Chapter Text
Lord Eddard Stark
The Trident, 281 AC
Ned was exhausted, his armor crusted with mud and blood, his heart heavy with grief. The battle was over, but no one had won. Ten thousand corpses lay along the Trident, and thousands more cried out for maesters who would never come. Yet none of it cut as deep as the sight before him. Robert Baratheon, his closest friend, was dead in the mud.
He knelt beside the body and brushed a hand across Robert’s face, closing his eyes. The man had been a storm, loud and unyielding, full of laughter and rage. It felt wrong to see him silent.
“The prince offers a parley, my lord,” said Greatjon Umber, looming beside him. His hand fell heavy on Ned’s shoulder, steadying him. He was as filthy and spent as the rest.
Ned looked up, voice low. “They’ll want us to yield.”
Greatjon’s face was hard. “We’ll fight to the last man for you, Ned. But look, theTully and Arryn are pulling back.”
Ned turned, and saw it was true. The banners of Riverrun and the Eyrie were retreating, their men gathering the wounded and falling into weary ranks. With Robert dead, their lords would not throw away more lives. The rebellion had been Robert’s war. Without him, there was little left to fight for.
His body ached. His spirit felt hollow. Only one thought kept him moving…Lyanna. His sister was still out there somewhere, and if parley brought him closer to her, he would hear what Rhaegar had to say.
He remembered Harrenhal all too well. The laughter, the songs, the towering shadow of the great castle. It had been one of the happiest times of his life. He had met the woman he loved there, the beautiful Ashara Dayne, and to his endless surprise, she had felt the same. Robert had won the melee, besting even Brandon in the final clash. Lyanna had been courteous to Robert that day, and Ned thought she might finally be warming to the betrothal. Ashara had forbidden him from entering the lists, though they had only been courting a few days, and to his siblings’ amusement, he had obeyed without question.
The happy days continued as the joust began, with Brandon riding spectacularly. He reached the quarterfinals before falling to Prince Rhaegar in a brilliant tilt that proved them near equals. Even Ser Arthur Dayne had not pressed the prince so hard as Ned’s elder brother did that day.
Brandon had written to their father soon after, asking if Ned might wed the beautiful Ashara Dayne. It was something Ned was eternally grateful for. Ashara had wept when he told her, her joy shining brighter than all the banners of Harrenhal. Ned had no doubt Lord Rickard would approve such a match.
When the finals came, Ser Barristan Selmy and Prince Rhaegar faced one another. Rhaegar carried the day, unhorsing the famed knight to thunderous cheers. Lyanna sat beside Ned and Ashara as the prince took up the crown of blue winter roses. All watched as he rode past his wife, Princess Elia, and laid the crown instead in Lyanna’s lap.
All smiles died in that moment. Robert was livid. Brandon raged that House Stark’s honor had been mocked, and Lyanna sat frozen, pale and trembling. The Northerners left soon after. Ned’s farewell to Ashara was hurried, but full of promises. He was to return to the Eyrie with Lord Arryn and Robert, gather his belongings, and make for Winterfell.
That was when everything began to fall apart.
Lyanna had vanished, apparently taken by Prince Rhaegar, if the whispers were true. Brandon rode to King’s Landing in fury, demanding her return and threatening the prince’s life. The Mad King answered with fire. Brandon and Lord Rickard both died screaming, and when Aerys called for Robert and Ned’s heads, Lord Jon Arryn refused. Instead, he raised his banners in rebellion.
Ned returned to the North and gathered ten thousand of its finest warriors, while Robert helped Lord Arryn take Gulltown before marching south to rally the Stormlands. Their banners were scattered until the Battles of Summerhall at last drew the Stormlords together.
With twenty thousand Stormlanders at his back, Robert marched to join Ned and Jon, but was waylaid and defeated by Lord Randyll Tarly of the Reach. His army was broken and nearly annihilated. Robert escaped with no more than five thousand men. From that point on, it fell to Ned and Jon to bear the weight of the rebellion.
Matters only grew worse. Lord Hoster Tully, ever ambitious, demanded marriages in return for his banners. Ned was to wed Catelyn Tully, while Elbert Arryn would take her sister Lysa. To Ned’s heartbreak, his betrothal to Ashara Dayne was forfeit.
He had written to Ashara, explaining everything. Her reply was brief: I understand. My heart will always belong to you.
