the damned Essosi just break our agreement, pick their things and leave?"

"No, my Lord Redwyne. Shireen Baratheon mustered her bannermen, gathered a small fleet of personal ships, and won seven battles in three days, and the rest of the Tyroshi fleet retreated, laden heavy with loot and slaves."

Margaery's thoughts went blank, but she was far from the only one. Silence. The tent was as silent as a crypt.

"Pardon me, Lord Cafferen," she coughed. "Perhaps you meant her regent, the infamous Onion Knight? Or perhaps her vassal, Lord Monford Velaryon, a seasoned sailor and captain?" 

The master of whispers grimaced as he sat opposite the silent Loras. After those nights, Margaery could barely stand to look at her brother; in the rare cases she did, he dared not meet her eyes. 

"No, Your Grace. My informants are clear–the young Lady was seen commanding her small fleet from the Fury, her father's flagship in each battle."

"This is madness!" Lord Redwyne's face had twisted with disbelief. "The battlefield is no place for women, let alone young girls! How old is she? Eight? Nine?"

"Eleven, I believe," Hightower supplied glumly. "Well, did you expect the lords of the Narrow Sea to just roll over and let their villages and towns be plundered by some slavers?" Her uncle and the High Septon had been disgruntled with the slaving raids but did not voice it openly–mostly because it was happening to Joffrey's bannermen.

Besides, it weakened Tywin's position without attracting the hatred of the locals towards Renly or House Tyrell.

"I did not expect them to mount a defence," her father retorted. "As for the plundering and looting, it is just war. Only those savage Essosi take in the men, women and children instead of despoiling or slaying them."

"This can only be a ruse," the master of ships continued denying. "She must be a figurehead there!"

Cafferen smiled thinly, "Well, the word is she was seen nailing down the Tyroshi sailors and slavers with a crossbow in battle, my lord."

"My brother's stubbornness continues haunting me even after he perished," Renly's words were laden with distaste. "I would not be surprised if Stannis raised my pitiful niece like a boy, with warfare and fighting in her mind."

Truth be told, nobody had paid Shireen Baratheon any heed. Why would they? After her father and mother died, she was a child with some smuggler from Fleabottom for a regent. The last time Dragonstone had been a power in its own right was before the Dance when the Dragonmont was home to a dozen dragons, not for the paltry number of swords they could call.

Alas, the late Lord of Dragonstone had taught his daughter very well, if in an unprecedented manner. Could Margaery be brave enough to pick up arms, lead men in battle, and defend her home? 

"I can sail my fleet and deal with your errant niece, Your Grace," Paxter proclaimed loudly. "Within half a hundred days, King's Landing would be blockaded by sea, and not even a smuggler would be able to pass!"

Margaery barely contained her snort. Her good uncle's boast sounded empty in her ears; he had not dared to fight the full might of the royal fleet–giving one excuse or the other to save his precious trade ships. It was why her father had proposed negotiating with the Archonate of Tyrosh back then–to preserve the Reach's fleets and to take Joffrey and Tywin by surprise, for the movements of the Arbor would be well-watched. And it worked.

"I still remember the taste of salted fish and onions even after all those years, my lord," Renly said with a sigh, and Paxter shrunk at the reminder of his failure as her husband turned expressionless. "No, you will do no such thing. Tywin would doubtlessly have each port in the Crownlands fortified now, and resupplying will be a bitter struggle."

The Hand looked at the map with a frown.

"We face a much greater problem. If Robb Stark links up with his uncle Edmure, they would have thirty thousand swords together," he pointed at Lychester. "And while Mathis Rowan can hold Harrenhal with his four thousand men-"

Margaery tuned out the martial talk. Yes, Robb Stark seemed to have evened the odds to Joffrey's side, but nobody seemed particularly worried; at most, she could see caution and pensiveness in their eyes. Rowan's mistake would not be repeated. 

Warfare could be left to the men; it was their duty. She, however, had other things to consider in this loveless marriage. It had been a heavy blow to her, but Margaery had resigned herself to it. But if she would not have love, she would have all the power she could grasp. Her sons would be kings, and she would be the ones to raise them. Perhaps once an heir and a spare were born, hale and hearty…

She shook her head and focused on the present. Renly's seed had thankfully quickened in her belly. The Reach was secure for her backing, but the Stormlands was another thing altogether. She had plenty of ladies-in-waiting and handmaids from the Reach and now was the time to start spreading her influence through the Stormlands, who were woefully bereft of royal favour.

