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.

***

10th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC

The Bog Devil, South of Pentos

The burden of command was no longer upon Howland's shoulders, and everything was right in the world. Sneaking, scouting, tracking, assassination, or even fighting in the marshland were his strengths, not leading a group of unruly Northmen. It was a double relief that his friend was back, and it no longer felt as if they were cornered with no way out.

After the Pentoshi had refused to let them in the city, Eddard Stark grew more aggressive in his marching tempo, decisions, and even scouting, sending the outriders far further than before. The Northmen's disgruntlement from staying in the foreign land was pushed down, as the Lord of Winterfell seemed to have everything at hand with iron discipline. Ned started sending scouts in disguise to screen the nearest towns without any distinctive heraldries from tens of leagues away.

Howland could feel the intangible tension hanging in the air like a dark shroud that had taken hold of them. It was not just the heaviness that had rooted itself in the Northmen's hearts or the realisation that the road home might be fraught with peril and woe. No, it was a fleeting feeling at the back of one's mind, reminding the crannoglord of a different time.

Only once before had he felt such a premonition. It was that time when the drums of war thundered, and the banners were called from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms to fight a brutal war. Many fought out of fealty or honour; others did it for justice, vengeance, ambition, and greed. Nearly two years of bloodshed saw tens, if not hundreds of thousands dead and the Dynasty of the Dragon crumble with but a whimper. 

That heavy feeling weighed upon one's shoulders and burdened one's heart, making Howland's palm sweaty and his heart skip at night. 

War. 

The Pentoshi envoy had implied such was happening in many places in Essos now, so none could argue with Eddard Stark's prudence of treating everyone as a potential foe. 

But despite this, neither Howland nor the Northmen were daunted by such prospects. They had to follow the Stark, and everything would be fine. The North had followed the direwolf for thousands of years, and they had yet to be disappointed. Eddard Stark had more than proved his mettle in war twice, even before the two battles here, in the old lands of the Andals.

No, some Northmen were eager, burning for the fight, glory, and plunder, especially after the spoils they had gathered. "These Essosi know nought of warfare," Damon Dustin had said. "They have no respect for the martial way of life. Pah, what good are sellswords and light cavalry with more pride than sense?"

Even the Dothraki under Zolo had nothing to say. The Barrowknight had left them an open challenge, winning three bouts for each lost one. The Westerosi horses were superior in strength and discipline, and the Mad Lance loved his prized stallion, a fierce, muscled destrier as black as night, one of the best warhorses bred in the North. Of course, the Dothraki horses were slightly smaller and far more manoeuvrable, but they struggled to carry an armoured lancer.

The horselords were learning the common tongue well enough; most could understand it and even speak a few words. It seemed that Ned had a good grasp of the Dothraki and kept them in line with surprising efficiency. Trouble or misbehaviour was nipped in the bud with extreme prejudice, including flogging and beheadings, and Howland could see them becoming a well-disciplined force that could fit in the North under House Stark.

Yet the crannoglord was worried regardless. The impending feeling of danger, of bloodshed, hung upon them.

As they set camp for the evening, the premonition grew worse. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the wind battered at them viciously; another storm was brewing in the Narrow Sea.

One of the scouts, a knight from White Harbour who could speak bastard Valyrian, was sent to the nearest port town fifteen leagues south by the shore. The town was small compared to other Essosi settlements, with barely twenty thousand citizens that were absent from most maps. Yet the scout had returned, face heavy with worry.

"How are the ships in Pelnos' harbour, Ser Calon?" Ned asked as the command tent was cramped with Northmen. Anyone of sufficient standing was here, and even Winter was sitting obediently by his master's side, his shaggy form looming over many of them. Tommen was quietly watching from the side, his lidded eyes fluttering as he struggled to stay awake after a long, tiring day of marching followed by hellish exercise. Training with the childish version of a weighted greatsword had wrung the poor boy dry, for Lord Stark was hell-bent on making the boy master of the greatsword so he could wield Brightroar properly by the time he was of age. "Is there enough to ferry us back home?" 

"There's not a single ship on the docks, my lord," the knight grimaced. With distinctive hair the colour of wet sand, Calon was a man with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a stout waist and very dangerous with a war axe. "Lys has laid claim to the Stepstones, and their fleet has been said to be fighting against the pirates and corsairs ruling there as petty kings. All merchant vessels trying to pass the Stepstones have been raided by either Lys or the pirates. The stormy autumn has sent away the rest to less risky ports, too."

