Mathis

For the final stretch of the march to Oldtown Mathis had been relegated to the rearguard, a vital position to be sure, but it was a sign of his newfound disfavour with the Hand of the King, to be placed where he and his bannermen were least likely to find any glory. Bastard Connington thinks I'd whore my own daughter out for a few more favours from the king, Mathis cursed, what kind of fool does he take me for? Mathis cursed again, what had Serra been thinking, it was one thing to fuck some damnfool singer, it was another thing entirely to take a king to bed.

"This is how wars are started," he'd growled in private at his daughter the morning after the feast.

"It was only a little fun," Serra protested.

"Be quiet," Bethany said sharply to her daughter. "You have jeopardized everything with your foolishness. You'll be lucky if your father and I don't send you to the Silent Sisters."

That at least got Serra to look suitably chastened. "Mother, father I-"

"No," Mathis had said, interrupting her. "Your mother and I have spoken. You'll go home, and Seven help us, you won't set foot outside of Goldengrove for a year."

Mathis couldn't help but clench his jaw in frustration. Perhaps I've gone too easy on her? He thought. Or perhaps I haven't been attentive enough? Perhaps I favour Gunthor and Elinor too much? "Favoured," he corrected himself quietly, sometimes he still forgot he had only two living children.

He shook his head, willing his mind to dispel the dark thoughts and focus on the task at hand. Oldtown was almost in sight, the van was likely already there, and Mathis was urging the men under his command forward as he raced toward the battlefield. Whatever Connington thought Mathis would fight for Aegon, this war needed to end.

He arrived to find that the battle lines were already being drawn next to the walls of Oldtown, though the flanks of both armies only dared to approach within a mile of the city walls. Beyond the walls, Mathis groaned, for the smoke and sounds of distant screaming told the whole story, Oldtown was burning. They were too late, the Ironmen had already broken the defences and now the two kings would fight on the fields before going to the defence of Oldtown. Mathis winced, his leg troubled him still, but he was eager. The war would end today, Stannis hurriedly formed his battle lines on the plains outside had had no time to prepare any defences, the field was open, his flank was exposed, if there was ever a time to crush Stannis Baratheon this was it.

Mathis rode to the head of the rearguard, with Gunthor at his side, and surveyed the formation before him. Beneath a blue sky, they were assembled, the right and centre were made of infantry, while on the left, the knights of the Reach, of Dorne, and the Golden Company had formed into three lines, ready to fall down on Stannis's exposed right flank and crush it. With the rest of his army pinned by the infantry, the whole of the Baratheon host could then be rolled up like a piece of parchment.

A handful of riders broke off of the host and met Mathis as he was riding down.

"Nice of you to join us," Jon Connington said as he pushed back his helmet's visor. Mathis bit down the urge for a clever remark now was not the time, and besides, he didn't want to give Jon the satisfaction of rising to the bait. A second of silence passed before Jon spoke again. "It's already been decided," Jon said. "Take your men and form the reserve, exploit any breaks in the enemy line, reinforce if needed, or should the worst happen, cover our retreat."

"I'm familiar with the reason for a reserve my lord," Mathis said, his mouth working faster than his brain.

Gunthor snickered, and Jon glared at father and son for a moment. "Just see that it's done, King Aegon wants no delays."

"As His Grace commands," Mathis called after him, smiling as broadly as he could force himself. Seven Hells," he cursed. "Oh well," he pulled his horse around and rode back to the rearguard where Ser Raymond Redding, Lord Torwood Middlebury, Lord Bart Risley, and Lord Ronald Uffering waited for him. "We're to be the reserve," he said quickly.

Ser Raymond shrugged. "No shame in that."

Mathis nodded and quickly lost himself in command. He and the other Reachlords hurried to get to their places, but even so, the last men had barely reached their positions when the boom of a dragon filled the air. Men around him flinched, but Mathis' eyes only narrowed, his ear for the explosions had grown good enough to tell the difference between the larger dragons, and the small one that had just roared. No time to set up the dragons, he smiled, no time for anything and King Aegon has the numbers. He felt a raindrop fall on his cheek and looked up to see dark grey clouds tumbling overhead. Could have sworn the sky was clear a minute ago, he thought.

Drums beat and trumpets roared, the right and centre of King Aegon's army began to advance. The pikes of the Golden Company dipped and weaved like blades of grass, ahead of them, archers, crossbowmen, and dragonmen advanced ahead, ready to soften up the enemy before the final charge. The cavalry on the left flank, the one furthest from Oldtown's walls lagged behind slightly, hoping to catch their opposites on Stannis' right flank unprepared. More dragons roared, and hand-dragons began their sharp cracks back and forth. In the sky, above the roar of distant thunder briefly rolled over the land. Mathis' horse whinnied, but he comforted it with a pat on the shoulder. He was almost entranced by the battle unfolding before him. A flash of sudden movement from Oldtown caught his eye, but he relaxed instantly, it was not the sortie of Ironmen he'd feared, only birds. Thousands, tens of thousands of birds were taking flight and were fleeing Oldtown. Frightened of the dragons and the thunder, he thought.

