King's Landing 301 AC.
Sansa Stark.
Sansa had been sad to say goodbye to her family. To be parted from them for truly the first time in her life. Had it been for any other reason than the one it was, then she'd more than likely have not even sought to be so. Her time in King's Landing though had been one of the most exciting and fun times she'd ever had. She adored the pageantry of it all. Welcomed attending the feasts, dances, and tourneys. How the ladies dressed, acted, and behave. All of it was so new to her and she so very much wished to experience even more of it. So when Myrcella had made her the offer of being one of her ladies in waiting, Sansa had jumped at the chance.
She'd been worried that her father or mother would be against the idea and so when she'd gone to them to speak about it, she'd made it clear just how much she wished for it. Was it anyone other than Myrcella as the queen that she was serving, then Sansa doubted even her wishes would have been enough. With Daemon as king, however, things were looked at much differently by her father and mother, and serving her cousin's queen, suddenly became a viable option. Still, it had taken some convincing on her part, Myrcella's and Daemon's too before her father had agreed.
Her mother was much easier to bring to her side. While she'd adapted completely to her time in the North, at heart her mother was still a girl from the South. She'd been brought up in a southern keep and had known the feasts, balls, and tourneys that Sansa so very much wanted to enjoy. Bran leaving to take his position as Lord Paramount of the Trident had probably helped her case even more. As to deny her and allow him to leave, even if the two things were not truly similar, would have been unfair.
" You truly wish this, Sweetling?"
" More than anything mother. I've been made to feel so welcome here. Her grace, Lady Margaery, Princess Daenerys, and Princess Rhaenys. Lady Rosamund and I have become true friends I believe and though I know I'll miss you all so much, I wish to know if what I feel is true."
" And should it not be? Should you in a few moons feel lost. Then what?"
" Her grace has agreed to name me to her ladies for a year, mother. Should I find I've no wish to be here, then I can return after the year is up. Should I not, then I will be appointed for even longer." Sansa said, repeating the offer that her cousin's wife had given her.
" And what if in a moon or two from now…"
" Then I shall forbear it." she said interrupting "If you allow me to stay then I must live up to my responsibilities. While her grace is willing to name me for a year, I too have agreed to at least that long," she said determinedly.
" My sweet girl, you've grown so much." her mother said as she hugged and kissed her "You have my blessing, Sweetling."
Her father had appointed guards and to her delight, both Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel would be joining her if they so wished it. Something she very much did as she knew how much both girls would enjoy staying here. She was given different rooms, much closer to the royal chambers, and though she'd only just begun her duties, she was enjoying them greatly.
At first, she had worried that a lady in waiting was simply another name for a servant and thankfully Rosamund had put her straight. While you did do certain duties for the queen, and at times were trusted to deliver some of her messages, it was more that you helped her in her role and her own duties. With Myrcella it was going to be an experience unlike any other queen's lady-in-waiting before them had ever known. As since Daemon had his own duties, of which she'd heard but whispers, it fell to Myrcella to essentially rule the Realm.
She had help in this regard from her mother, Daemon's grandmother, and most especially Princess Rhaenys who Sansa was amazed to find out was the first-ever woman that had been appointed as Hand of the King. That she'd been given the position because she was capable and not simply because she was Daemon's sister, made them all so very proud of her. Both she and the queen, as well as them all according to Rosamund, Elinor, and Margaery, would be looked up to and have ladies who wished to emulate them. It was a daunting responsibility and yet one that Sansa felt more than ready for.
" They look to the Queen, Sansa, and to the Hand. When they do they'll see two women showing that we are just as capable as any man." Margaery said.
" Princess Daenerys is being groomed for a position on the Small Council, or so they say. This world is not the one we all believed we'd grow up in." Elinor added to nods.
" So we too are not to be the typical ladies in waiting, Sansa. Should you feel somewhat out of your depth, then know in this you're not alone." Rosamund said softly.
It was not all work either. The balls, feasts, and the Tourney itself had all been such fun. She'd found a place where she could get the best of fabrics and materials and had already made a few items that had garnered some attention. Sansa would not lie and say she hadn't preened just a little when Margaery and her cousins had asked her if she could make them some of the shawls she'd made for herself. Even the queen herself had told her they were most beautiful and so Sansa had begun work on one for Myrcella too.
The biggest surprise to her though was the interest she garnered from some of the men at court. Sansa was not unaware that she was pretty Nor that, who her father, mother, and cousin were made her a desirable match. She had thought, however, that here in King's Landing, other than who she was related to and compared to others she'd seem dull or uninteresting. It seemed she was very much not and again it was Rosamund who pointed out the why of it and then told her of the dangers of it too.
" You're new, Sansa. To some of these men at court that alone raises an interest. Oh, your position and your looks would do much of that alone. But I, Margaery, Elinor, and even her grace, we've all been here for some time and our interests have been made clear."
" I don't understand." she said shaking her head "Your interests?"
" Who we may be willing to share our favors with. Margaery and Tommen for example." Rosamund said and Sansa nodded "But there are those we'd very much not and they may see you as someone who would."
" They would threaten my virtue?" she asked worriedly.
" Not unless they wished for Lady to threaten more than their own." Rosamund giggled and Sansa joined in.
Her wolf may be calm and composed, but she could be as fierce as Nymeria and Grey Wind when it was warranted.
" Should the wrong man show an interest in you, then you have many friends who'll steer you right," Rosamund said and Sansa thanked her for it.
Rosamund was as good as her word and she wasn't alone in doing so. Sansa had danced with more than one partner during the feasts and yet only with one more than once. Aurane Velaryon was quite simply the most handsome man she'd ever seen, let alone met. Charming, funny, older yes, but a lot of ladies wed men older than them, she would think wickedly to herself. After her first dance with him, she'd immediately hurried back to her friends and had been so relieved when not a single one of them had raised any objections to her doing so for a second time.
She'd spoken of him most often too. He'd asked her to join him on a walk through the gardens of the Red Keep. Had given her a tour of his ship and even a true tour of the city itself. All chaperoned of course and he had taken not one liberty. So gallant was he that she at one point feared that he wasn't truly interested in her. Only for Elinor to laugh at her when she told her so. Her friend had then told her that it was more than likely his own nature, along with some fear of what her cousin may do to him were he to be untoward, that held Aurane back.
