The Red Comet hung high in the sky. This celestial sign had lasted for a long time, and nearly everyone in the known world had seen it. In the Riverlands, the bloody war was still raging.
"Ser Barristan, I have urgent intelligence that I need to discuss with the Prince. I must interrupt for a moment," Qyburn said, bowing apologetically first.
"Then I will wait until you have finished your report, old maester," Ser Barristan said.
He naturally understood Qyburn's meaning. Qyburn, Barristan, and the bowyer were now something of a white haired alliance at Gendry's side, all deeply seasoned old men.
The old knight guessed that this was likely something highly secret, so he motioned for Anguy and himself to step back a little and let the old maester speak with Gendry first.
"Prince, I think my research may be about to bear fruit," Qyburn said softly to Gendry. "If the Mountain is brought here half dead, he would be the finest specimen I could ask for. He is big enough, strong enough, and the poison in him will not kill him quickly. The poison Gregor suffered is manticore venom treated with dark magic, which is why he is being tortured in agony instead of dying at once."
"That could work, but this matter must be handled with extreme caution."
"Yes, Prince. I am quite confident. Ever since the Red Comet appeared, I have had the faint sense that the strength of magic has greatly increased," Qyburn said in a low voice.
"My instinct tells me that the tide of magic came first, then the dragons hatched, and once the dragons hatched, they further strengthened that tide."
"That should indeed be the truth. As far as I understand it, magic may always have existed, but it remained at such a low ebb for so long that people began to treat it as a joke. Only a very few could grasp even scraps of it. But now the tide of magic has returned, and the power of mages has grown greatly."
"For example?"
"For example, Alys Rivers during the Dance of the Dragons, or Bloodraven, the lord closest to our own time. When both of them lived, magic was already in decline, yet they still seemed to possess remarkable mastery of it."
Both names were like thunder in the ears, famous figures wrapped in the mysteries of Westeros.
"Alys Rivers. Bloodraven." Gendry listened carefully to Qyburn's account.
"If only Marwyn the Mage were here," Qyburn said with a sudden sigh. "In the Citadel, no one surpasses Marwyn in the study of magic. He wears a Valyrian steel link in his chain, proof of his profound knowledge of magic and the higher mysteries."
"He should come," Gendry said. "A man so obsessed with magic would hardly miss living dragons."
"Exactly." Qyburn smiled with his old face. "He seeks dragons, so sooner or later he will come. And when he does, he may help you avoid certain plots from other mages. I will have Marwyn establish a new department."
"But there is one thing I must especially remind you of, Prince. No ordinary warrior can match you, and I have already taught you a great deal about poison, hidden weapons, and medicine. The only thing you truly need to fear is those strange and unpredictable forms of magic. The mages of old were like streams without a source, trees without roots, little more than uncanny clowns. But now magic is slowly growing stronger, and you must beware attacks from mages as well." Qyburn lowered his voice again. "Especially given your identity, Princess Daenerys's identity, and the existence of the dragons, there will be mages who covet all of you."
"I will," Gendry said with a nod.
Qyburn's concern was not misplaced. Before the tide of magic returned, mages had been little more than clowns despised by all. But now that magic was reviving, their power had undergone a true transformation. Crow's Eye, for instance, or the red priestess beside Stannis.
"Is the red priestess still on Dragonstone?"
"She is. She seems to believe with absolute devotion that Stannis is the promised one," Qyburn said with disdain. "I do not believe it. The red priestess may have some real power, who can say otherwise, or Stannis would not trust her so deeply. But prophecies are difficult things. Their meanings are often vague, even completely astray. It is perfectly normal for mages to misread a prophecy."
"The red witch chose Lord Stannis for a more practical reason as well. His power base is too small. If he truly wants to succeed, he might be willing to cast aside the Seven for the sake of a red priestess," Gendry replied. That was the political side of it.
"No matter what, we must be careful of her," Gendry said.
"Yes, Prince," Qyburn replied. "But there is another way to help protect you from magic."
"You mean the dragons?"
"Exactly. Dragons are creatures of magic. Dragons are fire. Dragons are miracles. Dragons possess tremendous vitality. Ordinary glamours and false sights cannot be pierced by men, but dragons can perceive what is real."
"That does make sense." Gendry had to admit the point. In the original history, when Daenerys had been bewitched in the House of the Undying, it was dragonfire that saved her.
"But after the dragons hatched, have you felt any trace of magic stirring in your body? Fire resistance, perhaps, or the ability to command flame?" Qyburn asked.
"I do have a little resistance to fire, but resistance is not immunity, so it is of limited use. As for controlling flame, I do not have that ability for now," Gendry answered honestly.
"The dragons have only just awakened. There is no need for haste. Since the blood of the storm already runs in your veins, the blood of the true dragon may yet grow stronger as well," Qyburn said.
"Where do you think magic comes from, Master Qyburn?" Gendry asked.
