stolen content

Winter was on the horizon, but it was still a beautiful autumn in the lands Garlan and his host passed through. Warmth lingered despite the leaves slowly turning from green to a more varied array of burnt orange and ochre. The air still carried the scents of the harvest and the potent vitality of nature. For now.

Garlan's force consisted entirely of cavalry – outriders, knights, and mounted squires. Speed was key, as they were unsure whether Highgarden would be besieged. As they trotted, Garlan took the opportunity to ride alongside Ser Barristan. The legendary knight had acquitted himself well in the Trial of Seven, and Garlan wondered how things would have turned out had he faced him instead of the twins.

"I noticed some of the Stormland horse are equipped strangely," Garlan commented.

Barristan nodded. "Anti-dragon units. They aren't meant for charging or skirmishing, as their bows are too heavy and long. Their purpose is to get into position, dismount, and loose upon the dragon and its rider. Others carry the heaviest crossbows we could find. They represent only a small group, but I will have them scattered throughout our host to counter any sudden draconic appearance."

Garlan thought that wise and regretted not speaking more with Ser Barristan before setting forth. Some of his outriders were armed with bows as well, but merely short bows, meant for skilled riders who could loose them while on horseback. Their penetrating power would struggle to find purchase in a dragon's scales, even a young one's. Perhaps they could strike the rider or even the dragon's eye, but it would be more chance than skill.

"What numbers do you think we will face?" Garlan asked.

"Difficult to say; the Ironborn have never been populous, but they could gather several thousand. If they've conscripted others to fight for them, or hired sellswords, they could outnumber us."

The two continued their ride, Barristan content with the silence. Garlan wished to ask him more, but it felt untoward to impose. Instead, he rode along the march, ensuring there was no mischief afoot. An uneasy feeling filled him, but he saw nothing amiss.

Why does this campaign stir more unease than the one in the Westerlands? Or even the Trial of Seven. I cannot put my finger on it, but something is wrong.

The unease was felt by others in the camps when they rested. Knights who were veterans of several conflicts, including against the Ironborn during the Greyjoy rebellion, constantly turned their heads at the slightest sound. Sleep came uneasy, but when it did, his dreams were troubled.

The march continued regardless. The men of the Reach were marching toward their homes; they would not falter or be unmade by this nameless miasma. The Stormlanders too looked twitchy, but instead of being filled with dread, they seemed filled with an antsy desire to get on with it. They twice had to be reined back by Ser Barristan for advancing at a too-quick pace.

A little way past Bitterbridge in one of the many towns that dotted the roseroad, they received a raven. Highgarden was not under siege, but Horn Hill had been taken and put to the sword.

Ser Barristan suggested they advance faster, and Garlan agreed. Despite their efforts, they found the Ironborn astride the roseroad only two days from Highgarden. Outriders reported their hosts to be nearly even in size.

"They have some horses, but it is mostly foot. I spied the dragon, m'lord; he was in the sky. He wasn't so big, but it was still a dragon," the scout advised.

"Is Euron mad? He's trapped between the garrison of Highgarden and our host!" one of the knights asked.

"He may be," Ser Barristan mused, "but that doesn't mean he is a fool. He is precisely where he means to be."

"We should not give him time to play games," Garlan decided. "We'll move in with the outriders and mounted squires at dawn to test if they have any Myrcella-styled trick. Then, if it appears clear, we hit them with our knights. I will lead the van." He turned to Barristan. "Euron has something planned, which is why I want your anti-dragon units and a sizable host in the reserve. You have fought many more battles than I, and you will best be able to react if something unexpected occurs."

Barristan's white eyebrows rose, and he looked at Garlan consideringly. "You wish for the knights of the Reach to bear the heaviest burden of the fight?"

"'Tis our lands we are saving. Besides, ser, we are allies. If we are to ensure the Seven Kingdoms can be rebuilt and unified, we cannot be at odds. None doubt your valor, Ser Barristan, but now I need your wisdom and battle cunning."

Ser Barristan gave him a sharp nod. "Then you will have it."

