Casterly Rock

Tywin Lannister exchanged bows with Ser Eddard Stark as he evaluated the man across from him. In his time as Lord Marshal, Ser Eddard had developed a reputation as a straight-forward, coolly professional man with no tolerance for evasiveness or half-truths. Best to be blunt, then, Tywin decided as he and Ser Eddard took their seats in his solar. "I will be frank and to the point," he said, steepling his fingertips. "I have spent the past twenty years training both Joffrey and his younger brother Tommen to succeed me as Lord of Casterly Rock. Of the two, I would prefer it to be Joffrey; he has the better claim, if only barely, and he has been the one of my grandsons more aware of the necessity of strength in a lord. Thus far, I have been satisfied with his progress, so I gave him command of the Royal Army of the West as a test, to prove or disprove his fitness to rule. So I ask you, my Lord Marshal; did Joffrey lead his army well?"

Eddard nodded. "He kept his army well-supplied and in good order. Its conduct both in camp and on the march was exemplary. Any difficulties that arose were handled at Joffrey's headquarters or lower; all I or Stannis or the King had to do was affirm his decisions."

"And in battle?" Tywin asked, concealing a surge of triumph.

"Joffrey was knighted on the field of Elborak for the part his army played in repelling the Dothraki charge," Eddard replied. "At Swinford he played an integral role in salvaging our left flank on the second day, and then played a large part in our counter-attack on the third day in concert with Lord Edmure. I have no complaints at all about Joffrey's management in camp and on the march, or his leadership on the field."

Tywin nodded to himself and flicked a glance at his long-time body man. "Bring in Joffrey," he said, prompting the man to bow silently and almost glide out of the room. "Thank you, Ser Eddard," he said standing and shaking the Lord Marshal's hand as his body man returned with Joffrey in tow. "Ser Eddard Stark," Tywin Lannister said formally, "allow me to introduce my heir, Ser Joffrey Lannister, in whom I am well pleased."

Tywin Lannister had had very little of pure joy in his life since his wife died. But the look on his grandson's face in that moment made his heart swell almost to bursting.

The Gulf of Grief

Euron Greyjoy smirked like a satisfied cat as the Silence slid through the waves. The war with the Volantenes had ended, true, but all things had to come to an end sooner or later, and he had gotten no small amount of good sport out of it; his smirk broadened as he remembered the scent of a burning city and the joy of slaughter and the screaming of Lyseni maidens under his fingers. Furthermore, the wars had given him an insight into the mind of the boy who called himself a dragon. To Aegon, anyone who was either not of Westeros or not a friend of Westeros was either a current or a future enemy, to be fought and finished now or weakened for later. So long as Euron stayed his hand from Westerosi and Braavosi ships, he would be allowed to run loose with a king's prayers behind him.

Euron shrugged to himself. It was not in his nature to be picky about his food, but he freely admitted that fighting the Royal Fleet and the Braavosi armada would be more bother than it was worth. Besides, to a proper seafarer, no horizon was too far. He had, for example, heard many wondrous things about Asshai and Yi Ti. His iron hands caressed the rail of his ship. Let his book-blinded uncle while away the years in King's Landing, let his blinkered brothers stew on their rocks and squabble over the scraps of Slaver's Bay. He would live life to the fullest, take his fill of bloody slaughter and stinging wine and mewling women as he pleased, and the Storm God could take the rest.

Euron Greyjoy threw back his head and gave voice to a howl of predatory expectation. "Grab your ankles and prepare your anuses, you sorry bastards!" he crowed, his voice shocking across the Silence's habitual quietude. "Here I come, ready or not!"

King's Landing, Maegor's Holdfast

"The Volantenes will sign, then?" Margaery asked as she drew a brush through her hair.

"By day after tomorrow, at latest," Aegon replied, setting down his quill and stretching a cramp out of his hand. "They should really be more wary of their surroundings." It was hardly chivalrous to eavesdrop on people's private conversations, but chivalry was reserved for people who deserved it, in Aegon's opinion. The Volantenes did not.

"I will see to arrangements for the festivities then," said Margaery as she put down her brush. "For the signing of the treaty and for the other matter as well."

Aegon cocked an eyebrow at his wife of eight months. "Other matter?" he asked, concealing hope with casualness.

Margaery smiled at him in her mirror. "It will be some time before it becomes obvious, so we may want to wait until then," she said impishly, standing from her dressing table and turning towards him, "but I am reasonably sure, as is my maid, who should know, as her sisters all have children of their own."