When she'd found the courage to raise the subject with Aurane, she'd found that Elinor had been in the right of it. Though she'd laughed when he told her that as fearful as he may be of a dragon-riding king, he'd have risked it for one single kiss. A kiss that she gave him for saying such sweet words to her. They'd spent much time together and when he'd asked her the question, she'd not known how to reply. So shocked was she that he'd brought the subject up so soon, that she almost believed that it had been a ploy of sorts.
" Sansa? Sansa, are you well?"
" I… I.."
Aurane helped her to a seat and asked one of the guards to fetch her something to drink. The water was cool as she swallowed it down and the look in his eye as he watched her do so showed, at least to her, that he was genuinely concerned.
" You've taken me so by surprise. Your request I'd not…"
" Forgive me, Sansa. The last thing I wished was to cause you any concern. I…" he stuttered and looked so lost that she reached out her hand to take one of his "I know this is not how such things are usually done. By right I should have traveled to Winterfell and spoken to your father or were his grace here, to him."
" You should?" she asked, not sure how such things were done.
" I should, but…"
She laughed despite herself and then began to laugh even more fully. Each time she tried to stop, she just kept laughing even more and to his immense credit, Aurane never got annoyed or upset at her for doing so. He let her calm down and once she did, he simply waited for an explanation.
" My father would often say that anything before the word But is horseshit," Sansa said laughing a little more, this time with Aurane joining in.
" He may very well be in the right of it." Aurane said a moment later "I know there is a protocol to things and that I may not be a match your father deems suitable for his daughter." Aurane sighed "And were he to reject me, I'd understand. But…" He looked at her and stuck out his tongue, setting her off once again "I wished to let you know of my feelings and intent first and foremost."
They'd talked, Aurane had made his feelings clear and she'd told him that they were feelings she shared. Sansa had spoken to her friends. Then to Princess Daenerys and Princess Rhaenys, both of whom had said that the match was one that the crown would be most happy to see come about. She'd spoken to the queen too and Myrcella had asked her but one simple question.
" What does your heart tell you to do, Sansa?"
So she'd sent the letter and made it clear what it was that was in her heart. She'd spoken of how Aurane had acted as a perfect gentleman and had beseeched her father to ask any of her guards to find out the truth of her words. Mainly though she'd asked for him and her mother to consider the offer and told them both how very much she wished to become, Lady Sansa Velaryon.
Hardhome 301 AC.
Mance Rayder.
The weather was milder since they'd closed the cold ones' blue eyes more than a moon or more ago. Animals seemed more plentiful and fishing and hunting were far more successful. So much so that along with the caves allowing for more comfortable living, the vast majority of the Free Folk had stayed at Hardhome.
For Mance, part of the reason he'd stayed was not just because as King Beyond the Wall he needed to be with his people, but to see if Daemon's word held just as true in what he'd promised as it had in what he'd done for them. He didn't have to wait long and while the first ship that arrived wasn't the one he'd told them would, it was one that was welcomed just as warmly. Food and good steel. It bore things that they were in short supply of and things that were most welcomed by one and all. Mance even laughed when the Captain of the ship told them that the first shipment was free but in time they'd need to pay for such things. Given the wealth that Daemon had found them, he doubted that would be a problem.
Days stretched on and a routine began to take shape. The Free Folk weren't miners, but some of the gems in the caves almost didn't need to be mined. Some small digging around them and some little hammering were enough to free them up and he'd set men and women to the task. They now had a large chest full of what Daemon had said were the most valuable of the gems. Their true worth however was unknown to Mance or any of the Free Folk. So he waited and waited for the delegation to arrive and hoped that Daemon sent the men with it who'd steer them right in their dealings to come.
When the ships did arrive, Mance had been off helping gather wood and so it was not until his return that he'd been informed. He, Tormund, and others had then made their way down to the makeshift dock and had watched as three ships had dropped anchor and a number of boats had been lowered into the water. It took the men some time to row to shore. Mance found that he was surprised both by the makeup of those men and that it had been more than one ship that had been sent.
"You think they fear us unfriendly?" Tormund asked from beside him and Mance wished to answer that was indeed the case, yet he believed it not.
"They look as if they came together but separately, Tormund," he answered after a moment.
In this, he turned out to be right. One of the Ships was from the West, another from the Reach with the last from the North. Mance recognized the Northmen for what they were and the others only when they introduced themselves. Then he recognized some of the names of the men of the North. Lord Howland Reed from the Crannogs, Ser Wendel Manderly from White Harbor, along with guards and men who were very much not. The Westerlands men were led by Ser Daven Lannister, and along with the guards were men who were named miners. While the Reachmen were led by Ser Garth Hightower and though he didn't say it, the other men with him, Mance would name as merchants.
"We'll give you guest right and see to some accommodation for ya," he said to nods of heads, the Northmen seemed unbothered by the cold while the men of the West and the Reach very much were.
"My men will wish to look at what materials you have closest to the camp, Mance." Lord Reed said after they'd taken some bread and salt "Trees, stone, whatever can be used to build with."
"We know how to fucking build, Kneeler," Tormund said challengingly and Mance almost laughed at how easily Howland brushed aside his words.
"It's clear you fucking don't, Wildling." Howland retorted, and for a small man, they were brave words.
"Mine own will see to the docks. They're poor indeed and will need to be much larger for the trade." Ser Wendel said.
Mance called for Val and some others to see to Howland's men and men from the Thenns to see to Ser Wendel's. The Westerlands men wished to see the caves and so Mance bid Tormund take them to ones that weren't occupied and ones that were. As for the Reachmen, they were keener to see their food stocks. So it was to some of the hunters that Mance called for to see they were shown to them.
He walked with Ser Wendel, Lord Reed, Ser Daven, and Ser Garth along with a man who bore the look of lands far from here. When he asked for his name, he was told he was Garror Vynohrin the former chief steward to one of the Great Masters of Meereen and that he was there on Daemon's behalf. Ostensibly he was to be the arbiter of any dispute and to see that they were not shortchanged in the valuation of their germs and precious metals. Or in their dealing with any of the three groups that had come to negotiate with them.