A warhorn bellowed, and the cavalry began to advance at an even trot. More thunder echoed in the sky above, and the rain began to fall harder. His horse shook it's head and whinnied again while rearing its head back. "Stop that, it's only a storm."

The grass began to wave in the wind, and shapes darted too and fro in the grass. Animals, Mathis realized as field mice, rabbits, hares, and ground birds all ran past. Running this way and that, uncaring of the horses and men around them. "It's only a storm," Mathis repeated.

A warhorn bellowed again, and the trot began to speed up, Mathis almost thought he could feel the vibrations in the earth, the impact of thousands of hooves. His heart began to race, the rain fell harder, dragons roared, arrows flew, and then the thunder roared.

It filled the air, so loud he could feel it as the air was forced from his lungs. Horses screamed, and the charge came to a total stop as every mount became uncontrollable. A trap? Was Mathis' first thought, had Stannis tricked them, had he prepared a trap of dragonpowder like he had outside Storm's End against Renly? No, there was no smoke, no stench of powder, nothing. Mathis grimaced as his horse screamed against the storm. He pulled on the reins trying to force his horse back under control, but all he succeeded in doing was to make the beast rear up on its hind legs. The horse stepped back, standing on two legs, and Mathis threw his weight around with instinct born from thousands of hours in a saddle, causing the horse to slam back down to the ground on all four hooves. He panted, looking around as the sounds of his beating heart reverberated in his chest.

"The Hightower!" Someone screamed.

Mathis looked, the sky that, not so long ago, had been a mere dark grey, or had it been clear and blue, had turned blacker than the deepest pit of the Seven Hells. Storm clouds covered land and sea alike, so low that the top of the Hightower was obscured. With the clouds came a harsh wind. After the thunder there came a cruel silence, no one was speaking, even the horses had ceased screaming, Mathis' stallion was shivering in terror, barely under control, as it pushed against his grip on the reins. No dragons roared, no arrows flew, no one spoke, everyone, tens of thousands of men were transfixed in silent horror as the clouds around the Hightower began to shift and distort. He was unable to look away as for a brief second they formed a face illuminated by the crackling bolts of lightning. It was a scene lifted from his nightmares.

The thunder roared again, and Mathis' stallion started, leaping and running, the same as every other horse on the battlefield. Thousands of battle-trained steeds fleeing in naked terror. A terror that quickly infected their riders, and every other man on the field as well. Mathis did nothing to stop his horse from joining the stampede. Something's wrong, Mathis thought belatedly. This isn't natural. More thunder boomed and roared in quick succession, sounding almost like laughter. Then the lightning began to fall, streaks of red-white light that fell from the sky like nothing Mathis had ever seen. Amidst the panic and the fear, his last rational thought was to rip Gunthor from his saddle with a strength he'd hardly known he'd possessed and hold his son close to him.

He turned his head when he heard someone shout his name. Prince Oberyn was shouting at him, he said something Mathis couldn't quite hear, he yelled back, but then he was blinded by the light. The last clear image seared into his eyeballs was the Prince of Dorne silhouetted in a lightning bolt. Blind as a bat, he held onto horse and son for dear life as the former raced in an equally blind panic.

When his eyes finally began to clear, he looked around, and he saw a vision of the Seven Hells. The roiling storm clouds had fallen even lower, entirely consuming the hundreds of feet of the Hightower, lightning bolts fell like rain, an unanswerable onslaught that turned men and horses into bloody ruins of burned flesh, boiled blood, and melted metal. Mathis turned his eyes upward, toward the sky where the clouds roiled like… like nothing else in the world. Red lightning flashed, and for a moment, Mathis clearly saw a face in the clouds.

He didn't remember much else after that. Everything blended together, fear, terror, and panic, secure in the knowledge that he could do nothing to save his life but run and pray.

Hours later, when his mind finally cleared, his first coherent memory was of his exhausted horse finally stopping, to drink from a creek. Gunthor was holding him as tightly as he could, and Mathis was doing the same. He took a short sharp breath and felt tears roll down his cheeks, and he squeezed his son even tighter to his chest. He heard a branch break and turned to see a dishevelled knight approaching the creek on foot. A few seconds after seeing him, Mathis' brain caught up with his eyes, auburn hair and beard, and a cloak of blue and mud red stripes. Mathis Rowan and Edmure Tully looked at each other for a few seconds before Mathis dropped his eyes to where Lord Edmure's hand rested on his sword's hilt. A second after that the hand dropped away, and the Lord of Riverrun staggered toward the water and fell to his knees, submerging his whole head and taking great gulps of water. About a minute passed, and then Mathis' onetime enemy stood and walked on, disappearing into the woods. They never spoke a word to each other. Mathis closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He dismounted, putting his son on the ground, and giving the poor horse a much-needed break. The horse's coat was white with sweat, blood and foam frothed at his mouth, and though he took heavy breaths, he couldn't take them deeply.

"You were pushed too hard," Mathis said, patting the exhausted beast on the shoulder. "Far too hard, you'll never go to battle again. Not after today. No. It's all apples and plump mares for you from now on," Mathis tried to make a joke of it, but his words were hollow even to his own ears. He reached under the horse's belly and unbuckled the saddle. It took him nearly half an hour to remember how to undo all the barding. He hadn't done it himself since he'd been a squire. Gunthor could have helped, but his son preferred to sit quietly by the creek, and Mathis had no intention of bothering him. He huffed and dumped the last of the barding onto the ground.