***

It was a rather paltry force Jon took north. If the battle came down to numbers, he would surely be lost. He had ordered Eddard to remain in Winterfell and had instead taken Roose Bolton as his second. A small additional force had come from the Dreadfort, and a band of a hundred old men would meet them on the road north, coming from Deepwood Motte. As they traversed further up the road, they were met by the smallfolk of Last Hearth and Rickard Umber. The boy wanted to help, but as the last known male of the Umber line – at least assumed to be, after receiving word that Last Hearth had been sacked – Jon wasn't about to risk him.

The cold of winter was now as biting here, south of where the Wall had stood, as it had been during the ranging. He had asked Sam to guide the southerners in preserving their fingers and toes, yet it proved unnecessary. Though they misliked the chill, they were well- prepared and armed with both knowledge and garments thick enough to ward off the worst of the cold.

The few members of the Night's Watch that were with Qhorin stayed in Jon's host, as did Ser Lum and Ser Jaspar. Lum had been aghast at the plan. Jon sat in his tent as the smaller man explained its folly in full. Bolton, Sam, Melisandre, and Qhorin were also present as the knight spoke.

"Your Grace, I have not confirmed the numbers myself, but an army marches, over a hundred thousand strong. If even a tenth of them can fight, you are outnumbered nearly two to one. And I am told that any above the age of ten, boy or girl, will bear spear or knife and kill without hesitation."

"Aye, you know it to be true, Jon," Qhorin added.

"The wildlings are frightened, gripped by a frightful dread of the dark," Melisandre's velvet voice all but purred. "And well they should be, for it is full of terrors. Yet as it has unmanned them, it presents opportunity. With a firm-enough push, they will break, and the realm shall know that Jon Targaryen is the true King of Westeros."

Jon saw Lum regard her for a long moment before turning to him. "Your Grace, she has power, but it is not as infallible as she would have it seem. My men and I were sent to gauge the threat of the Others, yet we have been unable to do so. I have sought guidance on our next course, but no word has come from King's Landing. I'll not squander my men on a doomed endeavor."

"You call him 'Your Grace' but wait for orders from another?" Melisandre arched an elegant eyebrow.

Lum shrugged. "I've been taught to address people how they choose to title themselves unless it creates a problem. Allowing people to save face… hmm public perception as opposed to stubbornly belaboring a point isn't rational. My apologies if this created confusion, but my loyalty is to Lady Myrcella, always."

Bolton's soft voice entreated, "Myrcella or Aegon?"

"Myrcella. If she asked me to kill the King she swore to, I would do so. If she asked me to kill Jon, I would do so." Lum gave a small laugh. "Well, I'd make the attempt, but I'd have little hope of success. I've seen you in the practice yard, Your Grace."

Jon knew other kings would have the man's head for his lack of loyalty. Lum's band was skilled, but not enough to break out of Jon's camp with fewer than three score fighting men. But he found himself liking the man and his manner, and would not take such a course. Nor would it be prudent to demand oaths of fealty from a potential ally in the south.

"I ask that you bear witness, Ser Lum. Stand aside from the fighting, but if Lady Melisandre is correct, we will have won a great victory. Lady Myrcella should know of it, yes?"

Lum hesitated, then nodded. "Aye, she would like to know. We shall be nearby and bear witness."

"Your Grace," Bolton began, "Ser Lum does speak wisdom in that the odds do seem one-sided. What is our battle strategy?"

Jon took a deep breath. "When we are within a day's distance of their host, Melisandre will use her sorceries to strike down the King beyond the Wall, this Mance Rayder. We then hit them hard with our horse. Scatter them and hunt down any who flee in any direction other than north."

"I see," Lord Bolton said simply, his two pale eyes unreadable.

From beside Jon, Ghost stirred and bared his teeth, but was silent as ever.

With plans made, such as they were, Jon ordered their march to continue. Three days later, and it was time. He and Melisandre were alone that night, his most trustworthy guards stationed outside, and even they had been commanded to keep their distance for this.

"This won't father a bastard, will it?" Jon asked nervously as Melisandre's achingly beautiful form revealed itself fully to him.

"No, my King. What spawns from this union will be a weapon, deadly and potent as the breath of a dragon, but as fleeting as candlelight. It will kill Mance Rayder, and then, like all shadows, it must dissipate under the full light."