Ned wept when he read it. Yet he would do his duty and take Catelyn to wife. He could have done far worse. Catelyn, well, she was gracious, kind, and fair. But he saw the sadness in her eyes, the longing for his fallen brother and he did not blame her.
The double betrothal brought ten thousand Riverlanders to their cause, and it was with those men that Ned rode to Robert’s rescue at the Battle of the Bells in Stoney Sept. There, amid smoke and slaughter, the tide of the rebellion turned at last. Ned had faced Lord Jon Connington, Hand of the King and one of Prince Rhaegar’s dearest friends, in a battle of sharp minds and costly valor. Connington fought with desperate skill, in fact, he nearly slew Neds future father-in-law, and would have cut down Elbert Arryn had Robert not broken through the lines to save him. The Hand barely escaped the field, leaving the rebels bloodied but victorious.
Not long after, Ned wed Catelyn Tully, while Elbert took Lysa to wife. Duty bound them, and the realm moved swiftly toward its reckoning. The rebel host, thirty-five thousand strong, hardened by fire and loss had marched to meet the prince’s army: ten thousand Dornish spears and what remained of Connington’s strength, forty thousand in all.
And so it came to this day, upon the banks of the Trident.
Ned commanded Robert’s right, where the Dornish stood in their bright ranks beneath Prince Lewyn Martell’s banner. The fighting there was bitter and close. The Northmen held their ground in the mud, trading blow for blow with the spears of Dorne until the river ran red. Ned met Prince Lewyn in single combat, his steel against the ash-wood, sword against spear, and at last struck the knight down. He spared the Kingsguard’s life, though the battle raged still.
Across the field, Robert and Rhaegar found one another at last.
“Tell the prince I’ll meet him,” Ned said, opening his eyes as he returned to the present.
Greatjon nodded and strode away, barking orders to keep the men in line, shields ready should words fail and swords be drawn again.
Ned sighed and rose, his head light with exhaustion. The ford was thick with corpses, the air heavy with the smell of blood and iron. Somewhere beyond the din, the clash of steel still rang faintly. At its centre stood Rhaegar beneath a white flag of truce, mounted and waiting.
Ned’s hair, matted with sweat, clung to his brow. The sun beat down with a fierce heat. He drank deeply from his water skin, then swung onto his horse and rode toward the prince.
Rhaegar looked as broken as Ned felt. The duel with Robert had lasted only minutes, but it seemed a lifetime. Both had been thrown from their mounts, and fought on foot. Robert’s strength and ferocity had been matched by Rhaegar’s skill and resolve. Where once Rhaegar’s beauty had been spoken of in hushed tones, it now gave way to the hard visage of a warrior
.
“Lord Stark,” Rhaegar said, bowing his head in respect.
“Rhaegar,” Ned replied simply, returning the bow.
The two men regarded one another for a long moment. There was no hatred between them, only exhaustion and the weight of what they had endured.
“I wish to offer terms,” Rhaegar said at last. His voice was steady, iron in tone, though not unkind.
“Before I hear them,” Ned replied, sitting taller in the saddle, “I demand the return of my sister, my father and brother’s remains, and your oath that my kin and bannermen will not suffer for this war.”
Rhaegar’s eyes closed briefly. “Lord Stark,” he said carefully, “Lyanna came with me willingly. It was her wish. She is safe, in good health, and happy. I swear it upon my honour, and upon my love for her.”
Ned did not doubt Rhaegar’s word, but he did not trust him. “Where is my sister, Rhaegar?” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“She is in Dorne. But I beg you to hear my terms.”
Ned nodded, allowing Rhaegar to continue.
“In return for standing your men down,” the prince said, “all of Robert’s followers will be pardoned. History will remember the Battle of the Trident as a draw. Robert will be given full honours in his burial, and Stannis will be named Lord of Storm’s End. Arryn, Stark, Tully, and Baratheon will remain Lords Paramount of their respective realms. Lyanna will be reunited with you in King’s Landing, where my father will be promptly imprisoned and tried by all Lords Paramount. I will take up the role of Protector of the Realm, and upon my father’s inevitable guilty sentence, be named King.”
Ned raised an eyebrow. These terms were far better than anything he could have hoped for. “This seems too good to be true. Why be so generous if Robert has fallen?”