Thankfully, she could consult with someone very well-versed in such matters.

Her grandmother arrived with a gaggle of wives and sisters last evening. They also decided to visit their husbands and kinsmen, as the campaign was dragging on for too long. 

Yet Margaery's thoughts kept spinning. Perhaps a short tour in the Stormlands would help her acquaint herself with the storm ladies, escape the dreariness of war, and give birth safely away from the fighting. Garlan would accompany her, and she could visit the legendary Storm's End.

***

23rd Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

Theon Greyjoy

"So this is the heir to the Iron Islands," Renly Baratheon glanced down at him with disdain, making Theon shrink. The Flower King sat on a carved throne of antlers and roses atop a dais, his gold and green doublet unable to hide the broad shoulders or the powerful figure underneath. "I expected more."

Theon couldn't bring himself to protest, for he had indeed been treated like scum. He thought his days in Winterfell as a hostage had often been boring, and the distrustful glances of the Northmen felt scathing. Yet he longed for that treatment now, as he was before the stern-faced Renly Baratheon, who looked at Theon as if he was some mud on his boots. The rest of the Reachmen and Stormlords were no different.

Rowan had stripped his arms and armour, clasped him in irons, covered his head with a bag, and tied him on a saddle like a sack of turnips atop a donkey. After hours of tortuous bouncing, they stopped. Theon later learned they had reached Harrenhal; from there, he had been put on the fastest boat, this time without the sack over his head. The Gods Eye was the creepiest lake he had ever seen, covered by a thin mist, with that sinister Isle of Faces holding a whole forest of bone-like weirwoods peeking through the fog here and there.

Down the Gods Eye River, and then more turnip riding until his whole body and joints were half-numb, half-aching. Theon was only fed thin gruel and allowed a few moments of short rest here and there, yet it was hardly enough.

He was hungry, tired, angry, and sorely needed a bath. A silky bed with a wench or two also sounded like music to his ears, but none were offered.

Instead, they had dragged him into the bustling war camp of the Reachmen, to many jeers and insults, before finally arriving before Renly Baratheon and his lords. He stank like a pigsty, could barely raise his head, felt like he had done thirty rounds with the Red Wake in the yard and looked like a beggar. They all looked at him as if he was some maggot to be squashed, making him feel even worse.

"Perhaps we should just toss him in a garotte," the austere man clad in silks bearing the Hightower surcoat proposed, making him cringe inwardly. "Ironmen are scum."

"Burn him!" Another voice said, but Theon failed to see where it came from.

"The pyre is too good for the seed of a reaving scum like him. Hang him like a common brigand, I say."

Theon could only shrink, as many, even the king, seemed to be seriously considering such a course of action. He was a hostage–the heir of the Iron Islands, the future Lord Reaper of Pyke, not some… nobody to be butchered!

A wrinkled old man with a white robe and a crystal crown leaning on a weirwood staff stepped forth. The infamous Rose Septon, Theon's numb mind supplied.

"He's a boy born and raised to false gods," the man declared hoarsely. "A sinner through and through, and men had burned in the Seven Hells for less. But the Seven can be merciful. He should abandon those false beliefs he clings to and be cleansed with the Light of the Seven-Pointed Star!"

Theon whimpered quietly. Why were there so many lords nodding? Why did the king look pensive about it? Where was the land of honour and chivalry Lord Stark had taught him about?

He did not want to die. 

"I'll do it," he declared loudly, but it came out like a choked rasp as the words raked through his sore throat. "I will take to the Seven-"

"Ironmen's words can scarcely be trusted," a thin, balding man with a handful of orange tufts of remaining hair wearing the Redwyne coat of arms pointed out.

"I can bring you the Iron Isles," Theon ignored the iron fetters bruising his limbs and forced his weary body to turn to Renly and kneel. "The might of the Iron Fleet shall be yours, Your Grace. My father can strike at the Westerlands and the Riverlands, and I'll wed some bride of your choice-"

Someone laughed from behind his back, doubtlessly one of the many nobles. When others joined the mocking guffaws, Theon felt fury and shame creep up his neck.