Aegon leaped up from his desk, all but bounded across the room to his wife, and swept her up off her feet with a shout of exultant laughter. Oh gods, thank you for this, he thought as he set Margaery back on the floor and kissed her deeply, of all the blessings you have given me, this is the greatest.

King's Landing, the Red Keep

Jon Baratheon sighed deeply and regarded the woman who shared his bed. "Gods, but I wish I could marry you," he said ruefully. "You're the one woman I've met that can keep up with me."

"What do you mean wish?" Ygritte asked sharply, shooting him a pointed glance from the corner of her eye. "You're a lord, ain't you, can't you choose who you want?"

"In point of fact, I'm not and I can't," Jon said. "My father's the lord, I'm just his heir. And he'll choose who I wed, though Mother will have a hand in it like as not." He laughed shortly. "You should meet my mother sometime; I think you'd like each other yipe!"

Ygritte cocked an eyebrow at him. "Never mind your mother," she said, loosening her grip on Jon's chest hairs. "Why can't you marry who you like?"

"Because that's the way of it, for nobles," Jon said shrugging carefully; Ygritte had only loosened her grip, not released it entirely. "When we marry, we marry for advantage. Wealth, lands, men-at-arms; these things count for a lot more than love when nobles wed."

Ygritte shook her head. "Then you and yours know nothing, Jon Baratheon," she said flatly. "Sooner or later, there will be trouble in any marriage. How can those troubles be overcome without love?"

"Duty, supposedly," Jon replied, "although self-preservation is more likely to be the actual motivator." He looked at his lover with a depth of fondness that was unusual for him; his previous affairs had all been entirely physical matters, not like this flame-haired virago who challenged his mind as much as his body. "I can't promise anything," he said softly, "but I'll tell my father that I prefer you above any of the flowers he and Mother have tried throwing at me. He'll probably refuse, but in that case," he shrugged, "Steffon always liked the idea of being Lord of Storm's End better than me, and it's not like I'm entirely dependent on my father's purse. Ser Eddard can find me a commission if I ask him politely, and from there, much else can be made possible."

Ygritte smiled, her irregular face the most beautiful Jon had ever seen. "You know nothing, Jon Baratheon," she said teasingly. "So long as we have breath and strength, all things are possible."

King's Landing, Flea Bottom

The tall man lifted his tankard, glowered down at its contents, and set it down again. He was not usually fastidious, but the beer that this hole served was more likely to digest him than the other way around. Food safety, in this part of King's Landing, was more a matter of superstition and folklore than science. "I assume this is a business matter rather than a personal chat," he said to the roughly-dressed and foul-smelling man across from him. "If it was personal, we would be up in Maegor's instead of this dive."

The gap-toothed, villainous-looking fellow across from him cackled. "Well perceived, Ser," he said, in a voice that was the purest quill of Flea Bottom. "What gave it away if I may ask?"

"Only a spy would set up a meeting in a dump like this," the tall man said. "Only one of the King's spies would be brazen enough to set up a meeting with me. And only you would have the authority and the balls to do so. My lord Varys."

"Most excellent and really quite flattering, although that last was necessarily inaccurate," said the Master of Whispers, his unpatched eye twinkling. "Would you care to guess what sort of business I would request a meeting with you for?"

"I can only assume that you want to offer me a position in your apparatus," the tall man said. "Given my training and my abilities, I would be a valuable asset."

"Close, but not quite," said Varys, "I want to train you as my successor."

The tall man froze for a moment. "I am flattered," he said finally, a trace of an odd accent not native to Westerosi shores creeping into his voice, "but I must refuse."

Varys cocked an eyebrow. "Why so?"

"Three reasons," the tall man said, extending his right index finger. "Firstly, my loyalty is to House Stark before the Crown; my loyalty to the Crown is contingent on the standing of House Stark with the Crown. Secondly, I plan to go back North after the peace treaty is signed and not leave unless at direst need; I think that I have earned a vacation. Third and lastly," his voice hardened, "I am a soldier, not a spy. I can play the spy if I must, but I have no appetite for it. There is no honor in spy's work."

"Honor," the Spider said, his voice laced with contempt. "You think the Realm is kept safe by honor? The Realm is kept safe and at peace because my little birds sing me songs and I act upon them as I must. If you knew the half of the perils I have saved the Realm from, Ser, you would think me as great a hero as any of your iron-headed thugs. But I do my work with poison and dagger and a minimum of fuss instead of with fire and sword and destruction, so I am condemned as a sneaking spider with no honor. Much use your honor is, Ser Barnes, when the cold wind blows and the ravens gather overhead."