Rhaegar gave a slow sigh. “I hate war, Lord Stark. It is senseless, bloody, and heartbreaking. This is a war of my own making, and I will bear that for the rest of my days. I never intended for this to happen. I sent word to my father, but he ignored it and used the misunderstanding to further his goal of removing troublesome ‘traitors.’ I have no wish to see any others suffer.”
Ned turned in his saddle, looking across his weary host. He could keep fighting, and doubtless cripple the royal forces, but not with the Vale and Riverlands standing down, and the Stormlanders all but destroyed.
“I accept your terms,” he breathed, tired and worn.
Ned returned to Greatjon and relayed the prince’s words.
“Do you trust him, Ned?” the giant asked gruffly.
“I do,” Ned replied, “and besides, what choice have we? We will be on our own. I do not wish for any more of my people to die, nor lose any more friends.”
Greatjon simply nodded in understanding and went to inform Lord Rickard Karstark of the orders. Together, Greatjon and Karstark moved swiftly to command the Northern forces to stand down. Ned made his way toward the Vale’s host.
He was led to Elbert Arryn, who lay in the maester’s tent, nursing a wound sustained while slaying Ser Jonothor Darry in single combat.
“These are good terms, Ned,” Elbert said with a weak smile after hearing him. “I did not order my forces to stand down, I hope you know that?”
Ned knew. Lord Corbray had taken command of the Vale’s forces in his stead. While Ned understood why Corbray acted as he did, a pang of betrayal still pricked at him.
He told Elbert to rest, then sought out Brynden Tully, the “Blackfish”, to relay the terms to him as well.
“Over half of my men are crippled or dead, Lord Stark,” the Blackfish said quietly. “I hope you understand why I had to retreat.”
“I do, Ser. The war is over. That’s what matters now.”
Ned’s words were blunt, but exhaustion weighed heavy upon him. All he wanted now was to weep for his father, his brother, his friend, and his lost love.
Kings Landing, 281 AC
It had been three weeks since the Trident. Tywin Lannister had led a force of twelve thousand to King’s Landing, but Rhaegar had ordered him to stand down. With Ned’s Northern host at his back, Lannister had no choice but to obey.
Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard had slain the Mad King after he allegedly commanded the city to be burnt to the ground, declaring that Rhaegar could be “King of Ashes.” Jaime’s deed was hailed as heroic by some, but for breaking his oath he was given a stark choice, exile or the black. Jaime chose exile. Tywin seethed, but he knew he was outnumbered and could do nothing.
Rhaegar had taken firm control of the capital, and a new Small Council was already in place. Jon Connington served as Hand. Lord Jon Arryn was Master of Laws, Lucerys Velaryon remained Master of Ships, Lord Mace Tyrell was Master of Coin, and Varys continued as Master of Whisperers. Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower remained in their respective posts.
Ned had refused any position, only waited anxiously in the Great Hall, alone with Jon Arryn. His sister would be arriving shortly. Rhaegar would meet her at the docks alongside Queen Elia, who had apparently consented to a dual marriage with Lyanna.
Jon stood beside Ned, silent for a long moment as the minutes dragged past.
“Your father would be proud of you, son,” Jon said at last, his voice low and kind.
“This war was nothing more than a great misunderstanding, and tens of thousands have died for it,” Ned replied quietly, guilt gnawing at him. If only I had listened to Lyanna about Robert… none of this would have happened.
“Your father had made up his mind about Robert and Lyanna long before you proposed it, Ned,” Jon said firmly. “Do not place blame where it does not belong. There is enough blame to be placed on Aerys.”
Ned nodded, too weary to argue. All he wished now was to see Lyanna, to ensure she was safe and content. He had been quietly furious when he learned she had wed Rhaegar in secret. It seemed to him a dishonour, for a man to take two wives.
Still, thoughts of Ashara haunted him. Her long black hair, her haunting eyes, her mischievous, seductive smile, her flawless form, and her kind heart lingered in his mind. Even now, he could not forget her.
He had received word that Catelyn was with child, and the news had filled him with joy. He vowed to give his future children a home of love, and that meant giving Catelyn, or Cat, as she preferred, all of his heart.
The heavy doors of the Great Hall swung open, and Jon Connington entered. His gait was deliberate, his chin lifted high, and the pin of Hand of the King glinted on his breast. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, swept over Ned and Jon Arryn.