"Gunthor get up, we have to go," Mathis said softly when he was done.

His son looked up at him with big green eyes, nodded, and slowly stood up. Mathis took his son by the shoulder and his horse by the reins. For an hour or so they walked without a destination in mind, but when they found a dirt path, Mathis decided to follow it, hoping to find a village or a town. Within a few minutes, they found evidence of others who'd fled Oldtown, in the form of a shield here or a scabbard there. Mathis had sometimes wondered why men left things behind during a rout, he thought back to the barding by the creek and thought that now he understood.

"Lord Mathis," a voice from behind him, said quietly. He turned to see Ser Raymond riding slowly toward him, followed by a dozen other knights. Mathis and Gunthor stopped, and let them catch up. "Lord Jon has rallied some men at a village a mile east of here. My orders were to direct men there, to collect the stragglers."

"Alright."

Ser Raymond opened his mouth to say more, but no words came out. What could be said? Mathis wondered.

He followed Ser Raymond to the village and found that it was a small collection of a few dozen handsome looking houses surrounding a sept with a tall bell tower. A dozen paces from the sept rested a familiar figure sitting on a bench by the well. The Spider himself. Mathis entrusted his horse to a squire and approached.

"Where's the king?" Mathis asked, tired and exhausted, he sat down on the ground.

"In the sept," Varys said, his voice dull. "Praying."

"Has he… has he said anything? Has anyone said anything?"

"No…" Varys said, he looked more shocked than Mathis had ever seen him, he looked... small. All of the spider's shadowy reputation, carefully built over decades, spies in every room from Oldtown to the Wall. It all meant nothing. Nothing meant anything after what had happened.

Mathis supposed that he felt small as well, how could he not after… after what had happened. "Gunthor," he spoke to his son. "Please go and find Ser Harry, Lord Garlan, anyone if you can," he wanted to speak to Varys alone for a minute.

"If they're alive," Gunthor muttered.

Mathis gently cuffed him on the shoulder. "Go, boy."

"Yes father," Gunthor strode off.

Mathis groaned as he stretched his leg. "Is this what you imagined when… when you…" Mathis shook his head slightly and continued in a whisper. "When you planned all this?"

Varys said nothing.

"Did Princess Elia beg you to take Rhaenys too? The little princess? Did you even ask before you took Aegon?" Mathis leaned in close and whispered as silently as a ghost. "Is he even real?" His voice cracked as a demented chuckle did it's best to escape.

Varys again, said nothing, he simply looked down at his own shaking hands, Mathis noticed the eunuch had tears rolling down his fat cheeks.

Mathis relaxed his leg and leaned back against the well.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Varys spoke at last.

"Does anything ever turn out as planned?"

"Yes," Varys replied. "More often than not for me. Till these last few years, at least."

"Imagine that," Mathis said bitterly. "The Spider, just as mortal and fallible as the rest of us."

Again, Varys said nothing, and this time Mathis was just too tired to continue taunting him.

Eventually, Gunthor returned, bringing a dishevelled looking Ser Harry Strickland with him, his left arm carefully bandaged and in a sling.

"What happened?" Mathis asked.

"Marq Mandrake's horse fell on me," he paused. "I only broke my arm, neither horse nor rider were half so lucky."

"This day extracts a heavy toll," Mathis said quietly, the sight of Prince Oberyn disappearing as the lightning struck him played through his mind again and again.

"That's putting it mildly," Harry grunted as he made his way to the ground, smiling in relief as he took the weight off his feet.

The three men and one boy sat silently for a few minutes longer.

"You didn't cover the retreat," Jon Connington said to Mathis as he approached, he was limping slightly.

"With all due respect, my lord," Ser Harry rose to the occasion. "A storm sent from one of the Seven Hells is a little outside of anyone's experiences."

Jon had nothing to say to that, so he joined the rest of them in sitting on the hard ground.

"Any word of stragglers?" Jon asked.

"I sent three of my sergeants out to round up as many as they could," Ser Harry said. "From the sounds of it, men are scattered from Oldtown to the Honeywine. Not just ours but Stannis' as well."

Jon hummed his acknowledgment.

"What of Stannis himself?" Mathis asked. "Any news?"

"With any luck, the storm got him," Gunthor provided.

Ser Harry chuckled. "I don't think any of us are that lucky."

"Has the king said anything?" Mathis asked Jon.

"We spoke briefly," Jon said dismissively. "Nothing of importance."

Mathis shrugged and looked over his shoulder as he heard horses approach, he smiled slightly and took hold of Gunthor's shoulder as he stood. "My Lord."

"Lord Mathis," Lord Garlan greeted him in turn. "My lords," he said to the rest as the knights and footmen who'd followed Lord Garlan entered the camp, among them Princess Arianne, who approached them as well.

She dismounted. "My uncle?" She asked quietly.

"Dead," Mathis said gruffly. "I saw it with my own eyes. I'm sorry."