Worse, Howland knew that in war, even merchant vessels were conscripted and filled with marines and sailors, so any trader would shy from docking at such cities lest he found himself losing his cargo and his ship. 

"Myr and Tyrosh would not sit idly by while the Lyseni claim or even block the Stepstones," Lord Stark noted.

"Aye, but it's only the beginning. I asked around and listened for nearly a day. Trade in the Narrow Sea has been disrupted, and each and every merchant vessel has been pulled either for war or has gone further north to avoid it. Pentos has withdrawn their trading cogs from the nearby towns to preserve them. Lorath and Ibb's fleets have begun fighting over whaling routes. The Norvoshi priesthood declared war on Qohor and their Black Goat, and timber, gold, and steel no longer flow down the Rhoyne. They say Myr and Volantis struggle against fierce slave revolts and Tyrosh…"

The blonde knight choked, looking distressed as his face glistened with sweat.

"Out with it, Ser," Rogar Wull grunted. "C'mon, what did the buggering slavers do this time?"

"They attacked the royal fleet, burning and sinking it in Blackwater Bay."

The declaration was met with disbelief. Soon, the tent erupted into a deafening cacophony as many men tried to speak simultaneously, clamouring for more details.

"Silence." Ned did not need to raise his voice - the moment he spoke, the commotion halted. "Are you certain, Ser Calon?"

"Aye," the sandy-haired knight seemed to somewhat shrink under Lord Stark's intense gaze. "It was the talk all over the docks and half the inns."

Damon Dustin snorted.

"Pah, the balls of these Essosi," his dark eyes were filled with violence and bloodshed. "King Robert would never let such a challenge stand unanswered!"

Many clamoured in agreement at the proclamation. Even after the years had turned the Demon of the Trident fat and drunk, he was not a man who would let such an open challenge to his authority stand.

"But… they said the king has died, and the Seven Kingdoms are aflame with rebellion."

The silence was deafening. 

Howland hated that his premonition came true. His mind began to race. 

If what the knight said was true, returning home would definitely be a challenge, let alone fighting in a war. Worse, it was likely that each town's ships had already been pulled up or safely tucked away in a bigger harbour to avoid being dragged into another conflict. From what little Howland knew of the Essosi coast, their choices were limited–ride back and hope Pentos would agree to let them through, or continue even further north, nearly a thousand miles to Braavos, hoping they could find their way to the hidden city and willing ships there.

Or, they could continue as they did, further south, hoping to find a harbour with ships willing to sail them home. Neither of which sounded particularly likely at the moment.

Nobody dared speak while Ned remained silent. Despite their last quarrel, the King was his brother in all but blood. Those who remembered the times before the Rebellion knew. That youthful bond forged in the Eyrie by the experienced hand of Jon Arryn had transcended the bonds of kinship like nothing else had. Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had grown closer to each other than their siblings by blood. 

Howland peered at his friend, and his heart lurched. 

Eddard Stark's face was like a mask carved from ice, chilling in a cold, cutting way, seemingly bereft of feelings. But Howland Reed knew better–the Lord of Winterfell was wroth. His grey eyes, usually soft like a morning fog, had turned cold, hard, and flinty like an old rock. This wasn't the sort of anger that ran hot in the blood but the one that was as cold as a fierce blizzard amidst the coldest winters. With Winter's shaggy form by his side, he looked like a brutal statue that would easily belong in the Crypts of Winterfell.

The knight couldn't take the stifling presence and squirmed uneasily as the Lord of Winterfell loomed over him.

Eventually, Eddard Stark's voice rumbled like an avalanche in the Northern Mountains, "Tell me everything you heard in Pelnos, Ser."

***

11th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC

The Spider, King's Landing

"Word arrived just this morning. After heavy casualties, Renly's forces breached the Blackwater Rush, and Lord Tywin began to retreat to the city in good order," Kevan Lannister sighed as the small council assembled.

Karstark looked pensive, but the rest of the councillors did not seem daunted. Four of the chairs were still empty–Tywin was out in the field, even Varys had yet to find where Tyrion Lannister was, and they had yet to appoint a new Master of Ships or Lord Commander of the kingsguard. 

After the losses in the Septon Riots, Joffrey appointed three new white cloaks–Jonnel Serrett, Osmund Kettleblack, and Bennard Slate. The last had not even been a knight, and the Kettleblack was a complete rogue and a braggart, son of a hedge knight who had been a sellsword in Essos for half a decade and was supposedly knighted by a dead bastard knight.