"Daemon sent you?" he asked happily.
"My prince bid me act in his stead, Mance Rayder," Garror replied.
Mance brought the groups to his own tent. While some had made their homes among the caves, he had not. Not that he wouldn't have enjoyed the comfort and warmth they'd have brought, but as King Beyond the Wall, he needed to be seen at all times. Dalla welcomed them in and when they were offered some of the warm rabbit stew that was to be his dinner that night, they accepted and ate it heartily.
"We've brought our own supplies for our time here and some to share as an offering of goodwill as well." Ser Garth said and Mance nodded gratefully.
As they ate, he moved to the nearest basket of gems and carried them over. Ser Daven looked at them with an eager eye as did Garror.
"There are remarkable, Mance. I had thought you'd not been able to mine, however?" Ser Daven asked as he held one of the gems in his hand.
"Some were almost free and clear of the stone. While others required a tap or two and no more, Ser Daven."
"And you have more of these, already gathered?" Garror asked and Mance nodded and bid the man to follow.
He looked on as Garror took some parchment from his pack along with some ink and a quill. When the man asked for the use of his back, Mance was only too happy to oblige and he felt the movements of the quill as Garror wrote down what felt like many numbers.
Once he was done, the man moved to Ser Daven and to Ser Garth and Mance moved back to Howland and Ser Wendel.
"We'll offer our help with the building, Mance. Some supplies too which can only be gathered from the North. King Daemon wishes for us to be allies if not yet friends and so for now that's what we'll offer." Howland said.
"And the others?" he asked looking to the three men who were now in a heated discussion.
"Garror speaks with King Daemon's authority. I've no doubt that should they or we try to cheat you, he'll not be best pleased." Ser Wendel said "We did not come to cheat you though, Mance. King Daemon offers us both something we've not known before, peace. Not only that, but just a look at the gems and without even waiting for mine own or Howland's men to report back, it's clear that you need much and now have the coin to pay for it."
"Aye, that we do," Mance said softly.
"All to rise equally, Mance." Howland said forcing Mance to look to the other much smaller man "That's what he bids of us. All to rise equally."
Over the next few days, he was stunned by just how true it seemed those words were. It took some heavy negotiation but the Westerlands men would help mine, show them how to do so themselves, and sell the gems and metals for fifteen percent of the value. They'd sell them certain materials which at first glance would cost them much, but in truth would very much not according to Garror. The North would provide them with smiths, steelmakers, and carpenters and see their camps expanded upon. While at the same time building them docks and a shore town worthy of the name. Again, fifteen percent of the value of their gems and precious metals was to be their price.
The Reach would gain the most initially, as they'd spend the vast majority of their newfound wealth on food. Garror had gotten them a deal that would cost them twenty percent and see them more than well-fed. As for the crown. For facilitating it all, Daemon would require ten percent and Mance felt that was more than a fair price to pay. Had it not been for Daemon they'd be dead, let alone have found out that they sat on great wealth. Ten percent seemed the least they could offer and Mance had actually offered more. Only to be turned down by Garror.
"My prince has no desire to take more than his due, Mance," Garror said and Mance knew the Free Folk would be more than pleased at those words and at the deal, he'd just agreed to.
They'd be left with forty percent of their wealth to do what they wished with. To be held in reserve for some unknown event or even to help with the growth of their people's numbers. For with no threat coming from the far north and little from the south, as well as a steady supply of food, their numbers would indeed grow.
Lying again in his bed, three weeks after the ships had arrived and then sailed off. Mance was as content as he could ever wish to be. One basket of gems was all that had been taken so far. Enough to get them started and a shipment of food from the Reach, men from the West, and supplies from the North were soon to make their way to them. Garror had said he'd return and Ser Wendel's men had stayed to begin building the docks. As had Howland's to start building the homes that the Free Folk would soon call their own.
Homes built of wood and stone. Homes that were warm and covered from the wind that still blew in Hardhome. Homes that their children and children's children would one day name their own.
Tyrosh 301 AC.
Daario.
He had been disappointed with the numbers that were to travel to Westeros and take on Daemon Targaryen where he now made his home. His brief time in Westeros had shown him much and the Golden Company along with the Tiger Cloaks just wasn't enough. Daario may not think much of the Westerosi, but he'd name their own numbers as more than a match. Meeting the Dornish Prince had relieved some of his doubts. Though he still couldn't understand how if Chai Yen's army didn't defeat Daemon, that one many times smaller would have a chance.
Pyat Pree did not share his doubts. Not only were their plans sound, the warlock would say but in him, they had the right man to lead them in the battles to come. He'd been chosen by their god and placed higher than any. Should Daemon Targaryen manage to defeat Chai Yen and the Yitish, he'd then find himself outmatched when he faced Daario Naharis. Daario would not lie and say that he didn't enjoy being flattered. However, flattery never won any wars and the Warlock's words had begged other questions.
" Yet should he fall to Chai Yen then what are we? A contingency? Backup?" he asked annoyed.
" What was it our god promised you, Daario Naharis? What was to be your reward?"
Daario didn't answer, instead, the image of golden hair and green eyes came to mind and the thought of taking the woman he loved from Daemon Targaryen brought a smile to his face. It had been what he'd been denied all those years earlier. Why he'd truly gotten involved with those who followed his god and had been the only prize he'd truly sought. Oh, he wished for wealth and power too and that had been promised as well. To take something so precious from someone else. No, there was no greater feeling than that nor none he wished for more.
" Should Chai Yen manage to be the one to beat Daemon Targaryen, then Westeros and all its spoils will be yours, Daario."
" And should he not?" he asked.
" Then it will fall to you to be our god's truest champion and to finally put Daemon Targaryen down once and for all." Pyat Pree said and Daario found that he very much enjoyed those words and the thoughts they brought to him.