The Princess of Dorne slumped her shoulders and leaned on her horse's shoulder. "The king?"

"In the sept," Jon answered. "He doesn't want to be disturbed."

"We'll see," without another word, Arianne made her way to the sept, speaking briefly to Ser Rolly before entering.

"Has there?" Mathis coughed. "Has there been any word of Lord Hightower?" He asked at large.

Lord Garlan sighed and crossed his arms. "Nothing."

"Your Grace," Varys said, moving to rise, the rest of them quickly followed.

"My lords," Aegon said quietly. "My lords…" Aegon stopped, clearly at a loss for words.

Mathis rotated his eyes, getting a better look at everyone present. Prince Oberyn was dead. Lord Garlan had escaped unharmed and was keeping a brave face, but his red eyes betrayed his feelings over Oldtown. Princess Arianne similarly mourned the loss of her uncle. Of Petyr Baelish, there was no sign, if he'd died or fled, no one knew. Jon Connington looked almost as stunned as Varys.

No one else made a move to break the silence.

Aegon put his head in his hands. "My lords… We… we should consider."

"Don't say it," Jon said quickly.

"Don't say what, Lord Jon?" Mathis asked. "Shouldn't the king be allowed to speak at his own council?"

"I have already spoken to the king and-"

"I for one," Ser Harry said, gently blinking his eyes. "Would like to hear what His Grace has to say if that's alright with his Hand."

Jon fumed silently.

"My lords," Aegon began again. "I've given this much thought."

"Your Grace," Jon spoke again, more urgently this time.

Aegon ignored Jon and pushed on. "We should consider a tr-"

"Your father-" Jon began to shout.

"I'm not my father!" Aegon yelled back.

"After what they've done!"

"My lord!" Aegon stood to his full height. "You will be silent, or you will leave."

Mathis' eyes switched back and forth between the king and his hand, equal parts confused and satisfied by this turn of events. After a moment, Jon Connington stood and left.

Aegon took a moment to regather his thoughts and sat down beside Princess Arianne. "My lords… what I'm asking isn't easy, but after today…" he gulped. "After what happened, I think it has to be done if," he looked briefly at the princess. "If I'm to be the Protector of the Realm then I need-"

Sansa

A gargoyle fell past the balcony, falling for many more seconds before crashing onto the ground below and breaking into dozens of pieces. It landed not far from where the bodies of Euron's brother, his bastard, and the other sacrifices laid. What remained of their bodies in any case.

The whole of the House Hightower had been tossed from the heights, many of their servants and guards had followed, and prisoners taken from the dungeons and Silence itself. Sansa's hands trembled as she realized she couldn't remember any of their save for one.

"Who is she?" Sansa had asked Euron as his mutes dragged the woman to the edge of the balcony.

"Her people call her a wisdom, she's a priestess of sorts," he'd laughed. "And she's carrying my child. Now they'll both bring me victory," then Euron had stepped forward and pushed her from the tower.

Sansa stepped away from the balcony, running her hand along the cracks spiderwebbed their way through the stonework, the gargoyle was but one of the many signs of the Hightower's sudden deterioration.

Euron was on the floor in the centre of the room. He was beyond exhausted, he was pallid and sweaty, and his one eye was barely able to stay open. His face was covered in blood, his own blood, his nose and eyes had started to bleed from the strain of his sorcery, and afterward, the way he'd hacked and coughed it'd sounded like he was dying. To be true, Sansa wasn't confident that he hadn't almost died.

As Sansa approached, Euron took a deep shuddering breath that provoked another bout of coughing. He rose to his knees and continued hacking. He gurgled and spat out a lump of bloody flesh. "A drink," he said, almost too quietly to hear.

Sansa pulled the skin of shade-of-the-evening from her belt and passed it to Euron, but it slipped through his fingers, and he fell to the ground. He started coughing again. Sansa sat down and pulled Euron's head into her lap, and poured the shade-of-the-evening into his mouth. After several minutes a semblance of colour to return to Euron's skin. He took a quick and shallow breath, the air wheezing and being forced into damaged lungs.

With his strength returning, Euron tried to stand but would have fallen if Sansa hadn't caught him, his left leg was limp, boneless, and unresponsive. Euron growled and slammed his fist into his thigh, but felt no pain. With Sansa's aid, Euron made his way to the Hightower's throne. He fell heavily into the well worn, and padded ironwood chair.

"Take my boots off," Euron commanded.

Sansa gave him a look of confusion.

"Do it," he wheezed.

Sansa did as she was bid, pulling the armoured leather boots off of Euron's feet, and leaving them bare. Euron breathed noisily for a minute, before leaning forward and staring intently at his left foot. His hands squeezed the arms of the throne so tightly his knuckles turned white, he clenched his jaw, and the muscles of his body began to spasm as he focused with every bit of his will. Half a minute passed before the big toe of his left foot twitched slightly. Euron fell back into the throne, gasping in relief, and wiping sweat from his brow. "It'll come back," he said through his struggles to breathe. "My leg will come back," he slumped back in the throne, his eyes closed and breathing ragged breaths.