“Your sister is here, Stark,” Connington said, his voice carrying more steel than courtesy.
Ned’s hand tightened on the pommel of his sword. He had expected this meeting to be uneasy, but Connington’s tone was almost a challenge.
Jon Arryn stepped between them. “Now is not the time, Ned,” he said softly, placing a calming hand on Ned’s shoulder before addressing Connington. “His title is Lord Stark, my lord. You would do well to remember that.”
Connington smiled thinly. “A title is nothing without power to back it, Lord Arryn. And Lord Stark, yours is a house battered, weary, and beholden to my prince’s mercy. You would do well to temper your stubbornness with prudence.”
Ned’s gaze sharpened. “You speak as though you know my heart, Connington. I do not question your loyalty to Rhaegar, but you have no claim to speak for me.”
Connington inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps not. But I have known kings and men longer than you have walked these fields. I have learned the cost of pride. This war has ended, Lord Stark, and peace is a rare thing. It will not be preserved by stubbornness or wounded honour.”
Ned said nothing, though his jaw tightened. The year of war and loss weighed heavily on him, and Connington’s words, though barbed, carried truth.
Jon Arryn glanced between them before speaking again. “The time for swords has passed. Let words decide now.”
Connington gave Ned a long look, half smirk, half warning. “We shall see, Lord Stark. We shall see.”
Before Ned could respond, a familiar voice rang through the hall.
“NED!”
He turned toward the sound and saw his dear sister, Lyanna, standing in the doorway. She looked radiant, healthy, proud, but above all safe and at peace. Relief and disbelief struck him all at once.
She broke into a run. Ned stretched out his arms to embrace her, but as she collided with him, his legs gave way and he crumpled to his knees, sobbing without restraint.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ned wept into her shoulder, clutching her as though letting go might shatter her.
Lyanna pressed closer, shushing him softly. “I am sorry, Ned. I should have done more to send word to Brandon and Father. It is all my fault,” she murmured through her own tears.
Ned broke away just enough to cup her face in his hands, searching her grey eyes as though trying to read her soul. “Lyanna… are you safe? Are you happy? Are you truly well?” His voice was rough with grief. “I have feared for you every day since the day you vanished.”
She smiled faintly, but her eyes glistened. “I am safe, Ned. I am happy… in the way one can be after such things. It is not an easy life, but I have found peace with my choice.”
He searched her face for doubt, for pain he could bear, but saw only quiet resolve. “And Rhaegar… does he treat you well?” His voice was low, almost breaking again.
She nodded. “He loves me, Ned. Truly. And I… I love him.” Her voice trembled slightly, and she brushed her fingers over his cheek. “That is all I can ask for.”
Breaking apart slightly, Ned cupped her face again. “No,” he said firmly. “We forced you into an impossible choice, and a tyrant took advantage of it. All the death, all the suffering, none of it is yours. That blame belongs to the leaders of this war.”
“Lyanna,” came Rhaegar’s voice, quiet and careful, cutting through the sobs.
Ned looked up, realizing they were no longer alone in the Great Hall. Guards and courtiers stood at a respectful distance, watching. But he barely noticed. Lyanna, however, turned to her husband, taking his hand as he stepped forward to help her. That was when Ned saw it, the subtle swell of her belly.
“You’re with child?” Ned whispered, his voice thick with wonder and shock.
“The dragon must have three heads,” Rhaegar said softly, as though speaking a truth sacred to them alone.
Lyanna smiled, resting a hand over her stomach. “It is a blessing in a time of tragedy.”
Ned closed his eyes, letting it all sink in. There was no disputing it now, Lyanna had left with Rhaegar willingly, and it was plain she loved him. When he opened his eyes, he found even Princess, no, Queen Elia. wearing the faintest of smiles.
“And this is truly what you want, Lyanna?” Ned asked softly, searching her face for any trace of doubt.
“It is, dear Ned, it really is,” she said, her voice steady though her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Ned drew a slow breath and nodded. For the first time since the war began, some of his burdens felt lighter, though others weighed more heavily still.
Several days later, Rhaegar was anointed Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm. Ned departed for Winterfell to begin his new life as Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
Winterfell 287 AC
Ned stood stoically with Catelyn and the children, waiting for the arrival of his nephew, Prince Gaemon Targaryen. He was to be fostered here, among his mother’s people, as had been her dying wish.
