A/N: I suppose I best explain the nature of this fic before I get into it. This story as you may have guested from the title and summery, is about the War of the Ninepenny Kings. However we know so little of this era so I decided to fill in some of the blanks with my own ideas and OC's to help the story along, that said I'm trying to stay as accurate to the material as I can here.

Anyway, along with the usual disclaimer: I own nothing.

"You must go with along with the Prince and do everything he commands without question, be silent and obedient."

His father had once told him that on the day he sent his son off to work as a page for the Ebon Prince. Silent and Obedient. Petyr had repeated his father's words over and over in his head until it was engraved into his very soul, which was what had kept him alive for so long whilst serving as cupbearer for his master. But of course that was before his master the prince had begun to have frequent guests and bizarre meetings late at night when the world was shrouded in darkness, and it was one such meeting that Petyr now stood in attendance at, quietly waiting in the corner of the room keeping his eyes trained on the table in fear of being noticed by the guests, struggling to keep steady the jug of wine in his hand.

Unlike most of the Prince's usual gatherings which took place in the grand hall, the current meeting was held underground in an old wine cellar that had long since been converted into the Prince's most private study. The rounded table that currently held nine occupants had been put into the room less than a week ago and already took up much of the small room, however the lack of space did not seem to bother the Prince or his guests, in fact they had been too busy with their own business to comment on the locale or the servants, something Petyr was extremely thankful for.

"We've already conquered much of the Disputed lands and now with the black dragon's strength combined to ours there is little that can stop us from going further, many of us here think that Tyrosh would make a valuable target next." said the Prince mildly, as if he was discussing the weather.

The various members all murmured in agreement and Petyr watched as the corners of the Prince's mouth lifted into a slight smile. Petyr often wondered how a Summer Islander like the Prince could ever have risen so high, members of the household would whisper to each other that he had extorted gold from one of the Triachs of Volantis, or that he was the last descendant of some ancient noble House from the basilisk isles. Petyr assumed that he had gained power by simply being more savage than his political opponents.

Suddenly the tall blonde haired Volantian gestured for some wine and Petyr hurried over and refilled the man's cup with Myrish gold and then moved back into the corner away from the attention of the guests. After the Volantian took a small sip he looked over to the Prince with a deep frown. "How soon can we begin to destabilise the Tyroshi state?" he asked in a bored tone.

The Ebon Prince's smile seemed to broaden at that, like a cat who had found himself a very nice bird. "I already have agents currently sowing seeds of discontent within the masses….by the time we're ready to launch an assault the people will be begging us to kill their leaders, and place our dear friend Goldentongue in charge."

This seemed to please the Volantian and he sat back in his chair, giving a colourful man sitting to his left, no doubt Goldentongue, a slight nod before he looked down into his wine and begun nursing it slowly, as if savouring the taste, though whether it was the taste of gold or the taste of future victory Petyr did not know.

Petyr was snapped back to reality when one of the pirates sitting at the table-for he had to be a pirate with that eye patch- slammed his cup down on the table hard and threw a glare over in Petyr's direction. "You deaf boy? Bring me some wine before I take those idiotic eyes from your skull!" barked the pirate, sending spittle everywhere.

"Apologies Milord." muttered Petyr as he hurried over to fill the man's cup.

After a beat the guests returned to their mutterings and discussions about various other cities to attack after Tyrosh, someone suggested Norvos, while another lord proudly said that Braavos would make a fine conquest which was met with a heated discussion on whether or not they would be able to attack the city by sea or if they had to use the land passages. The debates kept going backwards and forwards between them until suddenly a large hooded figure violently stabbed a curved dagger into the table, getting the attention of everyone in the room and causing Petyr to spill some wine as he jerked back.

"Are you all forgetting the true prize? The throne that is rightfully mine?" growled a raspy voice from under the hood. The figure rose from his seat and cast an oppressive shadow over the whole table; he was gigantic, easily twice as large as any man Petyr had ever seen and it seemed like the cloak he was wearing was made up of various sheets stitched together to cover his abnormally large chest and torso. The other eight members said nothing and watched the hooded monster in stunned silence.

"My friends, a far greater prize awaits us…..one that was stolen from me and my forefathers, one that we can TAKE BACK!" he shouted, slamming his colossal fist into the oaken table, denting it slightly.

"Westeros." said Goldentongue, with a sardonic smile on his brightly coloured face. "A wondrous prospect, but how do you propose we beat your Targaryen kin?"

The hooded man merely inclined his head to an odd angle in Goldentongue's direction before answering in a surprisingly calm voice. "The same way we will give you a crown. First we will show the people the ugly side of their King and his lords, and then, when every man, woman and child from Dorne to the Wall scream for his blood…..we shall give it to them. We will wipe the line of Daeron from existence."

A hushed silence fell over the table then, and many of the lords looked from one to another as they absorbed the gravity of what their hulking ally had suggested. Petyr looked at each of their expressions, watching as they began to silently weigh the pros and cons of the idea.

The hooded figure then produced a scroll of parchment from his robes and flattened it on the middle of the table, showing a map of some foreign land full of writings that Petyr couldn't read or understand. The big man then pointed a mailed glove near the bottom of the land. "The bountiful lands of Reach" he then moved his finger "the rolling hills of Gold in the Westerlands, the beauty of the Trident…..I offer this all to you my friends, to you and your sons after you. All I ask is that you fight with me, in freeing the Seven Kingdoms from the bastard's rule."

Petyr could already see that the lords were finding the big man's offer more and more enticing as they visualized the Western continent. Finally the Ebon Prince stood from his seat and looked over the others. "You paint quite the picture Lord Blackfyre, and I think that there are none here who would be foolish enough to turn away such an offer, not after we've already accomplished so much with the aid of your Golden Company bolstering our ranks we can face any force…. all in favour?" he asked the others, each of them slowly grunting or murmuring in the affirmative. "Good….then I think that will be all for tonight, tomorrow begins the fall of Tyrosh!"

The Nine then all gave a bow to each other and slowly left the small room, and seeing his master leave Petyr made for the door too before feeling the rough mailed grip of the hooded man on his arm. With a slight growl the man looked down at Petyr from the darkness of his robe. "I knew you were starring boy, I always know when someone stares."

A wave of terror shot through Petyr like a jolt of lightening, and he quickly made to apologize. "Please forgive me milord I didn't mean nothing by it, I-"

"I am no mere lord boy, I am the King! The rightful King!" snarled the giant man before suddenly easing his grip on Petyr's arm. "But I suppose it's only right that you see the face of your new King." And in one swift motion he pulled back his hood.

Petyr slowly backed away as a terror began to overtake him from the sight that was standing before him; the man had a broad ugly face, with short silver hair and piercing lilac eyes that were aflame with malevolence as they looked down at him. But what truly frightened Petyr was the shape sticking out of the tall man's neck; grossly misshapen and small, sat another head, one that looked as if it were a child's. Its half formed face was locked in an expression of pain and misery.

The monster standing before him began to laugh then, a horrible sound that cut through Petyr's soul like a hot knife through butter and in that moment he was so certain of death that he dropped his wine jug and ran from the room as fast as he could, the mad laughter of Maelys the Monstrous following him.