Sansa turned away, saying nothing, even after all she'd seen, she was still left uneasy after what she'd witnessed today. The capture of the Hightower and with it Oldtown, she couldn't remember, it was a blank spot in her memory. Except for flashes and moments as they'd worked their way to the top of the tower. A door here, a stairway there, blood on the walls, and screaming. She shook her head, hands trembling, and every fibre in her body exhausted. Whatever had happened, it had drained Euron and herself to do so, drained them nearly dry, and it had almost been for nothing.

The dragon and stag banners had crossed the horizon while the Battle for Oldtown was still in flux. Through the eyes of birds, she'd seen the shifting lines as Hightower men, Oldtown guards, and the smallfolk of Oldtown clashed with the Ironborn invaders, driving them back, almost all the way back to their ships.

But then the storm came, hundreds of lives thrown from the top of the Hightower had fueled it. Cracks had formed in the stone, then the sky, and then it would seem in Euron's body. Sansa's master had collapsed, coughing blood, and screaming in agony as his black work made its way through him. Sansa and the mutes had done nothing to help, simply watching.

"Why?" Sansa asked. "Why can't I remember?"

"Remember what?"

"Taking the Hightower, entering Oldtown," Sansa said.

Euron shifted slightly. "Any skinchanger can take the mind of an animal and play, but only the greatest can do the same for men. To turn eyes blind, ears deaf, to leave open doors that should have been locked, that takes true power, but it's easy to lose yourself to it to forget who you are."

"I did that?" Sansa asked, her stomach twisting in horror and excitement.

Euron laughed. "Don't be a fool, you have not the will to do such a thing. Only to aid another."

Sansa said nothing as Euron lost himself to another coughing fit, she turned back to the balcony and grew so lost in thought that she only heard the commotion outside the chamber at the last moment.

"Let me through!" Someone shouted in the hall. "Let us pass!" Came another voice.

Sansa retreated to the side of the Hightower throne as a dozen Ironborn captains pushed past Euron's mutes and entered the room. They gathered to the centre of the room as the mutes followed them inside, taking up positions along the walls inside.

"What in the Drowned God's name was that!" Donnor Saltcliffe shouted at Euron.

Euron said nothing.

"Sorcery!" Rodrik Freeborn shouted as well

"You and your witch are in league with the Storm God!"

"Harlaw was right!"

"Where is Aeron Damphair? Where is your brother?"

"What have you done to him?" Asked another shouting captain.

"Drumm was right!"

Euron raised his hands to rub his face.

"You're a godless man!"

"Black magic and demonry!"

"Unfit to sit the Seastone Chair!"

"Kinslayer!"

"False king!"

"False?" Euron chuckled, speaking at last to his lords and captains, even speaking quietly, his words brought about a frightened silence among the captains. "I am chosen, anointed, and crowned by you, my lords. I promised you Westeros, and," he spread his hands as if to encompass all of Oldtown. "This is just the first piece, a mere appetizer compared to what's to come."

"What use are mortal riches if we're banished from the Drowned God's halls in death?" A captain in salt-stained rags asked.

"Aye," another lord shouted.

"Who are you?" Euron asked the captain in salt-stained rags.

"Heggen of Salt Keep."

"Never heard of you."

"You have now."

Euron chuckled but said nothing as the standoff continued.

Sansa nervously shifted on the soles of her feet.

"Well?" Euron asked of the lords and captains. "What are you going to do now, or did you not think that far ahead?" Silence answered him, and Euron laughed darkly. "My sad little people, how you boast and how you cower in the face of true power."

"You have no power," Harren Half-Hoare said defiantly.

"Then do something about it," Euron sneered. "Do something you cravens!" He slammed a fist on the arm of the Hightower throne.

No one moved.

"No, you all know I have power," he snorted contemptuously. "There are some fools who say that power is a trick, a shadow on the wall. Ha! Power is power, and I'm stronger than any of you can dream of, strong enough that even here, without arms or armour, you still fear me. That is true power. So go," he commanded as he leaned back into the throne. "Go and claim the scraps of Oldtown I've left for you."

One by one the lords and captains trickled out.

"Some will leave," Sansa said as the last of the captains departed.

"Some," Euron muttered. "Many maybe, perhaps even most," he drank more shade-of-the-evening. "But enough will stay. Enough greedy fools to do what's needed."

"And what's that?"

Euron gave her a dark look.

"Sorry, I mean, what's all this for? You don't care for the Iron Throne, not really, so why do this?"

"To feast before the fall of night," Euron said cryptically, then he shrugged. "I'd hoped the Hightower would be enough, but I was wrong, there wasn't enough, not even close."

"Enough of what?"

"Power," Euron answered. "Blood and sacrifice."

Sansa thought of the last few months, from Casterly Rock to Oldtown, a trail of blood and broken bodies had been left in their wake. "Are those not the same thing?"

"There is power in sacrifice," Euron said. "Blood sacrifice, of course, is so easy," he sighed. "But there are other kinds of sacrifice as well," he ran his hand over the cracks in the Hightower that continued to grow and creep through the stone like a spiderweb. "You swear yourself to something, spend your whole life fighting for it, defending it, knowing all the while that you would give your life for that place, thing, ideal, or person. That's a kind of sacrifice, and it imparts a kind of power on its own," Euron clapped his hands. "Sansa, how long has the Hightower stood, hmm?"