Needless to say, they were not chosen for their valiance or loyalty but for their ruthless ability to kill the rioting crowd and listen to Joffrey's command without question. It was a disgrace to the white cloaks, but none of the knights Kevan had put forth could best those three in the yard, making the affair even more humiliating. 

It was one of the rare cases where the young king had been furious enough to push through his decision stubbornly, and no amount of reasoning could sway him. Usually, Joffrey did not care to meddle with how the kingdom or the court was run, content to go about his day leisurely. Even now, he looked ready to fall asleep during the council meeting.

Even the news of Renly's crossing of the Blackwater Rush had not affected him, while the rest of the councillors were pensive. 

"So the damned flowers finally crossed as we suspected." The Northman rubbed his beard. "Do we have numbers on their dead?"

The small council knew Lord Tywin could not prevent Renly from crossing the Blackwater Rush forever. The Old Lion and the Rose Lord doubtlessly knew the same, too. 

The question at hand was how big a cost Tywin would force Renly to pay for crossing the river. It also gave Joffrey's grandfather time to scour the city's hinterlands clean of harvest, cattle, and all other produce, leaving nothing for the Reachmen. Varys did not doubt that each well on his retreat would also be poisoned so that he could kill another hundred Reachmen.

Kevan Lannister rubbed his face tiredly.

"The Lord Hand reports that the Reachmen lost two men for each of his. Estimates are at about ten thousand killed on Renly's side and at least as many wounded."

The king sported a new look after his right eye had been gouged out. An emerald twice the size of a pigeon egg lay perfectly fitted in the empty eye socket and was usually covered by a gilded eyepatch. However, there was no eye patch today, and the red claw scars crowning the face around the missing eye looked particularly angry.

Alas, Joffrey seemed rather disinterested in the news as if it was of no concern to him. The apathy was not new or special; the young king was easily bored of many matters. Varys could read the expression on his young face easily–a loss was still a loss, even if it achieved its strategic purpose.

And after the riot of the streets, the young boy king seemed to have developed a caution, a wariness towards the city and dared not venture out without a dozen red cloaks or Northmen at his back.

It was for a good reason; the city was still uneasy, reeling after the riot and the Tyroshi's attack. Kevan Lannister, the ever-dutiful regent, had begun forcefully removing men, women, and children from the city. The city guard went from door to door, checking if each family had at least three years of food supplies in stock, and if they did not–they were promptly kicked out of the gates by force if they dared to resist. 

Most were from the poorer, destitute parts of the city, as after ten years of long, prosperous summer, many traders and crafters had gorged themselves on abundance.

Thousands were removed from the city daily, and force was used if necessary. Another small riot had formed near Fleabottom a sennight prior, but Cregan Karstark and Ser Balon Swann crushed it mercilessly, putting tens of heads on pikes for display on each of the city's squares as a cruel warning that seemed to work all too well.

If things continued this way, the Crownlands would be filled with hundreds of thousands of refugees, and the city would have to feed half, maybe only a third of its previous population in the likely case of a siege. Varys could see the cunning in the tactic; all those removed from King's Landing would soon become Renly's problem and either burden his supply chains or remove his veneer of righteousness.

Joffrey had little care for minor, insignificant matters like that. He was completely apathetic to everything unrelated to a victory or sacrificing Septons to the heart tree. Three troublesome preaching Septons had disappeared from the streets of King's Landing, and Varys had found out they were being secretly brought to the Red Keep's godswood, where the boy king made a sport of sacrificing them to the heart tree with a crossbow.

Varys was unsure how to tackle this troublesome issue. He wondered if he should even attempt to tackle such a problem or close his eyes and let it blow up like a jar of wildfire in Joffrey's face later, especially as the High Septon forcefully elected by Kevan Lannister was still struggling to reel in the Faith in the city.

Even the boy king's favourite mistress, Arael, had already received quarters within the Red Keep, so he did not need to venture into the city to satisfy his carnal desires. Joffrey was spending more time in the silver-haired whore's company than his wife. Just this morning, Joffrey had brought her to the ramparts above to show off all the tarred heads lined on the spikes. They were a gift from Robb Stark–all the important lords and knights that had fallen at the Battle of the Ruby Ford had been sent with a swift escort, and Joffrey loved to look at them.

Regardless, it was rare to see the young king attending a council meeting, and even when he did, Joffrey easily got bored before and left their end. Yet he lingered still, and his presence made the councillors uneasy.

Seeing that the king was disinterested, the council meeting continued still. 

"Well, if we keep going like this, there might be an army left by the end of the fighting," Karstark coughed behind his horn of ale. "Suppose the numbers of dead are hard enough to count when retreating."