It had meant though that he'd needed to perform a mummery of sorts for now. The time for him to take command was not yet at hand and so he allowed Malaquo, Harry Strickland, and Oberyn Martell to believe that they led here. He was simply the means to bring the dragon down. Which wasn't as full a lie as it may have been. Though it would be Pyat Pree who truly faced off against the dragon should Daemon still live and still control one after he'd dealt with Chai Yen.
How that was to come about, Daario knew not. For as close as he and Pyat Pree had become, both were allies and allies only. Each of them fulfilled different missions for their god. His task was to defeat the man who rode upon the dragon's back, Pyat's the dragon itself. When pressed, the Warlock simply replied that just as he'd been gifted by their god, so had he too. To the others, it was to be scorpion bolts dipped in a magical poison that would see the dragon fall. Daario had somehow kept his face straight as Pyat Pree told Malaquo, Harry Strickland, and Oberyn Martell that particular lie.
Gold, coin, and reputation, to them that was the price that he and Pyat were working for. Once again, that particular lie was not too far from the truth either. Gold and coin were certainly things that they would garner from the battles to come. As for reputation, for too long Daemon Targaryen's name had been held in higher regard than Daario's was. True, it was only recently that the Targaryen part had become known, but still, there were few places in Essos where Daemon was unknown. When he was done, everywhere and everyone would have heard of Daario Naharis.
"The ships will be ready on the morrow," Pyat said finding him alone where both he and the Warlock would go to speak their true thoughts.
"You were followed?" he asked and Pyat smiled a blue-lipped smile.
"For as far as I allowed it."
"When do we make our move?" he asked as his hand fingered the hilt of his gifted Arakh.
"Let us get the lay of the land in Dorne and once we're ready to march, then our god's will shall be done."
There was little need for them to speak more than that. Their plans were almost set in stone. Unless they received some new information regarding Daemon Targaryen which changed those plans or their god adapted them, they both knew what it was they were to do. When the time was right, he'd take command of an army that would follow his orders and his alone. He'd march that army to King's Landing and he'd take her for his own.
Daemon would either come to him or already be dead and Daario hoped it was to be the former. He had no fear of facing him, nor any worry that he'd be defeated when he did so. His god had given him his favor and the next time they met for true, Daemon would be the one who was outmatched. He'd denied him his prize once before. Worse than that, he'd made him fear him. It was not something he'd ever forgive the man for and so while he may tell himself it was gold, coin, and reputation. While he may picture what it would feel like to take his woman for his own. In truth, it was his life that he sought and would take the most pleasure in taking from him.
The next morning he stood on the dockside and looked out at the ships that had already begun to make ready to sail. No fleet like it had ever been assembled before and was this an ordinary voyage, then Daario may worry about the seas claiming them before they landed or some other unfortunate event. He had no doubt that this particular fleet would reach its destination. So as he climbed into the boat beside Pyat Pree and they were rowed to the Bountiful Harvest, he did so with a true smile on his face.
More than 40,000 men he was bringing with him to Westeros. Dorne would give him another 20,000 to add to their number when he arrived. Each of them was a true fighting man too. Not like those that Chai Yen had under his command. There were even some war elephants to set loose and destroy any cavalry they may face on their march. Spearmen, archers, swordsmen, he had, or would have, many of each. Yet as he turned to Pyat Pree and saw just how eager the look on his face was, he knew one inescapable truth. Two, that was what it would eventually come down to.
He and Pyat Pree were worth more than the entirety of the men he'd march with and he and Daemon Targaryen would be who ended their own particular war of wills.
"You are my chosen. Prove me right." he heard the voice in his head.
"As you command," he answered.
Dorne 301 AC.
Shiera.
The men came at them sooner than they expected. Though they had found them more than ready for them. Archers took down the first almost too-eager wave that attacked them. Which in turn had made the others warier when doing so. From high in an eagle in the sky, Shiera had looked on and directed Red Flea and Larxus as to which direction the danger came from. These men had then found spears and fiery swords to be what was to bring about their ends.
Not a single one of those with her had been lost to the men that Lord Uller had sent after them. Four and forty of the lord's guard would not be able to say the same or speak any words ever again. Only one of them seemed clever enough to understand that this was a fool's errand they'd been sent on. Though Larxus had wished the man to be killed, Shiera had allowed him to ride back from whence he'd come.
" Enough blood has been spilled in these sands already, Larxus."
That the lord had sent men after her at all, however, meant that her plans now needed to change. She'd hoped to sneak in and steal the ruby. To then see the queen's remains with her two eyes instead of her thousand and one, and then sneak back out unnoticed. Lord Uller may give up once his final remaining guard returned or he may come after her himself and with a larger force. No matter what choice he eventually decided upon. Word would now be sent and there would be no keep that wasn't on alert or no guard patrol that may not be seeking them out.
It left her in a quandary. If the gods had been good, then she could have sailed down the Brimstone and met their ship. Their contingency was to ride to Starfall and rejoin the ship there, but while they may have allies in House Dayne, she'd not put them at risk by alerting others to that fact. So when they set up camp that night and after she'd sent her birds loose in the sky and had made sure that they were the only ones for miles around, she set about trying to firm up a new plan. Once she'd eaten and had readied her bed for the night, it was to the maps she looked. Then as she closed her eyes, it was to the past, present, and even the future that she turned her mind to.
The army faded and fell, the desert sands almost welcoming each man who fell into their warm embrace. Sunstroke, thirst, fatigue, and the fact that while they believed they were making progress, they were in truth going in circles. All of it combined to ensure that Harlan Tyrell and his army would never spill one drop of Dornish blood ever again.
Men chased after them, their horses moving more swiftly across the desert than their own. Outnumbered and outmatched, she looked at those with her and the ruby in her hand and cursed herself for leading them and mayhap everyone else she cared about to their deaths.
" I should have come with Daemon," she said as the spear impaled her and she watched dark-skinned hands rip the ruby from her neck.
The tower loomed largely. The men in white cloaks stood outside of it, ready to face off against any who came for the woman and the babe she carried. Yet the fight never came. Words and not blades were what won the day and though the woman's fate was unchanged, the babe's very much was because of it. She saw it then, the light that floated above the tower. Like an ever-watchful eye, it followed the men and the babe as they made their way north.