"Enough," Mace Tyrell stood up, his jovial voice cutting through the clamour. "Such decisions are not taken with haste. His Grace shall take his time to deliberate what shall happen with the Greyjoy heir."

Theon groaned with relief as they brought him to a straw bed in some decent-looking tent and shackled him to a wooden pole hammered into the ground. Even the chains on his hands and feet did not chafe as much as he lay down and passed down from exhaustion. 

***

24th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

The Bloodroyal, Yronwood. 

"Why have you called us here in secrecy?" Larra Blackmont, the Lady of Blackmont, was still a beauty in her forties with her fair skin, dusky hair, and smouldering green eyes. Yet the good looks were deceptive–she was a black vulture through and through, capable of peerless cruelty, just like the sigil of her House.

She had not arrived alone; the smiling Lord Dagos Manwoody of Kingsgrave, the stone-faced Lord Walton Wyl of Wyl, and the blonde Lady Delonne Allyrion of Godsgrace had also been invited here. The first three had been traditional allies for centuries, even before Nymeria had come to their shores, and Lady Allyrion's heir was wed to Anders' eldest daughter.

It was a careful selection of attendees–each did not hold House Martell with favour or had been slighted or passed over for marriages, alliances, and other benefits since the Conquest. It was a dangerous game Anders was playing, one that was treading dangerously close to treason.

Yet the death of his grandfather had not been forgotten, neither had it been forgiven. Stealing another man's paramour was a dire insult, let alone challenging a man in his seventies in a duel, poison or not. Oberyn Martell might have perished a far better death than he deserved fighting foes of legend, but the Bloodroyal had not forgotten the humiliation. Ten years of waiting before some paltry restitution of a second son and even marriage talks were rebuffed. 

"I have a most polite invitation from Lord Tywin Lannister," Lord Anders Yronwood clasped his hands and smiled. It was most courteously worded, but it reeked of desperation, and he had no intent even to entertain such matters. 

"He should try courting Doran Martell if he's that desperate," Wyl scoffed.

Larra Blackmont scowled.

"As if our Prince would ever move without a thick, juicy carrot dangled before him." She was right, of course. Anders suspected that Tywin had indeed tried writing to Sunspear, but Doran was not easily moved. "He would keep waiting for a sign and call it a plan."

She had tried courting Quentyn Martell as a consort for her daughter Jyessa, only to be firmly rebuffed. None of Doran Martell's three children were being entertained for a Dornish match. It had been the same thing with the previous Princess of Dorne and the one before–only a second son of a landed knight near Sunspear who had been Princess Loreza Martell's consort, her childhood friend and lover. 

Anders knew the Martells were an ambitious House and would wed either for love like Doran did or for ambition. Only the gods knew what matches he was angling for his children and what trouble Dorne would be dragged into next for it. It would be entirely different if Elia Martell's marriage had brought the benefits of a sitting Queen. Still, that move had ended with tragedy, and even her Dornish ladies-in-waiting had perished in the Sack. 

"Why would we struggle for Tywin Lannister's dying cause?" Delonne Allyrion tilted her head, looking bored enough to fall asleep. "Everyone knows he's done for, and the Reachmen would bury him soon enough with their countless swords. On the way here, I heard it in every tavern and inn, and even the whores were celebrating. His greatest martial achievement was defeating a foe he outnumbered thrice and sacking a city that opened its gates for him. One more defeat would crumble Joffrey Baratheon's cause like a paper castle in the rain." 

"Perhaps," Anders smiled thinly. "But the Reachmen have been on the back foot as of late. Stark rode down the Kingsroad and smashed the Lords of the Northmarch."

Impressed silence settled around the table; defeating some of Reach's finest was no easy feat.

"Well, the boy takes after his father, then. But the other Houses will bury us if we side with Tywin Lannister," the solemn Dagos Manwoody pointed out.

The Bloodroyal took a swallow of spiced mead and laughed. 

"Who said anything about calling banners or declaring for kings?"

Wyl was the first to smile; it was a bloody, savage thing–the Black Adder knew what he meant. The realisation sank into the rest of his guests, and he saw them all lean forward with interest.