Jon was trusting his life to her visions. He had forsaken his oath as a Black Brother, risking both his life and his claim – balking now would be foolish. And he did not wish to balk. More beautiful than any woman he had ever seen, including the mad Queen Cersei, he pushed his concerns aside and did his duty.

The experience surpassed his wildest dreams. He could also feel the energy being drained from him. The bond he shared with Ghost seemed somehow muted, though exhaustion came through clearly. Despite the pleasure found in the act's culmination, he could but endure it passively, for to his very bones he felt wearier than ever before.

Darkness descended, robbing him of the lovely vision above, and he dreamed.

***

Melisandre was weary after summoning the Ardu Umbra. Such effort taxed her greatly, despite the increased potency of her magic over the past year. It would take even more from her King, though his blood held greater strength than that of the false Azor Ahai. Stannis had but a trickle of the Dragon Lords' blood, whereas Jon not only had more of it, his sang with the Conqueror's strength.

And that is but a part of the power flowing through his veins. It is a song of ice and fire, for the Winter Kings of old were formidable – and there, too, may lie the truth of our salvation.

Cold was associated with the Great Other, and heat with the Lord of Light. But such simplistic views were for novices of their order. Her Azor Ahai was the perfect champion – she could see it even now. His youthful vigor and bond with his direwolf would largely offset the vitality-draining effects of this magic. He would not age as Stannis had.

Well, perhaps a little.

Melisandre had also seen the look he had given her. Greater than lust, it was need – one she had carefully nurtured. Azor Ahai would save the world, but that did not mean he would be easily led on the path he had to take. She would take him to her bed again, and not only for the summoning of assassins.

A small fire kindled in the tent, and she watched the flames. Visions of the future remained inaccessible. Perhaps, with a large enough sacrifice – say, Rickon Stark – she could pierce the veil that had descended, but that was not an option her King was ready for. Casting her sight over the present, however – that could still be done. The visions were never as clear as she wished, for the images danced with the crackling of the fire, but she merely needed to confirm the success of this strike.

The host of the wildlings was vast and disorganized, a ramshackle gathering of countless clans bound together by desperation and defiance. There were tents, crude and hastily pitched, but others had only bedrolls lined with fur, their owners huddled beneath them for what little warmth they could find. Some fires had been set to stave off the freezing cold, their flickering light casting long, jagged shadows. An array of gaunt faces flickered into view. She finally found the main tent she sought – where the King Beyond the Wall should be laying his head.

Something is wrong.

The flames hissed and burned, and she felt eyes upon her. They did not have the flavor of the bitter cold or the unending power of the God of Night and Terror, but of something else. Her feet were on the path, and she needed to know that the Ardu Umbra had succeeded, and what effect it would have on the camp.

The shadowy form moved across the camp swiftly and without being seen, but Melisandre knew the watcher would know it was there. Would an alarm be raised?

It matters not. Mance Rayder will die.

She willed her sight to manifest within the tent as the entity she had birthed, wearing Jon's shadow, entered. Melisandre felt her will being sapped – something was leeching the power she had used to cast her sight forward! In the physical world, she knew her body would begin to shiver as it drew upon Jon's essence for fuel. She could not stay long. It was as if some ward had been constructed, like those at Storm's End.

As she forced the flames to reveal what was happening, she saw Mance seated in a chair, his expression grim. The shadow moved in for the kill, slower than usual due to the makeshift ward guarding Rayder. As the covered lanterns in the tent flared, another figure intercepted the shadow.

Valyrian steel struck out and Jon's shadow fought it. As Melisandre tried to concentrate on the identity of the combatant, a vision of their face would not come.

How?

She saw Mance watch, face solemn, but his eyes danced with worry as he tried to follow the movements of the combatants. Another figure revealed itself, not human, one of the Children of the Forest! Melisandre wondered if this was the watcher who had sensed her. The old forgotten people before the First Men arrived. What powers did they possess? Were they too also servants of the Great Other?

No, at least not wittingly.

Magic flared, and for the second time in less than two years, a champion birthed from King and Red Priestess was slain as the Valyrian Steel buried itself into the heart of her creation. The sudden shock of her creation unraveling tore the vision from the flames.