As she turned from it, she swore it blinked or flickered. Something changed with it and the light dimmed and then shined brightly. Despite not being there, not in truth, Shiera had to shield her eyes. Once she did, the voice resounded in her head.
" Follow my chosen and he will lead you home, Shiera of the Sea."
She woke up with a start. Something which worried those around her for a moment until she told them she was well. The Prince's Pass, from there to Nightsong and from there to the Boneway. House Caron would give her an escort whether she asked it of them or not, as would House Dondarrion. Yet once she made it to their keep, she believed any danger to her would have passed. Shiera was about to make this suggestion when Larxus moved to her. The look in his eyes was one that told her that she wasn't alone in seeing something this night.
"I saw a tower in the fires, my princess," Larxus said and Shiera nodded before explaining what the tower was and who it was that guided them to it.
"My god spoke to you?" Larxus said amazed.
"He wishes for his chosen to have all the tools he needs, Larxus." Shiera said showing him the ruby "This is needed for the fight to come. White Eyes."
"Then we make haste, my princess" Larxus said.
Shiera rose to her feet and without even breaking her fast, was soon on her horse. They ate as they rode. Shiera again sent her birds into the sky to both make sure they weren't being followed and to see the path that guided them to their destination most quickly. She sent some birds off to find water and soon came across a small stream that took them but a mile from their path. Calling Larxus to her, she bid him send men after the eagle and for them to gather as much water as they possibly could.
"Follow it and it alone. Both there and back." she said to the men Larxus had chosen "It will bring you back to us and ensure that you do not lose yourself in these sands.
"As you command, Princess."
While the men did as they were bid, she and the rest continued riding south. She saw it, the path from her dreams, the one that led to wrath and ruin and it was clear to her why she would have taken it. Both Red Flea and Larxus bid her take it still and Shiera refused.
"That way leads to death. R'hllor has shown me the true path," she said, her words and the mention of Daemon's, Larxus', and the other Fiery Hand men's god was more than enough to quell any dissent.
Ignoring one path and continuing on the other, they rode onward and deeper into the desert itself. It was a number of hours later that the men she'd sent for the water arrived and rejoined them. Their bounty was more than enough to get them most if not all of the way to their destination. That night, they camped and welcomed the cold breeze that blew. Shiera ate, rested, and went looking with her thousand eyes and one once more. This time only in the present and it didn't take her long to see the force that had been gathered to find and capture her. Where Lord Uller had gathered the men, she knew not. There had to be more than three hundred and it proved what she'd seen in her peek at the future to be true.
She had dared not look too far into that future for she was sure now that the spear that had impaled her had been to disable and not to kill. Lord Uller wished for another Targaryen to know the delights of his family's dungeons and had she gone the direction she would have, then Shiera would know firsthand what fate had befallen Rhaenys all those years ago. Once it had been found out who she was, and she had no doubt it would, then she'd have experienced that fate for herself. Of that, she had no doubt. Watching them as they rode off in pursuit of a foe they'd not find, Shiera breathed in relief and closed her eyes for now.
It took them more than a week to reach Nightsong. They'd gone two days without water, or the men had, for not one of them would allow her to do so. Each of them had most welcomed the offers of baths, food, and a decent night's rest. They left the next day and rode with a hundred men of House Caron by their side. They were joined three days later by another fifty from House Dondarrion and soon enough they were at Summerhall. Shiera was more than happy to be among her family once more. After thanking the men who'd ridden with her from the two Stormlands Houses and seeing them well-provisioned for their return. She then made her way to speak to her family and to prepare for the journey back to King's Landing to await Daemon's return.
The Battle of Samyriana 301 AC.
Arthur Dayne.
Had anyone asked him, then Arthur would have named himself a weathered warrior. He was certainly no green boy and yet as he looked out at the things that were lined up against them, he may as well have been. Fear was not something he'd known much over the course of his life and even now, he'd not name what he felt as that. Yet, it needed a name. So be it discomfort, worry, concern, repulsion, or mayhap doubt, it was something he'd not ever truly known until now.
These dead things were grotesque. Yet according to Thoros, they were less so than the ones that he and Daemon had faced Beyond the Wall. Fresher bodies the red priest had named them as and the image that less fresh ones conjured up in Arthur's mind were not ones he wished to dwell upon. They were outnumbered in terms of men at least. In cavalry, they had the advantage. Though the Dothraki were like no cavalry that Arthur had ever seen before.
Mounted with their Arakhs drawn instead of lances. Almost half of them had bows at the ready and it seemed they'd be firing them while atop their horses and not how archers in Westeros would do so. Though night had fallen, you'd not know it. For more than a hundred thousand flaming weapons were lit up and ready to be brought to bear. Other than Dawn, there was not a man or woman amongst them who didn't wield a weapon that was covered in flames. Arthur had long since passed wondering how Daemon was able to manage such a feat.
Beside him, women the likes of which he'd never seen before were lined up with the Unsullied. Rank upon rank of men with spears and shields and women with weapons that Arthur was unable to give a name to. Further down the line, the Fiery Hand stood in their red armor and bore flame-tipped spears, and amongst both forces stood their commanders. Thoros of Myr and Torgho Nudho, were both ready to fight and die for Daemon should the need arise. As was Arthur, himself. Yet despite the dead facing them some distance away or the men and women he lined up with, it was simply two things that Arthur found himself concentrating on.
Daemon was atop Lyanax and was at present flying toward the army ahead of them. While to Arthur's left, a shadow stood at the ready. One that had he not seen it at work in Oldtown, would scare the living daylights out of him now. He would wager that Thoros, Torgho Nudho, and mayhap Khal Drogo had their own shadow watching their backs too.
"Fire and Blood," Thoros shouted out loudly, taking Arthur from his thoughts.
"Perzys Ānogār."
"Perzys Ānogār."
"Vorsa ma Qoy "
"Vorsa ma Qoy "
Unsullied, Fiery Hand, Women Warriors of Samyriana, and Dothraki. The words of House Targaryen rang around the battlefield and sounded out like thunder. Louder even than the roars from the black dragon some way off in the distance. Then Arthur and each and every single man and woman there cheered just as loudly when Lyanax let loose her flames.