Even better, no Martell was left to lead Sunspear's banners with the Red Viper dead. Prince Doran tried to hide his gout, but Anders' spies in the Water Gardens had reported the man looked even older, more feeble, and had to resort to a wheeled chair to move.

Doran Martell had never been a fighter, but now he was physically incapable of leading a war, even if needed. 

Arianne Martell was busy sleeping around with the next boy toy and knew nothing of warfare, unlike her ancestor Nymeria. Quentyn… Anders had tried hard with the boy, but he was too weak, too hesitant, and he lacked the spine to lead a band of knights, let alone the Lords of Dorne. Perhaps if Quentyn were wed to his daughter, the Bloodroyal would have tried far harder…

The last prince was too young even to consider, and in Dorne, men followed steel and daring, and right now, House Martell had none left from the direct line.

In their arrogance, the Princes of Dorne had forgotten a most important lesson. Being at the top required strength, respect, power, valour, adherence to duty, and martial might–and the current generation was woefully bereft of it all. 

Plans upon plans were swirling in Anders Yronwood's mind. An open rebellion was impossible without due cause, but he could reveal House Martell's weakness for all to see while keeping to his vows and lining his coffers with gold. 

***

25th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC

The Black Wolf, Castle Black

"You sound troubled, Lord Commander," Aemon's raspy voice awoke him from his stupor. "Does it perhaps have something to do with the grey owl perched atop the Wall I heard the men speak of?"

Benjen frowned; he had not heard the old maester or his walking cane approach, probably because he was staring at Jon's second letter. Midnight, the traitor had noticed, judging by the lazy sway of his black tail, but had not alerted him either. Even the black direwolf, now approaching the size of a warhorse, seemed to have liked Aemon's presence.

"Indeed, maester," Benjen sighed. "It seems you are more observant than others even after your sight has failed you."

"I consider myself blessed, for it is sad to have eyes but unable to see." The old man's lips twitched as he groped for a chair and sat across Benjen. "And some have ears but cannot hear. Perhaps an old man like me can help you assuage some of your worries. I have found that sometimes simply voicing your woes is quite liberating."

The Lord Commander smiled wryly at the jest. But the maester's presence here was always welcome. Even when over a hundred years of age, Maekar's son still had his wits sharper than most and with a century of experience to back it. "As you guessed, another letter arrived from my overly daring nephew."

"I assume it is from the nephew in the far North, not the one to the South?"

"Indeed," Benjen confirmed. Word of a great victory at the Trident had arrived, and he no longer worried about Robb, for Ned had taught his son more than well. "He writes that he is under heavy attack. A horde of wights rushes his walls every night, looking for weakness."

The crude roll of skin also contained a very politely worded request for his pregnant wife to be allowed passage south of the Shadow Tower, should he fail and nothing else. The request was easy to grant, but everything else in the letter made his heart grow heavy. 

Benjen could not find it in himself to feel joy about Jon having wedded that foxy spearwife; his nephew fought for his life every night. The owl was still atop the Wall, doubtlessly waiting for a reply. 

"Yet… he would not ask for help if what you told me of the boy was true," Aemon murmured, staring at him with his beady, clouded eyes.

"No, he is too proud and knows the Night's Watch does not assist wildlings," the Lord Commander admitted as the lump at the back of his throat grew heavier. And Jon… Jon had over ten thousand wildlings under his command.

The maester sighed, rubbing his thin, fleshless neck. 

"Yet you want to help him anyway, but not at the cost of your duties."

"I am the shield that guards the realms of men," Benjen's words were laced with resignation.

"But my lord, do you know why the Watch scarcely dealt with only select wildlings before?"

Benjen paused for a moment, mouth drawing thin.

"The Black Brothers have only assisted and traded with a few individuals like Craster because they were willing to assist the Watch and proved trustworthy." Thinking of how they had been deceived by the vile kinslaying, Others-worshipping fool, his blood turned to molten metal in his veins, even if he remained as still as a statue. Midnight, however, felt his fury and stirred from his cot, silently trodding over, his hackles and tail raised as if facing a foe.

"Indeed," Aemon agreed. "Larger clans and warbands could change course with a change of leadership. Yet, for the first time, there is a large gathering of wildlings, united under a single banner, with a trustworthy man to lead them that are not hostile to the Watch."