A month passed, and the realm had been alight with expectation. Word spread that Queen Lyanna was heavy with child, her second, and Winterfell waited with quiet joy. Ned had longed to welcome a niece or nephew, even if they were destined to be raised in King’s Landing. But fate had other designs.
Lyanna perished in childbirth, along with her stillborn daughter. The loss of Queen Lyanna cast a shadow over the North, and the grief was deep and unending. Now, her firstborn, Gaemon, was on his way to Winterfell.
Gaemon was only months younger than Robb, Ned’s eldest son and heir, and Ned vowed he would love him as his own. Catelyn had been reluctant at first, but she too understood that Gaemon would need guidance, protection, and care. Ned was relieved to have her support.
He looked down the line of his brood. Robb, auburn‑haired and broad‑shouldered, stood proud, doing his best to appear “lordly.” Beside him, Alaric, only a year younger at five, fidgeted impatiently. He took more after Ned in appearance, though his eyes were the deep blue of House Tully. Little Sansa, clutching Alaric’s hand, was the spitting image of her mother, shy, delicate, and quiet, shaped already by her mother’s tutelage. Arya, cradled in Catelyn’s arms, was restless and fierce even in infancy, and Ned suspected she would grow to be the next Lyanna.
Catelyn herself was heavy with child, and she believed it would be a boy. Ned glanced at her and could see the careful pride she wore as a mother.
He felt blessed for the family he had, though the thought never left him that it should have been Brandon who stood here, welcoming such joy. Ned and Cat had grown close in the years since, yet both knew their hearts were bound elsewhere. Cat never spoke of her true love, Brandon, but Ned knew. And he, too, had long known that Ashara Dayne would forever hold his heart, though neither of them would claim it openly.
Jory Cassel, Ned’s Captain of the Guards, had ridden out with fifty of his best warriors to join Gaemon’s escort to Winterfell earlier that morning. Now they passed through Wintertown, the banners of House Stark and House Targaryen snapping in the cold wind.
The majority of the escort would return to King’s Landing, leaving only Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard to remain with Gaemon. During his correspondence with Rhaegar, Ned had assured the king that Gaemon would be perfectly safe within Winterfell. Rhaegar had agreed, but insisted that a Kingsguard stay behind to guard his son.
“Open the gates!” came the order from atop Winterfell’s outer wall. The great iron-bound gates of the inner curtain wall groaned as they swung inward. Jory rode in first, followed by a procession of men, a mixture of Stark and Targaryen soldiers, their banners flying high. The dragon banner and the direwolf banner blew proudly in the wind.
“The king did not go light on the guard to accompany Prince Gaemon, did he?” Catelyn whispered to Ned. He merely nodded, his eyes fixed on the mass of soldiers. At least three hundred men had accompanied the prince. The courtyard filled quickly, their boots clattering against the stone.
Soon Ser Oswell Whent appeared, leading a horse beside a young man cloaked in fine riding clothes, his bearing guarded. Ned had met Ser Oswell at Harrenhal and in the days after the rebellion. A man of dry humour, rugged brown hair, and the build of a warrior, Oswell was among the finest of the Kingsguard, outmatched only by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne.
Ser Oswell gave Ned a respectful bow, which Ned returned before turning his attention to kneel before his nephew.
Prince Gaemon, named after Gaemon the Glorious, the most accomplished Targaryen lord before the Conquest, looked nothing like the Targaryens Ned had known. He had raven-black hair, grey eyes, and the solemn look of a Stark. In truth, Ned thought the boy looked exactly like him.
Gaemon, no more than six years old, clung to Ser Oswell Whent, clearly uncomfortable with the display. His small shoulders trembled beneath his fine silks, and he kept his eyes cast to the ground. Oswell offered a quiet, steadying word, urging the boy forward. Gaemon stepped ahead timidly and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I—I bid you rise.”
Ned and the rest stood, and Ned spoke with quiet authority, offering a faint, gentle smile. “Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Gaemon.”
The boy flinched at the attention, his face pale, his posture stiff. It was plain to Ned that Gaemon had been stripped of comfort. The loss of his mother was fresh, and he had been sent away without the chance to mourn with his father. While Ned had been glad to welcome him, he had pressed for Gaemon to spend time with Rhaegar first. But the king, perhaps haunted by his own grief, seemed unwilling to allow it, and Gaemon had been sent here without hesitation.