The Winter Soldier leaned forward, his eyes hard. "And if you knew the half of what I have done, eunuch, you would know why I value honor so," he snarled wolfishly. "I was the tool of men like you, in the world I came from; a mindless beast kept in a cage except for when I was loosed to bring death and terror. I spent decades in the shadows, a skulking demon leashed by my own mind, as much a prisoner as any dungeon's inmate and more so for being trapped in my own head. Be that as it may; I am no longer a beast but a man, unchained and free to walk in the sunlight as I please. I will go back to the shadows as I must, to protect the people I care about, but I will not return to what I was for your sake. Seek another villain to take up your mantle, Varys, for I will not be one again." He stood, looming in the half-light of the fetid tavern. "In what time I have left to me in this life, I will be a hero."

Varys watched James Buchanan Barnes (such an odd name, Buchanan, he mused) stride out of the tavern and cursed silently to himself. Fortunately, Barnes had only been his first choice for a successor. Perhaps the sailor would be more amenable . . .

XXX

The Peace of King's Landing, signed in 310 AC, set the stage of diplomacy and politics in the Narrow Sea for the next hundred years. Under the terms of the Peace, Volantis paid an indemnity of five hundred thousand gold dragons, undertook a yearly tribute of fifty thousand gold dragons to be split evenly between Westeros and Braavos, abjured the slave trade, decommissioned all but ten of its warships, and foreswore all contact with the cities of Slaver's Bay. Lys was reduced to a Westerosi satellite, being forced to accept a Westerosi garrison and naval squadron, relinquish control of its foreign affairs, and charge Westerosi and Braavosi merchantmen a fraction of the regular market price for supplies. Westeros and Braavos affirmed their alliance, which culminated in 336 AC when King Aegon VI's younger son, Valarr, married the daughter of the Sealord.

Recent scholarship has accused the Peace of King's Landing of being an example of 'victor's justice", but regardless of its merits, it secured a lasting peace in the Narrow Sea for the rest of the century. With Volantis so thoroughly weakened, there was no other state in western Essos of sufficient power to challenge the Westerosi-Braavosi axis. The cities of Slaver's Bay would be as uniformly hostile to Westeros as they were to Braavos, but the twin difficulties of distance and logistics precluded the use of any military means but privateering and the subornation of various Dothraki hordes to attack the Westerosi colonies in the Disputed Lands. Although these avenues would result in several small-scale conflicts throughout King Aegon VI's reign, Westeros did not send another major army across the Narrow Sea until the First Great War of 400 AC.

By this time, the major players of Aegon VI's reign were almost all dead. The "Imperial Generation", as later demographers would call them, had witnessed and taken part in the most dramatic expansion of Westerosi power in history, equaled only by the rise of Qohor in the 380s. Their paths in the years after the Second War of the Three Daughters proved to be as diverse as they themselves were.

Joffrey Lannister did not have an easy succession; both his mother Cersei and his uncle Tyrion petitioned the Royal Circuit Court of the Westerlands to have their claims recognized. Cersei's petition was dropped after a closed-doors meeting with Tywin, but Tyrion's petition dragged on until he was bought off with a pension and a sinecure in the Department of Works. These early difficulties notwithstanding, Joffrey's reign as Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands continued the tradition of success begun by his grandfather. Joffrey the Golden died in 358 AC from injuries sustained in a riding accident and is buried in the Hall of Heroes in Casterly Rock.

With Ser Barristan Selmy's death from wounds sustained at Swinford, Ser Jaime Lannister became Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. In addition to his regular duties, he continued to be King Aegon's closest confidante, with Aegon describing him as a surrogate uncle; when Aegon's eldest son Jaehaerys was born, Aegon named Ser Jaime as his godsfather. Ser Jaime Lannister, the White Lion, died of influenza in 327 AC and is buried in Blackstone Military Cemetery outside King's Landing.

Artos Stark married Daenerys Targaryen in 311 AC, a year before taking over his father's position as Lord Marshal; Ser Eddard had decided that two major wars, an attempted coup, and ten years of an ongoing insurgency were quite enough turbulence for one lifetime and had decided to retire to the North. The lack of a major war during Artos' tenure meant that his own generalship can never be accurately measured against his famous father, but he was nonetheless a skillful military technician and administrator. After royal forces under his strategic direction crushed the Great Rising of the Blackwater in 314 AC, the sparrows were unable to attempt another general uprising until 402 AC, when the Royal Army's resources were stretched thin by the First Great War. Artos Stark continued as Lord Marshal until his death in 341 AC from dysentery contracted while on a field exercise, being survived by his wife, his two sons, and his daughter.