She heard Jon cry out and she moved her sight away from the flames. Her body, not used to any weakness thanks to the change that had come over it so long ago, the breath of life from R'hllor himself, nearly fell as she moved away from the flames.

Jon clutched at his chest and screamed. His eyes were still closed as he thrashed. Melisandre grabbed his arms, easily holding them in place.

Disaster upon disaster! We cannot hope to win now; their resolve has not been harmed, and my powers are at a low. We must fall back.

Horns began sounding.

"To arms! Riders in the night, prepare for battle."

Melisandre thought quickly. This wasn't the full strength of the enemy; she had not seen any large body of men when she had cast her sight out… Then again, she knew none living could say what magics the Children of the Forest were capable of. They concealed the bearer of the Valyrian steel blade from her sight; could they have hidden an army from her as well?

Suddenly fearful, she left the tent to gather what aid she could. They would need to move Jon swiftly back toward Winterfell. A retreat in the dark with their King laid low was a nightmarish prospect, but so long as Azor Ahai lived, there was hope.

***

Asha Greyjoy hated Euron. She hated him for making her a kinslayer. She hated him for his mystical orgies of blood and death. She watched and waited, hating and hating.

Euron had power – none could deny that – but it seemed his power could only be awakened through death. Before battle, prisoners were culled, throats slit, and death dealt. And with that power, Euron could do terrible things.

This battle was no different. The enemy advanced, and a bloody fight ensued. No tricks came in the initial clash as lightly-armed horsemen cut down Ironborn warriors. Arrows and thrown axes felled some of their foes, but the enemy was valiant, slicing into the Ironborn who fought on foot. That was not the real test – no, that would come when the knights charged.

Asha knew they could not hope to contend with the charge – not with Garlan the Gallant and Barristan the Bold in the lead. Her people would be slaughtered, but her uncle had a plan. The hated wretch always did.

She wondered – if she had somehow succeeded in seducing Garlan, would he have changed something before or during the kingsmoot? The backing of House Tyrell might have swayed some of the captains…

No, not with Euron riding on a fucking dragon.

Her hatred for Euron was something she honed carefully each night. The memory of her brother's terrified struggles haunted her. She knew that, when empowered by his unholy rituals and bloodletting, Euron would be unstoppable. But… that was his weakness. Between those times, he should be as vulnerable as any man.

She would watch, wait, and find the right moment. She swore it by the Drowned God, the Old Gods, and the New. Pushing thoughts of her uncle aside, she focused on the battle.

Asha watched as the knights charged forward, banners whipping in the wind. Across the dry ground they rode – until it was no longer dry. No cloud was in sight, yet Euron had done something.

Before the knights could crash into her people, they became mired. Horses neighed and screamed as they struggled, their hooves sinking into the earth. The chivalric might of the Reach – and, judging by a few banners, the Stormlands as well – was trapped.

Fighting in the muck was not Asha's preference, but she did as she was told. Even as the knights tried to dismount, the weight of their armor dragged them down, and it was a constant struggle to keep moving. Footwork was always important, and though the mud hindered her own, it was not the same. Her axe smashed down on one knight's helm thrice before he collapsed into the mire.

This is no ordinary mud.

An obvious thought, yet as the knight was slowly sucked into the earth, Asha felt a fresh wave of revulsion and forced herself to keep moving, lest she suffer a similar fate. Every sailor knew the dangers of drowning, but there was something uniquely horrible about dying trapped beneath earth, dirt, and mud, buried alive by the land itself. Asha could only hope that, if she fell in this chaotic melee, death would find her quickly.

She heard a dragon roar in the distance as she sidestepped a clumsy hammer blow. The armored knight cursed, struggling to lift his legs from the muck. Asha shifted to the side, and the knight tried to turn with her. Seeing an opening, she struck with her axe as he stepped. He caught the blow on his shield but lost his balance and fell. He must have realized the danger the sinking earth posed, for he scrambled to rise, forgetting her entirely. Swinging with all her might, she brought her axe down on the thinner armor behind his knee, nearly severing the leg.

The man gave a shout of pain. He was already dead and must have known it as he hefted his hammer and swung it side-armed at her. Asha had not expected that, and it struck her across the shoulder. The throw had been awkward, but it still sent her stumbling. For a terrifying moment, she thought she would share her foe's fate. Fortunately, she managed to steady herself before the muck could drag her down.