Over and over, the sky was lit up by the flames that came from the black dragon's mouth. Even from the distance away that he stood, Arthur could bear witness to the devastation that a dragon could bring to men or things that had once been men. Many years earlier, Rhaegar had told tales of the Field of Fire and Arthur had witnessed the damage that Balerion had wrought upon Harrenhal for himself during that long-ago tourney. Yet none of that prepared you for seeing it firsthand.
"Here they come!." Thoros shouted out loudly.
"Kesīr pōnta māzigon!"
"Mori jadat!"
The sky was lit up by thousands of arrows. Arthur turned to glance as from atop their horses the Dothraki archers let loose. As bright as the flames that came from Lyanax, it was an awe-inspiring sight to see. He watched them as they hit home. Another volley then another and then he heard the sound of horses readying themselves for the charge. The loud call to arms that then came from the Khal was one that he needed no translation for.
"Kisha Dothralat! Iffi che Athdrivar!" (We Ride! Victory or Death!)
Never before and he'd wager never again would he see a charge like it. They rode like no men he'd ever seen and as none that he'd have ever even guessed would be able to do so. Daemon had said that the Dothraki were almost born in the saddle. Looking at them now, Arthur would name any who said it was not so, a damn liar. Their arrows still flew even when in full charge and the sound of them as they crashed into the dead was like nothing he'd ever heard before.
Ahead of them, Lyanax had left the furthest of the lines that she'd been attacking and now cut a path through the dead for the Dothraki to ride through. Then as one, they split into two groups, somehow managed to turn in an arc, and now rode back towards Arthur and the others while still taking down dead things as they did so.
Khal Drogo.
Daemon and he had discussed many different plans for the battle to come. It would not be one fought in the Dothraki way, or not completely at least. He'd listened, spoken to his blood riders, and then adapted their plans to suit those of his brother by choice. Lyanax and Daemon would bring the flames to their enemies and then clear a path for the Dothraki to ride into. Yet it would be to ride and then regroup. To cut down those in front of them, form back up, and ride away from the enemy before then riding into them once more.
Had these words been spoken by any man other than Daemon, then not he and certainly not his Khalasar would have listened to them. The Great Stallion promised victory to those who rode out and claimed it, not to those who sat back and waited for it to be handed to them. Drogo knew however that was not what Daemon was suggesting. They would both earn glory here today. Or by the end of it, one of both of them would be dead.
" You'll feel him beside you brother, he'll do as I wish to and as I know so do you."
" Guard my back," he said as he and Daemon locked arms.
" Would that I rode beside you and was able to do so myself."
" Or that I could for you," he replied as they moved their foreheads together.
Drogo had led the cheers when Lyanax first laid down her flames. The sight of it was as majestic to him as seeing his Khalasar in full charge. At his signal, the sky had been filled with arrows and lit up as if the sun himself shone still. Each and every one of them hit home and found their targets. Then after doing so a couple of more times, he looked to his men and gave them the order they'd been waiting for.
"Kisha Dothralat! Iffi che Athdrivar!" (We Ride! Victory or Death!)
As one the horses moved forward. A slow trot, a gallop, and then a full charge. Arrows flew from those who still wielded their bows and his Arakh burned brightly as he led the way upon his red stallion. There was no hesitation in his horse's movements. No fear or doubt that they'd be riding back together and not yet into the lands of his forefathers.
Ahead of them, Lyanax cleared the path as Daemon had said they would and Drogo wore a full smile on his face. It wasn't his Arakh that took down the first of these dead things they faced. That honor belonged to the spear wielded by the shadow that both rode with him and very much did not. The second to fall was by his hand though. His Arakh cut through it with no resistance whatsoever. Left and right, Drogo then slashed downward. Any who were lucky enough to not get caught fully by his strike was set ablaze by the flames of the Arakh as it passed them by.
The fire almost seemed to reach out and take them from the world as if it too wished them gone. It was like another warrior was with him, other than the shadow which was ever vigilant and never tiring behind him. When the roar came, Drogo looked to see that they'd ridden halfway, and ahead of them were wooden structures that were now aflame. He laughed loudly at the arrogance of these dead things to think mere scorpions or catapults could take down Daemon or his dragon. Then he ordered the turn both in word and deed.
"Kisha Dothralat Irge!" (We Ride Back!)
Down the line, he heard his Bloodriders repeat his orders. Far off to his left, he knew that Cohollo and Rakharo would have seen the signal and given their own orders. While one or two of the younger riders rode forward to their deaths, the rest did as their Khal had ordered. Riding back to reform his line, his Arakh and the spear of the shadow behind him were not idle. They may have been riding on the outside of the dead's ranks. Yet there were however still dead things for them to take down, and so take them down they did.
When he saw the arrows fly from left to right and right to left, Drogo smiled in appreciation. As he did when they quickly reformed their lines once more. There had been some scattered fighting in front of their Unsullied, Fiery Hand, and the Warrior Women. Some dead who had been unlucky enough to not fall to his Khalasar's ride had made it through to their lines. They'd found that to be the end of their good fortune though and spears and swords had quickly ended their own small charge.
Drogo heard Lyanax roar once more and then she and Daemon were flying over their heads before they too turned and headed back out to face the dead once more.
"Kisha Dothralat! Iffi che Athdrivar!" (We Ride! Victory or Death!)
His orders rang out and the Dothraki began their charge again.
Thoros
Thus far the battle had been a watching brief for him and the men of the Fiery Hand. They had stood, ready for the onslaught that would inevitably come, and simply watched as first Daemon and then the Dothraki played their parts. Lyanax laid down her flames almost neverendingly. Then the Dothraki illuminated the sky with their arrows before charging into the fray and returning. A small force of the dead had managed to somehow avoid the flames and the Dothraki charge and had been quickly dealt with. Other than that, it was standing, waiting, and watching.