"This is nothing new," Kevan sighed. Wisps of grey had begun to sneak into his golden mane. Heavy was the hand that carried the head bearing the crown, it seemed.

Yet it was not all gloom. Robb Stark's decisive victory at the Trident brought much-needed hope and lightened many spirits–victory was no longer out of sight. Even Varys could breathe easier, for it meant the Lannisters would not yet crumble, nor were they surrounded by every side. Princess Myrcella's birth to a healthy son was also celebrated, even though her royal brother couldn't care less. For some reason, Joffrey liked his good brother, Robb Stark, more than his sister, who was never mentioned by name. 

Yet it seemed that the good news came in pairs. 

"The queen is pregnant," Pycelle announced once the war talk was concluded.

"And how is Her Grace's health?" Karstark inquired. His wife had also quickened, and the Northerner often pestered the grandmaester to check up on the lesser lioness. 

"She is holding up well," Pycelle hemmed fretfully. "There are no issues as of this moment."

Once again, Joffrey gave a curt nod, not looking particularly excited about the good news.

"A most welcomed news in these dire times," Varys tittered. Was the child from Joffrey or Gerold Waters? Either way, it was ironic enough that Robert's grandchild would be the next in line should no complications arise with the pregnancy. The Spider had caught them in the act once more, which meant the sordid affair was not a one-time tryst. Still, there were more important matters to be discussed. "Alas, we have yet to find a replacement for our late Lord Lydden. Someone needs to be in charge of the royal fleets."

"What fleets?" Karstark snorted. "It's just a bunch of sunken wreckage."

"Even more important, then." The Spider clasped his hands, smiling. He was still inwardly irked that the Tyroshi had managed to blindside him. "The man in charge will have to rebuild everything, as Lord Stannis did after the Rebellion."

"Do you have any suggestions?" Kevan asked, looking through a multitude of parchments. 

After a minute of awkward silence, Joffrey finally stirred from his seat.

"Well, just appoint someone." The young king took a swallow of wine from his goblet. "How hard can it be to find a man good with ships?"

"Most of those perished along with the royal fleet, Your Grace," Kevan reminded wryly. "Having a master of ships is rather worthless with no ships to command, and our access to the Kingswood for fresh lumber is blocked by Renly for the foreseeable future."

Joffrey looked at them as if they were all lackwits. "Well, appoint my cousin, then!"

Pyceelle coughed weakly and asked hesitantly, "Which cousin are you talking about, Your Grace? You have many kinsmen, yet none of them have shown notable sailing skills."

Varys agreed with the Grandmaester; there was no Lannister alive with a skill in seafaring right now. The only one that came to mind was Gerion Lannister, the late brother of Lord Lannister, who was lost in the ruins of the Freehold a decade prior. Tywin Lannister had yet to fully rebuild his fleet after the Greyjoy Rebellion precisely because he lacked a capable man of respectable lineage to lead it.

"Your wits have grown dull, Pycelle," Joffrey chuckled coldly. "Or perhaps your memory is failing you? Has not Shireen Baratheon, my uncle's daughter, crushed the Tyroshi fleet?"

It took effort for Varys to keep the smile on his face, but the Grandmaester failed as he was struck by a coughing fit. Cregan Karstark let out a bark of laughter, while Kevan Lannister just looked tired.

"But there has never been a woman on the small council, let alone a small girl, Your Grace." The Regent's voice was laced with disbelief. "This is unprecedented. Besides, Lady Shireen is too young and has yet to come and swear fealty to you!"

Joffrey scoffed. 

"It was because of Uncle Stannis' death and the proper mourning period. Did you not say so yourself earlier? Besides, you say a girl on the small council is unprecedented, yet why is she doing better than all of you combined?! Why did she expel the damned slave mongers while outnumbered more than six to one when everyone else failed?" None dared to meet his gaze, and even Varys found himself bowing his head. "Why are you all silent? Answer me, damn it!"

"It must be the smuggler who plays regent for her," Pycelle weakly pointed out. "Or perhaps one of her vassals. Lord Velaryon is a skilled sailor."

"Slander," the boy-king waved his hand dismissively. "My royal father always said Uncle Stannis was the only man he could trust to lead a fleet properly and never even mentioned the Seahorse or the Onion Knight. It's clear that my cousin Shireen takes after her father. Did you not tell me she managed to gather more ships from the Vale and the North?"

Once again, nobody dared to speak up and risk Joffrey's wrath.