“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Gaemon said softly, his voice practiced and quiet, his eyes still fixed on the ground. “I hope I do not impose upon you.”
Ned frowned and glanced sideways at Catelyn. Her look mirrored his concern. The boy’s grief was raw, and Ned knew that a delicate hand would be needed to guide him through it.
Ned knelt before Gaemon so they were eye level, lowering his voice so only those close could hear. “My prince,” he said softly, “you may call me uncle if you wish. And I would ask to call you Gaemon. Would that be acceptable?”
The boy’s breath came in small, shaky bursts. He nodded quietly. “Yes… uncle.”
Ned placed a steady hand upon Gaemon’s shoulder. “This is to be your home, my boy. You are safe here. I know these have been dark and terrible days for you. I loved your mother deeply, and I share your grief. We will mourn her together.”
A tear slipped from Gaemon’s eye, and Ned saw him draw a quiet breath as though taking comfort in the words.
“Why is he crying?” Alaric’s voice rang out suddenly, curiosity in his tone.
Catelyn’s hand snapped up to cuff his ear. “Ow! I was just asking!” Alaric protested.
“He lost his mother, Alaric,” Ned said firmly, his voice low but edged with steel.
Alaric rubbed his head, muttering under his breath, and wisely stayed silent after that.
“Would you like to meet your aunt and cousins?”
Gaemon nodded, and Ned began the introductions. It would take effort and time, but Ned vowed to himself and to his late sister that he would ensure that Gaemon would know love and acceptance.
Maegor Blackfyre
Free City of Lys, 297 AC
Maegor Blackfyre could not stand still as he awaited his agreed-upon meeting with Tregar Ormollen, a merchant prince of Lys and true power behind the city. Slave girls kept stealing glances at him, which did not surprise the Captain of the Golden Company, he was an inhumanly beautiful man.
Standing at almost six and a half feet tall, with a body lined with muscle, Maegor was said to be the very reincarnation of Daemon Blackfyre, his ancestor through his mother. He was a sight to behold, some said even more impressive than King Rhaegar Targaryen, his distant kin and pretender to the Iron Throne, which by all rights should have belonged to House Blackfyre.
Not returning their glances, Maegor took a mental note to ask for time with Ormollen’s slaves as an advance payment for whatever the merchant was hiring him for.
The hall he waited in was a monument to excess, a shrine to the old decadence of Valyria reborn in the Free Cities. The air was thick with the scent of Myrish spice and sweet perfume, heavy enough to dull the senses. Columns of pale marble rose to a vaulted ceiling, each carved in the likeness of dragons coiling upward, their eyes inlaid with rubies that caught the candlelight and shimmered like living flame. Between the columns hung silken draperies of Lyseni blue so sheer that they quivered with the faintest breeze, revealing glimpses of the murals beneath erotic paintings of dragonlords and their consorts locked in embraces that would have shamed even Volantis.
The floor beneath Maegor’s boots was a mosaic of black and silver tiles depicting the Doom of Valyria itself, with dragons tumbling from a burning sky, their wings broken, their riders swallowed by fire and ash. The Lyseni kept such art not as warning, but remembrance, for in Lys, beauty and ruin were one and the same.
The great doors at the far end of the hall opened with a sigh of ancient hinges, and Maegor turned his head sharply. A woman entered, so fair and radiant that even the torchlight seemed to bend toward her. Her hair was gold, the true gold of the Hightowers, spilling down to her hips in soft waves that caught the light with each step. Her gown was a whisper of silk and suggestion, clinging to her form and leaving little to the imagination. Cream-pale skin, unblemished and soft as polished marble, framed a face of quiet arrogance. Her eyes were a striking green that was bright, feline, and full of mirth.
Maegor’s violet eyes narrowed in appreciation. He knew her name well enough: Lynesse Hightower, once wife to Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, now Lynesse Mormont no more. A northern man’s folly had made her a Lyseni prince’s delight.
“My lord Blackfyre,” she greeted him with a graceful bow, her voice soft and honeyed, the kind that had ruined wiser men. “Welcome to the home of Prince Tregar Ormollen. I am Lynesse Hightower, chief concubine to the prince.”