Sansa blinked at the sudden question. "It was," she struggled to remember, everything from before seemed grey and washed out as if it was half a dream. "It was Bran," she remembered. "Bran the Builder who made it."

"Close, but not quite," Euron chuckled. "He made the first level of the tower, the first two hundred feet, the rest came later, and the foundation, that blackstone fortress, is older still. Even without the spells in the stone, that kind of age would bring power. Imagine it, all the tens of thousands of warriors who've sworn their lives for this place, bled for this place, and ultimately died for the Hightower."

"Yes," Sansa said. "Yes, I can feel something."

"Blood and sacrifice," Euron crooned. "With the blood of the Hightower's masters, I turned that power outward, haha! But it wasn't enough… no, no it wasn't. The spells here are too primitive, your ancestor had not yet mastered his talent and made his greatest work. The Wall."

"There are spells there as well?"

"Oh yes, all the ancient places of the world have magic in the stone, or ice as the case might be, but the Wall is something else. A Hinge of the World as the sorcerers of the east would say. Come here," Euron took Sansa's hand and pointed her toward the north-facing balcony. "Close your eyes, and let your third eye open."

Sansa did as she was bid, and for a few seconds, she felt nothing but the Hightower beneath her feet. It felt drained, like thousands of years of history had been sucked out of it. It seemed almost hollow now, ancient spells fed by loyalty and service were in tatters, and the stone was cracking under the strain as a result. Her senses expanded, and she felt more, the citadel was broken, the magic there might never recover, but the Starry Sept shone like the night sky, defiant against Euron's storm, somehow softer and stronger than the Hightower at the same time. She sensed more as well as her senses expanded as if the winds were carrying the scent of spells to her. Septs and temples twinkled like stars in the bedrock of Westeros, each one carrying a small spark of power. She felt Storm's End weighing heavy on the eastern coast, a great defiant block of stone, and sorcery. North of it, King's Landing and Dragonstone both pulsed like living hearts, younger and rawer than the Hightower or Storm's End. Harrenhal was dead and rotting, like the vast carcass of a beached leviathan. Casterly Rock was blighted and tarnished by the Ironborn, but beneath that, glowing gold still flowed. Her senses stretched north, drawn by something else, the Eyrie, Barrowton, Winterfell, and other places flew past her senses, but they all paled in comparison to the Wall.

It was indescribable, like every other place she'd sensed was like the most fractured, tarnished, and warped reflection of the Wall. It was a hinge of the world, where more magic rested than existed in whole kingdoms. It was wondrous, it was magnificent, it was pure splendour brought into worldly form, and it was… broken. Beneath the glory were holes and cracks by the thousand. Each one screamed out in agony as cold winds rushed from the north, winds that carried fell sorcery with every gust and breath, and the lone fire couldn't burn against the cold forever. Sansa tried to look beyond the Wall, but when she did, she looked into the heart of winter.

Sansa's hand flew to her eyes, and she fell to her knees with a scream of pure terror. She suddenly felt very cold. She looked around and saw every inch of the top of the Hightower was covered in a finger thick layer of frost. Sansa shivered in the sudden cold.

Euron shifted on the Hightower throne, causing the frost and ice that had covered his body to crack and shatter. "You see now, don't you? The Wall is dying," he raised one hand. "Ice and stone," he raised the other. "Flesh and blood. Both are needed for the spells, and without one," he dropped his left hand. "The other will fail soon after," his right hand fell as well.

"The Wall is dying," Sansa repeated.

"Eight thousand years fueled by blood and oaths, wars and sorceries and traitors it survived. But now it is brought low," he stood, forcing himself to stand on a single wobbling leg. "A hinge of the world will fall!" Euron shouted to the evening sky, he fell back into the seat. "And only the most powerful will survive."

One by one snowflakes began to fall.

Melisandre

When she closed her eyes, she could still see the darkness, the spell of tragedy that had enveloped the Hightower, and had flooded over the armies gathered outside. It had been two days, and yet she saw it still. The rout had been messy, pure chaos, a total flight of every man and beast. Only Melisandre had stayed to watch the storm. Watching in raptured horror as sorcery born of blood and sacrifice tore holes in the sky.

She'd not feared for her own safety, R'hllor would protect her. Lightning struck near her again and again when all others had fled, but still, she stood and watched. She watched as the storm began to weaken, slowly at first but then faster and faster as the clouds, held together only by magic and will, dispersed, the winds died, and blue skies returned. Only then did Melisandre depart, heading north on foot, passing by abandoned wagons and dragons, the great bronze and iron weapons had been left behind in the flight. She passed by the dead as well, hundreds of blackened corpses, only hundreds, fear had broken the armies, not death. She followed the trail of abandoned weapons and before long found an abandoned horse, there was no sign of a rider, perhaps the horse had thrown him, or had the storm taken the rider and spared the steed. She mounted, and from there made a faster pace.

She made no attempt to speak to the men she eventually came across, but they naturally began to follow her. She was a lady of the Small Council, a trusted advisor of the king, and perhaps most importantly, she was the red witch and could mayhaps protect them should the storm return.