The aforementioned support came from Houses Upcliff, Melcolm, Grafton, and Manderly, and a few smaller ones–the Houses along the Vale and North's coast that would be concerned with piracy and a Free City outright attacking the eastern coast. Still, Shireen's request for assistance was aptly placed, if late, as none of them had arrived until after the young Lady of Dragonstone had expelled the main Tyroshi fleet from Blackwater Bay with her efforts. Even now, she was still hunting down the remnants and staggers lingering around the coast in attempts to plunder and pillage more. 

While Varys guessed that the main fleet had simply left because it was heavy with plunder and slaves, not out of fear of the young lady, the result was the same.

Pycelle began sweating, looking particularly uncomfortable. "Surely-"

"Enough, old man. I am king here; my mind is set, and my decision is final. So what if Cousin Shireen is a girl? Does it matter when she's far more competent than any of the lot you fools don't even dare propose?" All the councillors had the decency to blush, and none dared to meet Joffrey's angry eye. "I want results, not one defeat after another. Look at Robb Stark. If I had two more commanders like him, Renly's head would already be atop the Red Keep's gates."

He took a deep breath and slammed his fist on the table. "You will do well to remember that Father did not win the Rebellion by entrusting useless lickspittle! I want Shireen as my mistress of ships, and I want it done now. Pycelle, write the damned summons to Dragonstone, or I'll have your treasonous head on a spike before the next morning!" 

12th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC

***

Disguised as a dungeon turnkey, Varys carefully made his way through the secret passages. His eyes were used to the darkness years ago, and caution was paramount after the failure to remove Eddard Stark. Thankfully, the gods had seen fit to do away with that particular obstacle.

Deeper, the eunuch dove into the darkness until he reached the base of Aegon's hill, where he finally met Illyrio, lugging a hefty oil lantern. 

"I warned you that we should avoid meeting here," Varys muttered warily. The tunnels had been compromised, and each new entrance found had been meticulously sealed by Keven Lannister. Even though the Spider had done a clean sweep of the passageways with his birds each fortnight, it was no longer as secure as before. "Taking unnecessary risks is folly. What if remnants of the Tyroshi fleet caught your ship? The city will soon be under siege!"

"It is a risk I had to make," Mopatis snorted. "Too many things have happened lately, and I need you to delay more."

"I cannot conjure thousands of knights or loyal but skilled commanders from thin air."

"Ah. But from what I heard at the docks, the war is finally stalling. More and more battles, with no clear victor in sight." the magister's smile turned sly, "But what if you could find that skilled commander and veteran warriors? This war has you fretting too much, but I found a way to turn the tables in our favour."

On days like these, Varys felt particularly tired. There was only so much scheming one could accomplish. A nudge here, a well-placed remark or word there, but men would always act out of their own will regardless of plans. "Unless you can get Aegon to abandon that folly…"

Mopatis stroked his pronged beard with an amused smile.

"You should know that our plans are fleeting and ought to be readjusted as things progress." He talked about Khal Drogo, who rode to the Far East to pillage instead of invading Westeros and distracting the Iron Throne. "Volantis is a sand castle, my friend. A little push and it's already crumbling. The corsairs from the Basilisk Isles took a bite from the harbour, and the fires inside the city had yet to settle fully. Aegon and the Golden Company have crushed the scrambling tiger cloaks and should be besieging the defenceless city within a moon. Should Volantis fall to the Golden Company, Aegon's reputation would soar, and the power and wealth he could command would be nearly unprecedented. No, I found something else. Or, well, someone else."

On days like this, Varys felt annoyed at the dramatic mummery his friend loved after all those years. Even now, he waved his hands theatrically as if expecting a question.

Sighing, he indulged him. "So… who has caught your fancy?"

"The wolf lord."

His blood ran cold. A thousand questions ran in Varys' mind, but he only asked, "How?"

"I know not, but he's not as dead as you claimed," Illyrio laughed nasally. "I saw him and his Northmen approaching Pentos with my own two eyes. Or, well, through a Myrish far eye from one of the towers. But alas, the ruling council was too wary to let the Northmen in. Westerosi folk are considered omens of bad luck as of late, especially with that unpleasantness with Tyrosh."

"This is terrible," Varys pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"You're too pessimistic, I say. A few well-placed words and the Quiet Wolf will go to Volantis to aid Aegon. His presence alone will be a greater boon to our cause than anything else."

"You don't get it," he hissed out. "The Wolf Lord is too honourable. He had already married his heir to the Lioness' daughter and took the younger cub as his page."