"I believe magic comes from bloodlines and faith, either bloodlines or faith," Qyburn replied. "The ancient Valyrian Dragonlords were skilled in fire magic. The ancient Rhoynar were skilled in water magic. The First Men who worshipped the Old Gods also possessed certain forms of magic, and there is no need to mention the children of the forest. Then there are the believers, the followers of the Lord of Light. These magics are all different, but from what I understand, blood for fire, fire for blood. I fear the Dragonlords' blood and fire magic is the most destructive, and the most overbearing of all."
"So you believe I might be capable of wielding magic?" Gendry looked at Qyburn.
"In theory, I believe the possibility exists. You carry many bloodlines, storm blood, Dragonlord blood, Rhoynar blood, and more besides. Life itself may be a flame, and only a strong flame can drive magic. But possessing the bloodline does not mean magic can be awakened, and magic is no blessing either. Blood and fire. To wield magic, there is always a great price."
Gendry nodded. "I think so too."
"You know the possibility is there. If you can truly grasp such things, then you would become a true king, a king unlike any other. But magic is far too mysterious. I still advise you to let it come naturally and never force it. After all, House Targaryen knew no such magic, and yet it flourished for a time."
"Hearing you speak makes me feel as though I can do anything." Gendry smiled faintly. "Enough, Master Qyburn. We will end today's discussion here."
"As you wish." Qyburn bowed, then left at an unhurried pace. On his way out, he called Ser Barristan and Anguy back over.
Gendry reflected on Qyburn's words. Magic could not be forced. It would consume life force or demand some other price. Unless he could be certain it would not harm him, there was no reason to study it too deeply. The storm god represented strength. The Valyrian Dragonlords represented blood and fire, though House Targaryen had never truly mastered such things. The Rhoynar stood for water magic and the will of the great rivers. The magic of the First Men showed itself through skinchanging.
"Let us talk about the Vale instead."
Barristan and Anguy returned to where they had been before.
"I am afraid getting the Vale to send troops will be difficult. Hoster married off his daughter hoping to borrow the Vale's strength, but sadly his second daughter was never the sharpest sort," Ser Barristan said in a low voice, a glimmer of wisdom in his eyes. "From what I know of Lady Lysa, that woman is half mad. She spends her days fretting over the young lord's health, and she does not dare offend the Lannisters."
"I fear it is more than that," Gendry said as he caught the returning Balerion, the black dragon settling back onto his shoulder. "Lady Lysa has always done whatever Littlefinger told her."
"Littlefinger has already been released. Queen Dowager Cersei cannot do without his silver tongue and his gift for accounts. But his movements are still mostly within our grasp," Qyburn said. They had their own piece in place at Littlefinger's side as well.
"Yes, Littlefinger." A flash of insight came to Gendry. If Littlefinger's secret were exposed, the Vale ought to explode with it, and that would be his chance. The knights of the Vale had long been angered by old Arryn's excessive indulgence of Lady Lysa, and all the curs who had risen through the lady's favor.
"Old knight, where would the Vale rank in military strength?" Anguy asked curiously.
Anguy was lean and lanky, freckled and red haired, very young. Standing before Barristan, he really was little more than a child.
"Probably third, behind the Reach and the Westerlands," Ser Barristan replied. "The Reach has the best climate, the greatest population, and immense wealth. It is the granary of Westeros, so it deserves first place. The Westerlands has gold mines, and with Great Lord Tywin's iron handed rule, after destroying Houses Reyne and Tarbeck, it can be called second. Third should be the Vale. Though the Vale is ringed by mountains and plagued by wildling raids, its interior is rich with fertile black soil, broad and gentle rivers, and hundreds of lakes, great and small, shining like mirrors under the sun. It is a land of plenty. And because the Vale lies closer to the Free Cities, its trade is strong as well. It is wealthier than the North."
"So does that mean the Starks are bound to lose even if they march?" Anguy asked.
"It is not so simple, child," Ser Barristan said, looking at him. "Numbers and equipment matter, yes, but timing matters too, as do the quality of the commanders and the spirit of the soldiers. During the Dance of the Dragons, the North held no advantage in numbers or equipment, yet its men did not fear death, and the winter wolves showed the mettle of the North. And when Great Lord Cregan gathered his men and marched south, the south had already been beaten so badly it could barely resist. I do not doubt the courage and fearlessness of the Northmen, but time passes too quickly. After so many long summers, the North's population cannot possibly have grown as fast as the green lands, and the gap in equipment will only have widened. So if the Starks want victory, they will have to bleed several times over to earn it. And now Robb Stark lacks the ability of his forebears, yet faces a worse situation than Great Lord Cregan ever did. Before winter even comes, he has no choice but to march for the sake of saving his father."
An old man in the house was a treasure indeed, Gendry thought as he looked at Ser Barristan. The old knight truly was the sort of hard man who had fought from beginning to end, brave and wise alike.