Melisandre didn't find Stannis by the end of the first day. She gathered her followers and spoke to them at last. She ordered them to construct a bonfire so that she might pray for them throughout the night. "The night is dark and full of terrors," she'd said as she always did, and hundreds of voices repeated the words after her.

She stood there all night, letting the power of R'hllor strengthen and sustain her, while she watched the flames carefully. She saw only one thing, over and over, a wall and a lone figure in black, again and again, until the sun peaked through the trees and the flames revealed the path she must take.

When dawn once again brought the light of R'hllor back to the world, Melisandre took stock of her followers. There were several hundred in all, a few she recognized from the nightfires, most she didn't, a few, in fact, bore symbols on their tunics and arms that she'd only seen at a distance, from across a battlefield, but fear and flight made for strange bedfellows. Regardless of their previous loyalties, they all followed her silently as she led them west, following the path the fires had shown her.

She led them through fields and hills, following the foot and cart paths made by generations of smallfolk. More men gathered to her as she travelled, and when evening came, she'd reached her destination, at the head of half a thousand men. She silently passed the guards as she entered the camp. Stannis and his commanders had rallied thousands as well, but not even half the army was yet accounted for. It would take weeks to track down the men who'd fled, many no doubt would not be seen again.

It was Lord Edmure who greeted her as she entered. "Lady Melisandre," the Lord of Riverrun said tiredly. "We feared you lost."

"No one who walks in the light of R'hllor is ever truly lost," she replied. "Where is the king?"

"In his quarters," Lord Edmure pointed to a barn with a thatched roof. "A council will start soon," he said.

"I will be there," she said. "See that these men are taken care of."

"I will," Lord Edmure said seriously, before walking past her to take charge of the men.

Melisandre made her way to the barn. The half-rotten door had been pulled away and left to the side, and a canvas curtain had been raised in its place. Ser Timon and Ser Richard Horpe stood guard and stepped aside silently to allow Melisandre to enter. The interior of the barn was dark, lit only by the sunlight that fell through a few holes in the roof. Stannis sat alone, and Melisandre approached within a few yards him.

"You didn't see that in your flames?" It went without saying what Stannis was speaking about.

"I see only what R'hllor allows me to see," she said defensively. "All things have a purpose."

"Enough," Stannis said, his voice rising and his tone hard. "Enough," when Melisandre waited silently he continued. "Say nothing when my lords are here, speak only when spoken too."

"Yes, Your Grace," Melisandre said, taking a place at the edge of the room.

She waited in silence as the lords entered. Mark Mullendore, Edmure Tully, Lester Morrigen, Casper Wylde, Erren Florent, and Masuro Kichashiro silently took their seats. It had been some time since Melisandre had seen the Beikango knight alone, normally Justin Massey was all but joined at the hip.

"News?" Stannis asked brusquely.

"The outriders brought in near two thousand more men today, and received some of the baggage," Mark Mullendore began.

"The dragons?" Stannis asked again.

"Only hand-dragons and some powder," Masuro said.

"Any sign of Lord Massey?" Stannis asked.

"Not yet," Mark Mullendore admitted.

"Keep searching," Stannis commanded. "What of the Targaryen?"

"We found their camp," Lord Edmure said. "A little over half a day's march north of Oldtown."

"What of the Ironmen?"

"They don't seem to have ventured far from Oldtown," Casper Wylde provided. "The baggage was untouched when we searched it."

"That makes no sense," Lester Morrigen said quietly. "Everything was there for the taking."

"Maybe they feared we'd return?" Mark Mullendore said.

"After… after that," Edmure Tully shuddered. "Maybe they feared to leave the safety of the walls."

The discussion continued, and Stannis ground his teeth as he thought.

"Your Grace," Ser Timon entered the barn, interrupting the talk about the motives of the Ironmen.

"What is it, Ser Timon?" Stannis asked.

"A herald from the Targaryen camp, Your Grace."

A heavy silence settled over King Stannis' lords and commanders. Many looked to Stannis for guidance, while others simply stared at the ground.

"Send him in," Stannis said.

Ser Timon nodded and left, returning a few seconds later with a smartly dressed boy of three and ten in the colours of House Rowan. Ser Timon guided the boy close to the centre of the barn where Stannis and all his court could focus on him.

"Your Grace," the boy fell to one knee and waited for Stannis to respond.

"Speak," Stannis commanded after a moment's silence.

The boy stood up. "Your Grace, I am Gunthor Rowan, son of Lord Mathis Rowan, and heir to Goldengrove. His Grace King Aegon has sent me to you to extend the offer for a parlay."

This sent a round of whispering through the lords of Stannis' council. "Silence," the king commanded. "Why?" Stannis asked.

"King Aegon and his council were greatly disturbed by the cruelty," the boy swallowed. "And the sorcery on display," Gunthor Rowan said. "His Grace believes the sorcerer Euron Greyjoy to be a great threat to all," more silence greeted Gunthor Rowan.

Casper Wylde coughed quietly.

Gunthor Rowan continued. "And would request a parlay to discuss a truce."