Robb Stark also continued in the Royal Army after the Second War of the Three Daughters. Promoted to Colonel of the Guides in 312 AC, he saw much service as King Aegon's fireman-in-chief, running down sparrow troops and outlaw bands. Devoted to his duty and something of a workaholic, he only married after age and wounds had forced him to retire from active service, and he died without issue in 343 AC. His main legacy was the Cavalry Branch of the Royal Army of Westeros, which today encompasses both heavy line-of-battle units and the Army's reconnaissance forces and considers him a founding father. His grave on the grounds of Redgrass Barracks is considered sacred ground by the Cavalry and especially the Guides. The sword Frost was passed to his successor as Colonel of the Guides on the day he retired, and is today one of the regiment's most treasured relics; although it has not been used in battle in some centuries, it remains as sharp and as battle-ready as ever.

Jon Baratheon proved to be another stalwart of the Royal Army. After his father gave him a choice between inheriting Storm's End or marrying his paramour, Sergeant Ygritte Flamehair of the Special Service Regiment, Jon announced his choice by taking an officer's commission in the Guards and arranging for Ygritte to receive one as well. Throwing himself into his new life as a professional soldier with his characteristic headlong vigor, he made a point of volunteering his troop for field service as often as he could get away with, claiming that soldiers, like swords, rusted if left to their own devices. Along the way he found time to raise two sons and two daughters with his wife; all four of them would follow their parents into the Royal Army. Jon and Ygritte would die within eleven days of each other in 349 AC and are buried next to each other in Blackstone Military Cemetery.

Even in an age that seemed to deliberately spawn great love stories that of Edmure Tully and Rhaenys Targaryen stood out. The two had an eventual total of eight children, six of which lived to adulthood. Edmure was often away from Riverrun, either putting down sparrow insurrections or tightening the bonds that welded the Riverlands into a cohesive entity, and so the correspondence between him and Rhaenys, much of which survived, is among the most extensive bodies of writing from the period. It is also among the most beautiful; Rhaenys was a poet of some note, and what little Edmure lacked in eloquence his writing makes up for in fervor. When Edmure died of heart failure in 335, Rhaenys followed him only seven days later; her death was widely attributed to grief. They are buried at Riverrun. The number of sub-par romance novels whose main characters claim to be inspired by their example defies both logic and good taste.

Harrold Arryn survived the wounds he sustained at Swinford, but his reputation and his soul never recovered from the disaster of the Pear Orchard and the subsequent investigation by the Department of War which, although it remains a model of impartiality, was nonetheless politically motivated; the original petitioner for an investigation into the battle's conduct was Lysa Tully. A virtual outcast from political life in the Vale, Harrold entered the service of his cousin Robert, and spent his off-duty days organizing charitable efforts for the families of the men who died under his command, to which he devoted almost all of his own resources. Guilt-racked, all but friendless, and so impoverished that he owned nothing but his sword and his armor, Harrold Arryn threw himself out the Moon Door in 319 AC.

Belicho Maegyr never stood trial for the Sack of Myr. In the aftermath of the Second War of the Three Daughters, it was decided that a son of the influential Maegyr clan was more valuable alive and in Westerosi custody, where he could serve as a hostage, than dead, where he would be a martyr. Belicho was transferred from the Bleeding Tower to the Red Keep in 313 AC and never again set foot outside its walls. He held out for ten years, largely by writing nationalist poetry that ranged the gamut from execrable to passable, before finally giving up and committing suicide in 323 AC. A statue of him was erected in Old Volantis the next year; it was eventually removed in 574 AC, after lengthy and acrimonious debates that degenerated into open riots on at least three occasions.