At some point, Asha noticed from the haze of battle, enemy reinforcements had arrived, and more of Euron's army had fallen. Twice she heard a dragon's roar, the latter time laced with pain. Eventually, she and the others stumbled out of the muck. The enemy was mostly dead, though a crowd seemed to be gathering. The clash of steel could be heard, but it was not the true cacophony of battle.

Asha pushed past to get a better view. After finally making her way through the crowd, she saw Euron surrounded by corpses. The only enemy still standing was Ser Barristan. The proud stag of House Baratheon on his surcoat was stained with blood. Euron was helmless, and as Barristan slashed at him, every blow was intercepted with a speed that Asha could barely perceive.

"Is this the best you have? The greatest knight in all of Westeros?" Euron roared, and the crowd jeered, taunting Barristan. Asha could tell that more than a few of those shouting remained tense and wary. No doubt, during the battle, Ser Barristan's blood-soaked blade had claimed more than his fair share of lives.

Barristan remained undeterred, though exhaustion clearly weighed him down. His smooth strokes came from every angle; when one parry sent his blade off course, he used the momentum to strike from a different direction. A feint high, a slash, followed by a lunge to the face – all were executed as though an Essosi painter was at work. And yet, all were insufficient against Euron.

He made a yawning gesture. "You are better than the knights of Oldtown, but against me, a GOD, you are nothing!"

Euron chose that moment to counterattack, and his blade blurred as it slashed into the plate armor of Ser Barristan. The crushing force behind the blow sent the knight reeling backward, crashing to the ground. The earth here wasn't dry, but it wasn't the life-claiming muck of before. In a flash, Barristan rolled back to his feet and slashed again at Euron's face.

A parry, and then Euron's hand grabbed Barristan's wrist. No sooner had he done so than Barristan looked to strike with his offhand, sending a punch toward Euron's face.

With a laugh, Euron caught that wrist too and then squeezed, crushing the limb with gusto. Metal, bone, and flesh warped as Euron crippled Barristan's left hand. The elderly knight grunted, struggling against the immovable strength that held him. He sagged to his knees, dropping his blade. Euron released him and turned to face the crowd once more.

"Do you see how even the greatest of knights falls before me? I–"

Barristan grabbed his blade and slashed upward, but Euron's form blurred as he dodged. Barristan continued to rain down attacks, but wherever his blade went, Euron was not there. The King of the Iron Isles looked amused, then ended the swordplay by grabbing Barristan's remaining wrist once more, pulling the sword from the desperate grasp. Euron used both hands to snap the blade in twain and threw the pieces aside.

"You are a silent one; have you no final words for me, knight?"

"You are no God. Sorcery fuels you, and it has limits, Greyjoy."

"You are wrong. I have no limits." Euron slammed his fist into Barristan's armored chest, the impact denting the metal as the knight sagged. But then Barristan rose again, his sword hand gripping a belt knife, though it was his deformed and crushed hand, seeping blood, that struck first. It lashed out in an arc, not even close to Euron's face, but the dripping blood aimed directly at the eyes.

Even a God must blink.

Asha saw the momentary blindness and, combined with the surprisingly swift action of the elderly knight, the dagger drove toward Euron's throat. Somehow sensing the danger, Euron flinched away, and instead of striking his throat, the dagger ripped a shallow cut into his cheek. Enraged by the wound, her uncle struck out with his gauntleted fist. Before, he must have been holding back, because now the power behind the blow was catastrophic. It shattered Barristan's helm, and no doubt his skull and neck. Barristan's body flipped around, skidding over the earth and traveling another ten meters. There was no question – he was dead.

Euron snarled and cursed. Asha knew he had likely intended for the show to go on even longer, and he certainly hadn't wished to show weakness by bleeding in front of his men.

But the men were silent. The silence stretched, thick and knowing. Some still gawked at the blast, some at the dead knight. But others -- others watched Euron. Weighing him. Measuring him. The false god had bled. His men had seen it. They wouldn't forget.

Thank you, Ser Barristan. Your last service to the Seven Kingdoms is appreciated.