"What are you trying to say, maester?" Benjen pushed down his emotions, peeled off his glove, and rubbed the dark fur at the base of the direwolf's skull, just as his companion liked. A warg, some would call him–and rightly so. He could feel his companion's presence and his mind, a connection that went both ways. 

Yet there was nobody to teach him about warging at the Watch. Sure, Moqorro knew some sort of sorcery, but it had nothing to do with skinchanging. His powers were of the more fiery variety, just like the other red priests that had joined the order.

"It is possible to aid your bastard nephew while keeping to your vows and keeping the interests of the Watch in mind," Aemon coughed. "It will be a hard road, but it can be done. I am the fire that burns the cold. Were the Others not repelled from the Wall already? Did they not retreat deeper into the Haunted Forest? It would be our duty to chase them."

"It will be risky," Benjen muttered. The Watchmen were all veterans and knew how to fight against the Cold Ones and their dead thralls. Tens of battles against the Others, and every single ranger and many others were bloodied. Yet they had always waited for the Others to attack, preparing traps and tricks; only one battle had been won on the offensive–where Jeor and hundreds more had perished.

"Ah, but with great risk comes great reward," Aemon let out a raspy, wheezing laugh and stood up. "Did not your nephew reach out first with an offer of limited cooperation? The wildlings behind him are clearly willing to entertain the idea. Having a steadfast ally on the other side of the Wall might be invaluable, and bonds of friendships are forged on the battlefield."

Benjen was still reluctant. He wanted to help Jon with all his heart, but ten thousand wildlings were another matter. Could he risk the lives of his rangers for those whom the Watch had fought against for thousands of years? 

His duties weighed upon his shoulders like a mountain and bound his limbs like iron shackles. His hands were tied with vows he dared not break.

"Many would not be happy if we range out to risk our lives to assist wildlings." It wasn't even a matter of happiness but a matter of worth. Benjen held the life of each black brother in his hands, and each death would be on his shoulders. 

The maester paused at the door, looking so feeble and old that he could die any moment. 

"Perhaps it is so." Aemon remained still with his back turned to him, but Benjen felt the old man was smiling widely. "But is not Jon Snow a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, ennobled by royal decree of the Demon of the Trident himself? Would you be assisting wildlings or fighting alongside an allied Lord against the Others, one hailing from a House that has supported the Watch for millennia?"

The echo of the cane tapping on the wooden slowly dwindled in the hallway, leaving Benjen alone with his thoughts. 

Oh, Jon, you foolish, reckless, brave boy. Without him, they would have been in a far worse position, clueless or dead. Westeros owed him so much, but they would never know. They could never know.

How many would perish if Benjen decided to aid his nephew, no matter the cost? How many men could the Watch risk in such a daring, no, foolish endeavour? What if they failed anyway, and both Benjen and Jon perished?

Benjen grabbed a quill, quickly inked down a reply, and summoned his steward, the dour but reliable Eddison Tollett.

"Lord Commander," the Valeman bowed.

"Summon Thoren and Moqorro here in half an hour." Benjen grabbed the handle of Longclaw. The cold stone pommel felt soothing to his bare hand. I am the sword in the darkness. "And call for volunteers for a Great Ranging–tell Aemon to send the ravens to the other castles, too."

May the old gods forgive him; he loved his nephew too much and had to try. Even if he perished in the attempt, the Watch had the strength, the tactics, and the knowledge to continue fighting against the Others. Preparations for that also had to be made should his likely demise come to pass. 

"Volunteers?" Edd blinked.

"Aye, volunteers only. We're venturing deep into the Haunted Forest to hunt Others. Let everyone know the risk is grave, and we might not return." Benjen loved his nephew but would not order unwilling men to march to their deaths. He might be Jon Snow's uncle, but he was also the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and had said solemn vows not once but twice. Today, he had chosen to chase death, and he had to prepare for when it came.

Dolorous Edd bowed and hastily ran off to fulfil his tasks while Benjen, stringed and sealed letter in hand, made his way towards the lift and then up atop the Wall. The sky was bereft of snow and even clouds, supposedly a good omen.

Yet Benjen stopped believing in such things long ago. Men like him made their luck and grasped destiny with both hands or perished in the attempt.