During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Ser Barristan charged alone into the ranks of the Golden Company and slew Maelys the Monstrous in single combat, ending the rebellion of the Blackfyre pretenders. During the Defiance of Duskendale, Ser Barristan disguised himself as a hooded beggar and crept close to the Dun Fort. Before he was discovered, he assassinated the guards on the walls, found his way to the dungeons, and rescued the Mad King. He was spotted while leading the king out, but he killed the pair of guards who tried to stop him, along with Simon Hollard, avenging Gwayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard. Then he and the king ran for the stables, cutting their way through the enemy. Even with an arrow lodged in his chest, he mounted up and rode out of Duskendale alive.
"So in the end, it still comes down to war making potential, the ability to start wars and the ability to finish them," Gendry thought.
In truth, the situation in the original timeline was much the same as Ser Barristan had judged. Robb might defeat the Westerlands once or twice, even several times, but for the North, one or two real defeats would be fatal. The gap in resources between the North and the Westerlands was simply too great, and Tywin's iron handed rule, combined with the long summer, had only widened it further.
"What about us in the Stormlands?" Anguy asked Barristan curiously.
The Stormlands were battered year round by driving rain and fierce winds off the Narrow Sea. Of the Seven Kingdoms, it was one of the smaller realms. Inland, much of the terrain was harsh mountain country, while the coasts were rocky and the forests vast and thick. From that alone, one could tell the Stormlands was the sort of hard land with little to spare.
"The warriors of the Stormlands are naturally outstanding," Ser Barristan said. "They are like the rainstorms and the gales themselves, much like the Laughing Storm, or the Durrandon kings of old. The fiercest of them may be the men of the Marches. They have a gift for the sword, and their longbows are famous as well. But the truth is that the Stormlands does not have enough people or enough land to sustain too vast a realm."
Gendry agreed completely. The Stormlands might be harsh country, but its people were indeed formidable fighters. In the ancient age of the Seven Kingdoms, under House Durrandon, the Stormlands had once enjoyed its own share of glory, fighting the people of the Trident, the ironborn, the knights of the Reach, and the Dornish in turn.
King Arlan I the Avenger swept aside every obstacle and expanded his realm all the way to the Blackwater and the headwaters of the Mander. His great grandson, King Arlan III, went farther still, crossing the Blackwater and the Trident to bring the whole Riverlands under his rule. For a time, he even planted the crowned stag upon the shores of the Sunset Sea.
But after Arlan III died, House Durrandon inevitably fell into decline. Rebellions broke out on every side, because the strength of the Stormlands could not sustain such a vast kingdom. In the north, the Stormlanders could not withstand the ironborn and were forced out of the Riverlands. In the south, the Dornish pressed through the Boneway, while the Reach seized the chance to send knights out from Highgarden and recover lost ground. Kings rose and fell, wars came one after another, and the borders of the Storm Kingdom shrank more and more. Only when Argilac the Arrogant donned the crowned stag did the decline briefly slow.
"Restoring the glory of the Stormlands is our duty."
...
Somewhere in the Riverlands, in a riverside wood, "Our banners are in tatters too," Lord Beric said angrily.
They had fallen so low that all they could do now was fight a guerrilla war across the Riverlands. That was Lord Beric's sense of justice at work, but it was hard going all the same.
Back when they had ridden out from King's Landing to hunt down the Mountain, the royal crowned stag had flown from the tallest standard, while House Stark's direwolf and Lord Beric's forked lightning had hung from shorter poles beneath it. How splendid they had looked then, like knights stepped straight out of a singer's song.
Swords rang against each other, torches flickered, banners snapped in the wind. Warhorses screamed, the gates were hauled open, and the golden light of dawn slanted through the iron bars. Lord Beric's men wore black armor, while the men of Winterfell wore silver plate and long grey cloaks, all of them looking proud and gallant.
"Lord Beric, stop complaining. The Lord of Light seems to have heard my call," Thoros shouted in a rush, with the resurrected northman Alyn trailing behind him.
Lord Beric stared at Alyn with wide eyes, badly startled. There was still a hole in Alyn's chest, the wound left by a spear thrust. The hole was there for all to see, and yet the man was alive.
"You... what did you do?" Beric could not help asking.
"When Alyn's torn chest stopped beating, I gave the lad the merciful kiss of god to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed it into him, down through throat, lungs, and heart, all the way to the soul. It is called the Last Kiss. In the past, when servants of the true god died, I often saw old priests give them this Last Kiss. I have performed it myself once or twice. It is a skill every red priest must master. But I have never seen fire breathed into a corpse make the dead tremble, much less open their eyes," Thoros said, unable to hide his astonishment.
"It was not I who brought him back, Lord Beric. It was the true god's power. R'hllor does not yet wish him dead. Life is warmth. Warmth comes from fire. Fire belongs to the true god, and to the true god alone," Thoros prayed devoutly.
Beric stood there dazed for a long while, then he spoke as well.
"Praise the Lord of Light."
Only the resurrected Alyn looked utterly lost, with no idea what had just happened.