Thoros had tried to inform the men of the Fiery Hand as to what it was they were to face. Both he and Daemon had spoken to them and they had all looked into the fires. Only to see events Beyond the Wall and not the ones to come. Still, he believed it had prepared them as well as they could be without them actually fighting against the dead themselves. He'd then been happy that they got the chance to do so against the scattered forces that reached their lines. For he knew that the experience of it would prove invaluable when the true strength of their enemy was unleashed against them.
Beside him, one of Daemon's shadows acted as a guard of sorts. Its job was to protect him and him alone and while Thoros felt unworthy of its protection, his prince was having none of it. Nor would Daemon listen when Thoros had asked him to take all the shadows with him.
" I have enough with me, Thoros. Let the others be of use too." Daemon has said simply.
" You're using more than one in this role?" he asked and Daemon simply smiled.
There was no need for him to ask who else was to be protected so. Torgho Nudho, Ser Arthur, and Khal Drogo would each be getting their own immortal protector. Or Thoros believed them to be immortal. They certainly couldn't be harmed by any living thing other than Daemon and even then, Daemon had said he'd defeated them and not actually caused them any harm in doing so. Thoros wouldn't lie however and say that its presence didn't both discomfort him and relieve him at the same time. After the Dothraki had charged a second time and Lyanax's roar then sounded out louder than ever, he knew he'd soon feel the benefits of its skills too.
"Kesīr pōnta māzigon!" (Here they come!) he called out loudly.
The sound of shields being locked into place rang out down the line. Once again the sky was illuminated by thousands of fiery arrows. It showed the force that ran their way and though it was mayhap lesser than it may have been, it was still formidable. With his flaming sword at the ready, he looked down to see the Fiery Hand's spears were in position and knew he had no need to wonder about the Unsullied's own.
Far off to his left, the Warrior Women fought against their natural urges to charge into the fray and had formed into the same lines as Thoros and the others had. The Dothraki had charged forward and would soon be returning and though he couldn't make out Lyanax or her flames, he had no doubt that she and his prince would be too.
A thousand feet, five hundred, two, and then one. The dead ran towards them in full fury. They looked angrier than the dead that he and Daemon had faced Beyond the Wall. More feral was he to give it a name. Their bodies were less damaged by time too and Thoros tried not to think that their deaths had not only been more recent, but some may even have been self-inflicted. As for the wounds that had caused those deaths, they were gruesome indeed. For while they were less damaged by time and decay, the damage they'd done to themselves or someone had done to them was extensive all the same.
"Ōregon se qogron!" (Hold the line!) he called out as the gap narrowed and the smell of the dead now hit them, its arrival heralding their own.
He felt it when they crashed into their lines. The force of it knocked him back a foot or more before he steadied himself. Then he was thrusting, slashing, and in front of him, the dead were falling for true. Though far differently trained than the Unsullied, the Fiery Hand wielded their spears the same way. In and out, with small fluid motions and each thrust led to a dead thing falling. Over and over, before they then as one took three steps backward and then continued with what they'd been doing.
Burning flesh was soon all that Thoros could smell. Its stench again was different from that of the dead Beyond the Wall. There was more of it to burn on these dead things. Something he welcomed not. He heard the sound of the horses' hoof beats as the Dothraki neared them and then he readied to shout out the order to let the dead through their lines. It was a risky strategy but it beat the alternative of being crushed under the weight of a Dothraki charge. Thoros put his faith in that as good horsemen as the Dothraki were, they'd manage not to trample any of the living when they rode back and so he shouted out the order.
"Ivestragī zirȳ rȳ!" (Let them through!)
Down the line, the Unsullied, the Warrior Women, and the men of the Fiery Hand did as they were bid. His order was shouted out and repeated by Torgho Nudho, Phiranah Naerann, and the other commanders. It was an order that almost cost him his life as Thoros moved too slowly and would have fallen to the dead thing's blade was it not for his shadow protector. He looked on in awe as the dead thing that had tried to end him, was easily lifted from the ground and held up in the air. What it was that it was impaled on, he knew or cared not. Thoros just slashed his sword down the chest of another dead thing near him. Then he looked on and watched as the one who'd come close to ending him, now flew through the air.
Lyanax's roar rang out and the Dothraki had ridden through and taken down thrice the dead that had fallen to Thoros and the rest of their lines. The heat from the black dragon's flames was felt and yet that was as close as the flames came to any of the living. That his prince and the dragon were able to manage it, once again proved his god as true as Thoros and Daemon himself believed him to be. Soon enough they were reforming their lines and the Dothraki were readying yet another charge. Once more the sky was filled with flaming arrows and looking down the line, Thoros believed they'd not suffered too many losses.
Looking out at the dead that were still some distance away from them and readying another attack, he feared that neither had they.
Torgho Nudho.
The spears moved in unison and the dead fell for true. Unyielding and unwavering, his men fought as they'd been trained to do. They showed no fear and nor did he. Even though the things they faced should rightly make you fearful. Many years earlier, his prince had told him and then showed him that his destiny was to close three sets of eyes. Red Eyes, Blue Eyes, and White Eyes.
Daemon had asked and not ordered him and the Unsullied to join him in the fight. He'd given them their freedom and offered them a chance to live their lives without ever needing to raise a spear other than to protect themselves. As one, the Unsullied had chosen to serve their prince and Torgho Nudho knew that not a single one of them felt any different now or would make a different choice if it was offered. They'd not been with their prince when he'd shut Blue Eyes and Torgho Nudho had liked it not. So when he'd been asked to gather them and that the fight against Red Eyes was soon to begin, he'd welcomed it. As had his men.
This was what they knew. What they were good at. Each of them may hate what the Good Masters of Astapor had done to them, but they couldn't change it or what they were. They were fighting men. The best of the best. Legendary with many a tale spoken about them and yet no tale would be greater than this one. Should they fall here today, should this be their end, then he would have it be a glorious one. One against a true foe and fought by the side of the man who'd freed them and men he'd name as friends.
Looking down to see that Thoros stood still, Torgho smiled or as close to one as the situation allowed for. It was not something he did often and yet he had known more happiness since being freed than in all the years before it. Feeling a brief respite, he called out for the Unsullied to eat and drink. For their rest would be a fleeting thing until death claimed them or the battle was won.