Maegor inclined his head slightly, offering her the kind of smile that had undone many a woman. “Thank you, Lady Lynesse,” he replied smoothly. “I see the rumors of your beauty have not done you justice.”
She colored faintly, the corner of her lips curving upward. “You are too kind,” she said, her tone light and flirtatious. “If you would follow me, Prince Tregar is expecting you.”
Maegor fell into step behind her, his eyes tracing the deliberate sway of her hips beneath the thin fabric. He smirked inwardly. She was putting on a show, perhaps on her own whim, perhaps at her master’s bidding, but it made little difference. He had already decided that if the night went well, he might request her company as part of his payment.
He had come dressed to remind the world of what the name Blackfyre once meant. His armor gleamed black as polished obsidian, chased with silver filigree in the shape of dragons. A crimson cloak fell from his shoulders, clasped by a brooch wrought in the likeness of a three-headed dragon. At his hip hung Blackfyre itself, the ancestral sword of his house, its rippled Valyrian steel dark as smoke, the pommel fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s skull. It had been lost for decades after his fool uncle, Maelys the Monstrous, fell at the Stepstones. Maegor had ensured it was recovered, somehow, it had found its way back to him, as if destiny itself obeyed the will of House Blackfyre.
Lynesse led him through an archway of carved ivory dragons, into the Grand Hall of Tregar Ormollen’s manse. If the antechamber had been indulgent, the hall beyond was sheer obscenity. The air shimmered with the perfume of exotic flowers and burning oils. Silver fountains poured streams of spiced wine into marble basins. Musicians played soft melodies upon harps and flutes while perfumed slaves lay sprawled on couches, draped in nothing but beads of gold.
No man sat upon the high seat. Instead, three men awaited him behind a broad table of polished ironwood. The man in the center rose as Maegor approached, Tregar Ormollen, no doubt. Handsome in the way of Lyseni nobles, he had the silver hair and lilac eyes of Valyrian descent, though softer, weaker than Maegor’s own. His hands were ringed with jewels; his smile was that of a man accustomed to getting what he wished.
To his left sat a stranger, a corpulent man with olive skin and dark, shrewd eyes. His black hair was slicked back with oil, and though his cheeks were fat and his smile easy, Maegor sensed calculation in him, a merchant’s mind hidden beneath a fool’s face.
But it was the third man who drew Maegor’s attention like a blade drawn from a sheath. The one seated to Ormollen’s right lounged lazily, golden teeth flashing when he grinned. His hair was blue as the summer sky, his beard forked and oiled, his eyes bright with mischief.
Daario Naharis.
Maegor knew the man at once. They had bled side by side in the Stormcrows, years ago, when both were young and hungry for coin and blood. Daario had been that same bright, dangerous thing then as he was now, flamboyant, insolent, impossible to read. He killed with a jest on his lips and a song in his heart; men like him made war into sport and women into spoils.
Ormollen made a little show of courtesy, a bow so exaggerated it might have been carved. “Your Grace,” he said, syrup in the vowels. “Welcome to Lys, and I must truly thank you for the honour you bestow us by gracing us with your presence.”
Maegor’s brows rose. The title sat oddly, thick and heavy as a crown he had not asked for. He had never liked honeyed words; his father, Illyrio Mopatis, had taught him that flattery was a coin with two faces. “Spare me your honey words, Ormollen,” he growled. “Your flattery serves me no purpose. Gold serves me purpose, and I hear you have much of it.”
The Lysene prince was not used to being called out. For a moment anger flickered across his painted features, quick as a candle-snap, then he tempered it back into courtesy. “I do,” he admitted, with the measured smile of a man who owns counting houses and ships. “As a matter of fact, we all do.” He made a small motion toward the others clustered about the table. “As you are well aware, Daario Naharis is the son of a former Archon of Tyrosh. He is likely to be the next, but he comes now as Tyrosh’s representative. He is almost as good as you when it comes to warfare, I am told, and if you will hear us—” He clapped, a curt sound, and slaves hurried forward with a cushioned chair, a pitcher of wine that shone like honeyed glass, and platters of food fragrant with spices. “If you would please sit,” Ormollen invited.
Maegor shrugged and took the seat, allowed the cup and meat, drank deep and poured another. He leaned back, heavy as a stone in the chair, and gestured for Ormollen to proceed. Naharis wore a smirk, narrow and insolent, finding sport in Maegor’s dismissal of the ceremony.