"So what? He was sworn to the whoremonger, not his son, and his vows are fulfilled with his death," his friend waved dismissively with a meaty hand. "I know of these men of honour and their ilk, and they buckle if you dangle the right bait before their eyes. You've told me plenty. There are no oaths to the Iron Throne binding him now."

Varys wrung his hands nervously.

"It doesn't matter. House Stark has already reaped the benefits from this alliance, and they will hold onto it to the last!"

"Even against his nephew?"

"You forget that we have no proof," the eunuch groaned. "Stark could have found out what had happened to his sister for true in the Tower of Joy." There had been no witnesses to be left alive. The Tower of Joy had been promptly demolished, and anyone who had visited the place was never seen again–including the common handmaids and a wet nurse, who were doubtlessly killed. "It wouldn't even matter in the end. Nephew or not, the Quiet Wolf is a man who would cling to his supposed honour to the bitter end and could never be Aegon's ally."

"What a pity," Illyrio sighed. "He must be removed or captured, then. Preferably before he reaches Westeros." Varys felt relieved. Once you put away his friend's greed, he had a sharp mind that would not dwell on minor matters.

Eddard Stark was one of the men with enough experience and honour to shoulder Joffrey's cause almost on his lonesome. Yes, the Young Wolf had proven dangerous enough on the battlefield, just like his father, but the lords did not know him or his honour. Yet the Lord of Winterfell? He could walk through the war-torn Vale, take his nephew's regency, and all the Vale lords would bend over backwards for this man of honour, unquestionable integrity, and renown without spilling a single drop of blood. 

Just like that, with his mere presence, Eddard Stark would take command of three kingdoms with little to no objections.

That fateful alliance of the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale had broken the Dragon's Back and made a king the man who had already lost his army, and even thinking of it again made Varys wary. Even now, the North and the Riverlands seemed to be Joffrey's only hope, and they were led by two green boys. 

Edmure Tully was an anointed knight in his twenties, yet he was still as green as fresh summer grass where war seemed to be concerned, yet even then. Even then, he proved competent enough to hold back the Reach's advance with his bickering lords. 

The younger generation of those who supported Joffrey seemed full of budding talents and hidden dark horses even before considering Stannis' daughter had made her audacious move. At the same time, the Reach and the Stormlands held the old and cunning foxes, but the young were lacking. 

"Our forces in Essos are all supporting Aegon already," the Spider reminded coldly. "With the turmoil and bloodshed from Lorath to Volantis, the companies would not lack work."

"Just some minor difficulties, my friend." Illyrio thoughtfully stroked his pronged beard. "All this fighting in the Free Cities will ultimately work in our favour, should we use it well, just like everything else. If you say the Wolf Lord must go, I'll find a way."

***

19th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC

The Iron Captain, Greyshield

They met on the island docks, midway on the docks, equal distance from the harbour and the moored ships–Balon's Great Kraken, his Iron Victory, and his niece's Black Wind. Their escort of a score of warships from the Iron Fleet remained anchored nearby. 

The Reachmen's delegation was led by a brown-haired flower knight called Garlan Tyrell. He was tall and broad of shoulders and had a warrior's hard, steely gaze. By his side were the Lord of Greenshield, a plump-looking Greenlander that Victarion easily dismissed as a soft man who had not wielded a sword in decades, and a balding Septon with crystal brooches and necklaces, both of whom just observed glumly.

Balon had also brought Asha and Victarion along to even the numbers. They met under the watchful eyes of the Ironmen aboard the ships and a hefty retinue of Greenlander warriors and knights standing vigil at the docks.

A table was set in the middle with the symbolic bread and salt, at which Balon partook without hesitation, and Asha and Victarion followed.

He quickly decided that Garlan Tyrell was a formidable warrior who had seen plenty of bloodshed. And such men were worthy of respect, even if they were greenlanders. 

"Interesting proposal," Balon inclined his head, but his face was unreadable. "A cunning man, your father." 

"I am here to represent His Grace, King Renly, Lord Greyjoy," Garlan Tyrell protested.

The Lord of Pyke laughed. 

"Who would be nothing without your father," he pointed out, and the Rose Knight sighed but did not disagree. "There's no need to deceive me or yourself, boy. I am negotiating with the Rose Lord here, and he wants an alliance of marriages, yet all the Houses you put forth hail from the Reach. I have a condition."

Victarion had a feeling Garlan Tyrell did not like what he was doing. His face was expressionless enough, but the stiffness of his words and body were a dead giveaway. Still, he remained unfailingly courteous if firm, earning Victarion's silent approval even further. Even Balon seemed to have taken a slight liking to the flower knight.