Of all of Aegon VI's many accomplishments, one of the more impressive is the lease on life he gave the Targaryen dynasty. From the nadir of the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant, his reign catapulted House Targaryen to heights of power previously undreamed of. However, his success was the dynasty's ultimate undoing. Aegon is considered Aegon the Great by all authorities save Faith of the Seven extremists, to whom he is Aegon the Bloody, and hardline Volantene nationalists, to whom he is simply "the Dragon". In gaining his epithets, however, Aegon had fostered a system of government that required a chief executive of uncommon ability, diligence, and statesmanship. His successors, in contrast to himself, were competent, average, and, finally, weak. Arguably, the weakness of Aegon's great-grandson Gaemon may have been exaggerated by the circumstances he found himself in, having taken the throne in the middle of a flare-up of sparrow-dominated domestic unrest, a financial crisis caused by the overstretching of the Treasury to pay for the First Great War, a storm of activism from Westerosi colonists in Essos demanding political concessions, and a failure of the wheat crop in the Upper Mander region; faced with such pressure, it is not surprising that he cracked. Gaemon's abdication, with no other Targaryen male heir than his notoriously unstable second cousin Aemond, sparked the Revolution and led to the establishment of the United Kingdoms of Westeros. Entropy notwithstanding, the fact that the Targaryen dynasty not only survived Aegon's reign but continued in power for another three generations is arguably the greatest testament to Aegon's ability as a ruler. His Grace, Aegon, the Sixth of His Name of House Targaryen, In the Sight of the Old Gods and the Light of the Seven, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men, and His Territories Beyond the Sea, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faiths, Shield of the Narrow Sea, and Hammer of the East, called the Great, died in 344 AC of a heart attack and is buried in King's Landing.

James Buchanan Barnes remains one of the greatest mystery men in recorded history. He never openly discussed his origins, the mechanism by which he sustained his prolonged youth remains an enigma, and his personal life is almost entirely opaque. This is largely accounted for by the fact that none of his personal papers seem to have survived; our primary sources about his life are limited to those records of him that are available in the Royal Archives, his (heavily-redacted and tantalizingly vague) personnel file in the Records of the Army of the North, and the accounts of people who knew him. Nothing about him, however, is quite as mysterious as his disappearance. In 399 AC, he left Winterfell in a hurry, having given away or destroyed his personal effects, submitted his resignation from House Stark's service, and requested only three Valyrian steel daggers as a retirement bonus. He was last seen at Castle Black; when he was asked about his destination he said merely, "North," before riding through the gate and out of recorded history. Needless to say, the rumors that he had uncovered evidence of the existence of the Others and gone north to fight them began to circulate within the sennight. Given that to this day there has been no recorded sighting of an Other since the Long Night, this must remain a myth. The belief that Barnes left behind a son must also, sadly, remain a myth; it cannot be reasonably expected that any child of such a notorious father would escape notice or discovery. The most persistent myth, however, and one this author is half-inclined to believe, is that the Winter Soldier lies somewhere beyond the Wall, ready to return when the North needs him most. It can be argued that this particular myth has no more substance to it than any other example of the "sleeping hero" motif, but such legends endure for a reason; the world is a confusing and terrifying place and the notion that one of history's greatest heroes is not, in fact, dead but merely awaiting the summons to return to duty, is uniquely comforting. . .

- Hell at Swinford by Beron Stark, published 1675 AC

Author's Note: Aaannd, cut! And that, people is a wrap for this story. It's been one hell of a ride from the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant to the Second War of the Three Daughters, and I cannot thank you enough, my faithful readers and reviewers, for sticking with this story and providing feedback.

I do not currently have any plans for a new story, so please, don't badger me for one. To quote Miracle Max, "Rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles." I have too much respect for writing as a craft to offer anything but a good product. Besides which, my mom is a published author; if she found out I was flooding the fanfiction market with low-quality work, I would never hear the end of it.

Now for the last fielding of reviews!

The armed forces: Thanks, mate!

lagoon childe: I'm afraid it isn't. However, there's nothing to stop you from writing it yourself!

Charles Ceasar: Thanks, mate!

Guest: Thanks, mate!

Guest: The mercenaries weren't hired by any of the Free Cities, they were hired by Viserys on the strength of promises of titles, land, and the plunder of a continent. None of the Free Cities would have been able to sustain such an army without beggaring themselves.

Guest: Yes, but the suppression of the sparrows was a political situation as much as it was a military one. And you might note that Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon were not in the expedition.

Guest: Thanks, mate!

Deification? Even worse!

Here you go, hope you enjoy!

HighValour: Thanks, mate!

Don't bring up Ramsay Snow; that mad dog deserves nothing but a painful death, a lonely grave, and disappearance into obscurity. Sorry if that seems a bit harsh, but I have a problem with characters whose only feature is their psychosis.

(In Dwayne Johnson as Maui voice) You're Welcome! (Back to regular voice) Something to that idea. Feel free to run with it.

Thank you all again for reading and reviewing, and I will see you all again when the next story idea takes my brain hostage. Until then, this is MarshalofMontival, signing off.

Cheers, all!