The fat man to Ormollen’s right spoke first, referring to him as a king, but Maegor cut him off. “I am no king,” he said. “Spare me the mock titles, you gross excuse for a man.”
The fat man did not flinch. He did not blink at the insult. “I am Vargar Trombollo,” he announced, with a voice that filled the room, “chief magistrate of Myr.” Maegor’s temper curdled into something like a curse. Myr had grown strong of late; power wore itself well on Trombollo’s broad shoulders.
“We do not mock your titles,” the magistrate said. “We would see you sit the Iron Throne, and ally with us.”
Maegor laughed, short and cruel. “Would I be nothing more than your puppet? A dog that jumps at your word?” He shook his head. “I have more pride than that. Besides—” He spread his hands. “The Three Daughters are enemies with one another. Why should they make common cause now?”
“Hear them out, Blackfyre,” Naharis said, his tone oily, offering no hint of treachery. Curiosity pricked at Maegor; the man’s question had teeth.
“You invited me,” Maegor told Ormollen. “Speak, and then we will bargain.”
Ormollen’s smile widened, as if he had expected this. Trombollo gave him leave to speak. “How many men does the Golden Company now possess?” Ormollen asked.
“Twenty thousand,” Maegor answered at once, the number like a drumbeat in his mouth. His sellswords had grown; winter and the Dothraki had taught them profit in blood.
“And they are as well trained as in the past?” the merchant asked, the words a slight, as if testing him.
Maegor’s jaw tightened. “They are,” he said, under his breath. “They are.”
“Excellent.” Ormollen clasped his hands together with the look of a man who keeps vast ledgers in his head. “We wish to rebuild the great alliance that almost brought Westeros to its knees when dragons still flew. Our chief opponent”, he nodded toward the east, “is Volantis.”
“Who holds the Disputed Lands,” Maegor supplied.
“Precisely.” Ormollen’s smile was a blade wrapped in velvet. “We have begun to gather ships and men, but our strength lies upon the sea, not upon the land…yet.”
“So,” Maegor said, tasting the wine and the promise as one might taste blood. “You would have the Golden Company break Volantis, drive them from the Disputed Lands, so that you do not have an enemy at your back.”
Naharis leaned forward, gloved fingers steepled, and turned to the others. “I told you this would be advantageous,” he sneered, then looked at Maegor. “It will take us roughly two years to assemble armies fit to wage an offensive war. Volantis will crush us before we can even begin, if we do not act now.”
Maegor was quietly glad Naharis had come. The man knew war as other men knew wine and women; he would be a useful mind at the table, a whetstone to the blade of Maegor’s own plans.
“Our proposal,” Ormollen went on in Naharis’s stead, “is plain. In return for your subduing Volantis in our name, we will rebuild our fleets and armies and supply the coin to place you upon the Iron Throne. You would not be our puppet, you would rule as convincingly as the present false king. In exchange, we ask for control of the Stepstones, and aid in bringing the rest of the Free Cities to heel, forging an empire that might rival Old Valyria herself.”
Maegor watched the three faces as if he were reading the play of their hearts. The plan had teeth. So did it have a flaw.
He set his goblet down with a soft clink and smiled without warmth. “Ambitious,” he said. Locke“But how may I trust you to keep your end? What will stop you from turning on one another? You have no single will binding you.”
Naharis answered without hesitation. “Each city brings its strength. Lys brings wealth, Tyrosh brings numbers, Myr brings arms. Yet Tregor,” he inclined toward Ormollen, “will be our chief. He is not subject to the petty influences of Lys. He will hold us together.”
Maegor laughed, low and mirthless. “And if you do not like him as leader?”
“We come to the King of Westeros to arbitrate,” Trombollo said, fat mouth stretched in a smile as broad as a coin-purse.
Maegor thought of crowns and corpses. To sit the Iron Throne would mean the Targaryens' end. The Triarchy would hold the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea; they would have the ropes with which to strangle trade. If they forced him into unfavorable terms, he could refuse the coin and leave their plans to rot. Still, the bargain was...useful. Useful and dangerous, like a blade wrapped in silk.
“So,” he said at last, leaning forward until the table creaked, his voice a blade sheathed in velvet, “when do I march?”