"Name it, my lord," Garlan nodded evenly.

"I can swallow your queer love for the number seven," his brother's voice thickened with mocking amusement that made the Septon bristle. "But if you must know, the Old Lion wrote to me, proposing three marriages, each more prestigious than the last. His golden daughter for my brother-" Victarion shuffled uneasily; he had never been informed of such. Not that he would decline; he would do his duty even if it rankled him to bed some other man's leavings, king or not. "Ser Daven Lannister for a bride of my choice, and he even promised to take my daughter for a wife, making my grandsons rulers of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands."

Asha looked thoughtful for a heartbeat before her face paled; it seemed that Balon had kept the contents of the lion's letter close to his heart, even from her.

"The former Queen is approaching the twilight of her child-bearing years," the plump Lord Grimm pointed out lazily. "And Ser Daven Lannister is just a knight from a lesser pride with no lands or incomes, even if he's that abomination spawn's good brother."

"So you say," Balon said. "But I would look like a fool if I declined such a prestigious deal for a lesser offering. I want Paxter's daughter for Theon."

Garlan Tyrell grimaced, but he nodded, "Granted."

"Aye, and his heir will marry my Asha. The other six marriages from each side must be the lords or at least heirs…" They haggled for details for over an hour while Victarion's niece quietly excused herself back to her ship. The Iron Captain knew she was furious but would never defy her father in the open.

Victarion had many questions as the talks proceeded but remained silent because he believed in his brother. Sooner or later, his queries would be answered; Balon Greyjoy always did things for a good reason and had grown more cunning with time. 

Especially after they had sparred that one time five years ago, and Victarion had rung his head too hard, knocking him out cold for a few hours. He almost thought he had killed his brother, but thankfully, Balon recovered, and his wits were even sharper than before.

Alas, Victarion had thought that you could whack fools in the head and make them find their wits, but after using the same technique on two lackwits that had challenged him, they died instead. Thankfully, the Drowned God seemed to be watching over his eldest brother.

By the time the negotiations ended, the sun had approached the western horizon, and the Lord Reaper retreated to his ship.

Asha was already waiting there, garbed like a man in her black wool breeches and brown quilted tunic tucked into the studded belt. If it weren't for the slight swell in her chest, she would look like a slender and comely Ironman.

Balon dismissed the rest of the crew and led them into the spacious captain's cabin, away from curious ears and eyes.

"I know you have questions, Asha," he said as he sat on his cot and lit up a lantern.

"I shall not be some mewling Greenlander's wife," she objected sourly. "I am a captain, not some foolish chit to spread her legs and pop out children for some pompous lackwit. I thought we were done with following Greenlanders, yet here you plan to kneel to another."

"Foolish, foolish girl," the Lord Reaper smiled fondly. If there was a soft spot in Balon's heart, it was his daughter. "What did I tell you about kneeling after your brothers perished in the war?"

She had the decency to look halfway ashamed. 

"That kneeling costs nothing, and you can always stand up again…"

"Indeed." His voice thickened with contempt. "I care little for this Flower King or his war, but I can see the opportunity."

"Opportunity?" Asha murmured.

"Aye, to get Theon back if the damned Greenlanders have not corrupted him. But that's far from it. What's the glaring weakness of the Iron Isles?"

"That we can scarcely grow any trees good for shipbuilding and have more sailors than ships," Victarion answered without hesitation. "Most of our ships are captured or built with materials from the East, which limits our fleet numbers greatly." 

It was one of the lessons he remembered from his father–the dragon kings had greatly limited all timber trade with the Iron Isles about three centuries prior, which was still in strength today. It was why his father, Quellon, turned to trade and sold his sail with the East. After decades of his efforts, they built their Iron Fleet to challenge the Iron Throne, and each Iron Lord could call upon more ships than before by a whole third! 

Ten years after the failed Rebellion, the stag king banned it completely, and now it was nearly impossible to buy properly seasoned timber for shipbuilding if you were an Ironborn.

"Yes," Balon smiled. But it was a cold, savage smile filled with bloodlust. "As you know, only one fleet stands in our way with the stag's ships all sunken."

"Wait," Asha's eyes widened. "That's why you want me and Theon to wed a Redwyne…"

"Give the boy a son, then kill him, and you'll take the Arbour, the richest and most prosperous isle in the Sunset Coast, for yourself without shedding a drop of blood. Of course, I'm not afraid of their fleet, but it would simply be easier if we can control it than fight it."