Stannis cut the boy off before he could say anymore. "Ser Timon, please escort young lord Rowan to the edge of the camp and see him returned to his own."

Gunthor Rowan didn't resist as the Dornish knight of the kingsguard escorted him out.

"Your Grace," Lord Edmure began.

Stannis raised a hand. "Leave me, my lords, we can speak on this again, on the morrow."

"Lady Melisandre, stay," Stannis commanded when she stood to join the other lords. She returned to her place and waited.

"This boy can't possibly expect me to accept," Stannis growled mere seconds after the lords left. "It-" Stannis cut himself off, unable to put his anger into words.

Melisandre frowned. "I see it still," she said. "The dragon and the stag fight to the death in the waters of a river, the stag's blood mixing with the waters. The flames show it clear as day, that and more."

"More of what?" Stannis asked, his voice growing louder. "More war, more pretenders, more usurpers?"

"The cold winds are rising," Melisandre said. "The world needs Azor Ahai Reborn to focus on the true threat, not this boy, and not this sorcerer-king."

"You say this to mock me?" Stannis growled. "That I should abandon my crown, the iron throne, and flee as far as I can?"

"No, Your Grace, the visions are as much a warning of what could be as they are a vision of what is to come."

"So they're meaningless then."

"Your Grace," Melsiandre rose to her feet and crossed the room to Stannis. "Everything I see is true, and everything has meaning. I asked the flames to show me the future to show me what would come of the battle between dragon and stag, Targaryen and Baratheon, and so they did."

Stannis said nothing.

"And this," Melisandre pointed outside, to where Gunthor Rowan was now riding away. "This is the act of R'hllor. There need not be a battle."

"You mock me," Stannis growled. "This false Targaryen, this boy king, he mocks me as everyone has mocked me. Robert, Renly, everyone," he pulled away from Melisandre, turned his back on her, and slammed a fist into one of the posts, causing the whole barn to shake.

Melisandre stood still for a moment, letting Stannis' thoughts wander as she decided what to say next. "Did Lord Davos mock you?"

Stannis went stiff and said nothing.

Melisandre passed Stannis by, heading to the exit. "My king, what would your Onion Knight say to you now, I wonder?" She left.

During the council the next morning, Stannis chose to accept Aegon's invitation, messengers passed between the camp over the next day, negotiating the terms of the meeting. They would meet in a meadow three miles from Stannis' camp, both would send an advanced party of twenty riders to scout out the area together, then, and only then, would the kings and their advisors approach.

As agreed both sides came without their swords, save for the knights of the kingsguard, though Stannis held an advantage there Ser Richard, Ser Timmon, and Ser Andrew to the single white-cloaked knight riding behind Aegon. The council paused with twenty paces separating them, by coincidence, Melisandre had lined up with Varys the Spider, her supposed opposite among Aegon's courtiers, given her title on the Small Council. Or perhaps not a coincidence given how the Spider seemed content to avoid looking directly at Melisandre but couldn't resist glancing at her every few seconds.

The kings advanced approaching each other beneath the sunny blue sky. Not even their kingsguard approaching within twenty paces of the other king.

The kings advanced approaching across the field, the legs of their horses sending flowers spinning in the wind. Not even their kingsguard approaching within twenty paces of the other king.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of grass rustling in the wind, neither king was willing to speak first. In the end, it was Aegon who broke the silence.

"Thank you for coming," he said.

Stannis was silent.

Aegon prevailed on. "There is no love lost between our houses, but we have done each other no great wrongs, I think, none personal in any case."

Stannis spoke at last. "You invaded my kingdom, attacked my bannermen, and ravaged their lands."

Aegon bristled for a moment, clearly defensive, but said nothing at first. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. "I'm told that such things happen in war, a necessary sacrifice."

Stannis remained stone-faced.

"What happened in Oldtown," Aegon said quietly. "What was done there by Greyjoy, it… it's more important. Surely we can both see that? Surely you hate such sorcery as much as any sane man?"

"I hate a good many things," Stannis said. "I tolerate them all."

"We have put the cart before the horse," Aegon pleaded. "If a man would be king, he must also be Protector of the Realm. Surely you agree? Sorcery such as what was witnessed today, cannot go on, it must be defeated."

Stannis said nothing, and for a moment, Aegon's face was a mask of despair.

"I knew a man," Stannis said suddenly. "He was lowborn, the son of a crabber, and he was a criminal, a smuggler who did his trade on both sides of the Narrow Sea, from the Stepstones to the Wall," Stannis shifted slightly in his saddle. "He saved my life during the Rebellion against your grandfather. For his past crimes, I took from him, the tips of his fingers, and for his deeds, I made him a knight, and later a lord. He served me well until his death, and his sons serve ably as well. He gave me good service as a bannerman, a captain, and a member of my council. He was fond of sharing with me pieces of lowborn wisdom, common sayings with deep meaning," Stannis paused for breath, and focused his gaze to the boy king in front of him. "The cart before the horse."

Aegon frowned slightly and sat straight in his saddle.

"Euron Greyjoy will not linger long in Oldtown, I think," Stannis said. "He will move to some other place, to perform another foul act. We should prepare to march, at sea, Greyjoy will make far better time."