"Dovaogēdy, ipradagon, mōzugon. Kessi māzigon arlī!" (Unsullied, Eat, Drink. They will come again!)
Torgho Nudho reached into his own pack. The bread tasted of little but would fill his belly as would the dried meat and cheese. He welcomed the feeling of the water as he drank it down. Happy that it had retained its coolness and had not warmed since he'd drawn it from the well. Glancing to the field in front of him every few moments, he judged as best he could when the next attack would come and after less than a few moments, he ordered the Unsullied back into line.
The Dothraki had ridden out twice and then had ridden through their lines as his prince had said they would. Thoros' voice had rung out loudly and when Torgho Nudho had added his own to it, the Unsullied had moved to open their lines up to the dead and the horse lords who chased after them. It went against every principle of warfare that he or they had learned and yet their prince had bid them to and so it had been done.
That act had brought them their brief respite and as he and the Unsullied formed up once again, Torgho caught sight of the shadow that stood by his shoulder.
" Better with you, my prince."
" I have mine own protection, Torgho Nudho. I would bid you allow me to add to yours."
" As my prince commands."
Four words that didn't quite cover how much the gesture had truly meant to him. To know that his prince considered him the same as he did his white knight, his brother by choice, and Thoros of Myr, it had meant much to him. To then see the shadow in action and to realize that this was but one of seven that his prince had beaten when he was but a boy, gave him even more faith that they'd be victorious here today.
"Kesīr pōnta māzigon!" (Here they come!) he called out.
The Dothraki had ridden out once more. Their respite was now over and the dead charged toward them in even bigger numbers than they had the last time. Their numbers seemed never-ending and yet that could not be so. He heard the sound of Lyanax as she roared loudly and then felt the wind from the wings of the black dragon as she flew overhead. There were no cheers, yet each and every man may have wished to as the flames that were unleashed helped slow the momentum of the dead things' charge.
Torgho Nudho vowed that his and the Unsullied spears would do the rest and so when the dead crashed into them, he called out the order.
"Mōris zirȳ! Mōris zirȳ syt īlva Dārilaros!" (End them! End them for our Prince!)
His spear moved like an extension of his arm. Short thrusts and each one hitting home. Its flame-tipped head set the dead alight as easily as a spark would to dried grass. The spearheads had been infused with some of the dark stone that his prince and Thoros had said worked so well against the dead. Though in truth it was flames that were the true ends of these dead things today.
How many times he repeated the motion of moving his arm forward, he couldn't count. At times, he'd bring his shield to bear and bash the skull of some dead thing which sought his own end. Beside him, the shadow watched his back, side, and front all at the same time. One moment a dead thing would be looking to attack and the next it would be flying away from him as if hit by some unseen force. Up to mayhap an hour ago, the shadow had been just that. Even now, Torgho Nudho could not truly see it as it moved and ended dead things by the tens while he did so in ones and twos. Yet he'd somehow come to notice its movements and had created an image of it in his mind. It was taller than any man on this field other than Khal Drogo and just as broad as his prince's brother by choice. In life, the shadow would have been a formidable figure to look upon. In whatever form you named this, it was a majestic one.
Lyanax roared loudly. Her flames came ever closer and Torgho needed no more to be said. The time to retreat and reform was upon them. To seek different ground and to allow Lyanax to bring about the ends of their own dead as well as many of those they now fought against. He looked to see the Black Dragon turn to the east and knew his prince would take her from east to west. With one or two more thrusts, a glance down the lines where he saw far too many of the Unsullied had fallen, Torgho Nudho once again shouted out his orders.
"Dīnagon arlī se ōregon se arlie qogron!" (Move back and hold the line!)
As one they did as they were bid. Some more fell as they did so. To retreat was not a thing understood by the Unsullied. Again were it anyone other than their prince asking them to do so, then they'd not even consider such a thing. Were this an enemy that they understood or had faced before, they have probably sought to come up with their own way of beating them. Their own tactic instead of relying on tactics handed to them. While they followed orders unreservedly, when it came to fighting, they would adapt when necessary. It had been what had led to the form they used in battle and yet, they were not averse to change when required. Their prince knew more than they and so they took their lead from him. So they retreated, reformed, and looked on as their prince and Lyanax showed the dead what fate they'd now wrought down upon themselves.
Chai Yen.
He'd watched it all unfold dispassionately. Far back from the field of fire that the battlefield had become, he sat atop his horse and looked on with a keen eye. The dragon was an impressive beast and their attempts to take it from the sky had come to naught. It never seemed to tire and the sheer amount of damage it did to his army should give him pause, and yet it did not. Nor did the Dothraki when they loosed their arrows or charged as furiously and ferociously as Chai Yen knew they were capable of.
How much of his army he'd lost was irrelevant. There were countless more bodies he could add to it once he won. So he'd sat, watched, and waited before coming up with the plan he had now settled on. Calling Bu Gai and the fiercest of his warriors to him, Chai Yen set his plan in motion and then unleashed his full army and all they'd brought with them upon his enemy.
The dragon was giving aid to his own lines but would soon turn and come at his once more. Climbing down off his horse, Chai Yen cut his wrists and let the blood flow from them. With eyes closed, he spoke the words and felt it when the weather began to change. Around him the wind picked up, the storm gathered place and the rain began to fall. Soon the field in front of him was enveloped in a tempest the likes of which Essos had never seen before.
A dragon would find it hard to fly in such. Horsemen wouldn't be able to ride across the soon-to-be soggy ground and men would find themselves unable to keep their footing. The lines that had held firm against his onslaught would give ground as men would fall while trying to hold firm. His army would not fall and they'd not falter. They'd feel not the wind nor the rain as both lashed against their faces. Their weapons wouldn't prove difficult to hold onto in the storm they now found themselves in. Even more important than any of that. Fire would no longer burn.
Looking to his generals, Chai Yen raised his hand and though the words were not spoken aloud, he knew each and every one of them, and all the soldiers in his army had heard them loud and clear.
"Ossēnagon Pōntoma!" (Kill Them ALL!)