His niece finally looked thoughtful, rubbing the pale scar on her neck as she always did when nervous. Victarion had always thought she was too rebellious, even if she made for a capable captain and sailor. Any proper Ironborn had a sense of piousness and duty to their liege and father. 

"But you still agreed to attack the Flower's enemies from the sea together with these Reachmen," Victarion noted. "Greenlanders cannot be trusted."

"I know, brother. But I want Theon back and do not need to trust them for much," Balon unfurled a map of the Seven Kingdoms on his desk and stabbed his finger at the large green blob in the North. It was the largest such thing on the map, nearly the size of a kingdom—the Wolfswood, it read, the infamous Northern forest. "There are enough trees here for hundreds of thousands of ships here. House Greyjoy will be unrivalled if we can control the Wolfswood."

"The North is not easily attacked," Asha cautioned. "The land is harsh and cold, and the folk who live there are no lesser despite being Greenlanders."

Balon Greyjoy laughed. 

"The Young Wolf Lord is no longer in his den to protect it, and who says I'm attacking alone? That foolish flower king and his seven gods are the ones who want to strike at the North and want to use me as a distraction. At least this Renly has enough sense to promise each shall keep what they manage to take, as if I need to take his permission. But I learned their Greenlander games and can play them in turn."

Victarion's eyes lit up as he inspected the map of the North. The Wolfswood was sparsely populated compared to the plains and towns around the Rills, Barrowlands, and White Harbour. Most of the North's fighting force would be concentrated there, which meant the Reachmen would bear the brunt of such attacks.

And what use would Ironborn need for whatever pitiful harvest fields, gold, or silver the Northmen would have? House Greyjoy did not sow. Besides, good steel, seasoned timber, and hardy thralls are worth far more than any glittering metal.

Asha had seen much the same, for she snorted, "That fool Renly must really hate the North."

"It's a matter of pride after that crushing defeat in the field," Balon dismissed. "And some problem with their seven stone gods. Dagmer heard from that fool Baelor Blacktyde about troubles with zealots and priests congregating near Highgarden. But it doesn't matter. This allows us to take everything we wish while Renly's fools keep the North busy, and once we hold the Wolfswood, we shall deal with the Redwynes and rule the Sunset Sea from the Frozen Shore to the Arbour once more!" 

***

Renly's Rebellion entered what is largely considered its second phase with the Battle at the Trident. 

Troubles began brewing in the Dornish Marches, and rumours of the rise of a Vulture King spread as villages were looted, merchants robbed and slain, and fields set aflame. The marcher lords struggled to catch the elusive bandits, however.

The war over Robert Arryn's regency continued. The battles were bloody and far more ruthless than the Vale had seen in decades, with no clear victor in sight as the kingdom descended into anarchy and mayhem. Some lords decided to use the opportunity to clear old feuds and called their banners under the pretext of claiming Lord Arryn's regency while attacking their old foes. Even the savage mountain clansmen descended from the Mountains of the Moon, looting and pillaging as they could. Even after nearly half a year of fighting, no clear victor seemed to be in sight, and the two most powerful claimants aiming for the Regency were Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood, who had both scored a decisive victory each and had the support of one other major lord and three minor ones.

The refugee problem in the Reach intensified. With the coming of autumn, the harvest was not as abundant as before, and the many new mouths to feed that wandered like vagabonds courtesy of the last two long and prosperous summers began to be felt. That was before the infamous Rose Septon pulled the whole weight of the Faith to preach and feed as many of these unfortunate souls as possible in a bid to expand his influence and extoll his virtue.

In each war, hindsight allows one to examine the situation more closely yet dispassionately and analyse all the mistakes made and the consequences of each decision.

Renly's cause was no longer considered as righteous as before after the heavy loss at the Trident, as it was foolishly proclaimed by many Septons that the Seven had willed it. Fingers were pointed, claims that the Northmarcher lords were lacking in piousness, which had caused their defeat.

Shireen Baratheon's infamous Battle of the Blackwater Bay would forever ink The Lady Scars, or the Iron Lady, as they call her here in Braavos, in the annals of history.

The bloody crossing of the Blackrush helped even less. Over eleven thousand had perished when Mace Tyrell pushed over the river at five points, but the goal was accomplished when the Rose Lord himself led the bridgehead that pierced through the confluence of the Blackwater Rush and the Gods Eye River. The Lion Lord was forced to retreat to King's Landing lest he wanted to be flanked, yet the mounting losses led to discontent among many Reachmen and the Faith, who had expected an easy and quick war…

Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on and the Sunset War'.