"How do you rate our chances?" Tyrion asked his niece.
"Quite good, uncle. My seven are coming along nicely, and I believe my top three can take any of their best." Myrcella gave a sharp nod in satisfaction. "My biggest concern is some sort of deceit from our resident Spider. We've cut him off from easy ways to weaken our participants, but I don't wish to underestimate him."
Tyrion saw the sense in that, but also felt Myrcella was being a bit paranoid.
"Deceit? From Varys? Why, next you'll warn me that sellswords aren't to be trusted!" he chuckled. "He can't try anything too obvious, or we'd just call the whole thing off. He's done the calculations, and they've opted against blatant treachery where they just kill us. No, I find the true danger is them refusing to abide by the results of the trial," Tyrion said morosely.
Myrcella nodded in agreement. "Yes, the costs of an outright betrayal are high for them, and they would rather not pay it, but if they have no choice – hmm, Margaery is difficult to read. Aegon, less so. I don't believe he would be party to treachery, which is why I fear Varys and his more subtle schemes." She gave him a smile. "And that is where you come in."
Tyrion grinned. "Yes, yes, I've already agreed. Arduous duty, but one I am well suited for!"
His niece shook her head in exasperation. "Enjoy yourself, uncle. Just remember they will all most like be loyal to Varys. I'm not sure he will approach, but I suspect he will."
"If only your sparrow friends knew you were sending your own kin into a den of iniquity!"
She grimaced, and Tyrion bid her farewell. He borrowed a few Gold Cloaks as an escort into the city. Nobody of interest should have an interest in harming him, but a wealthy lordling could still be ransomed by the desperate. He had other guards beyond just the Gold Cloaks regardless. By taking the city guard, if the Targaryen loyalists wished him harm, it would embarrass the King. And the whole point was to be seen.
They didn't travel far, and Tyrion had quite the enjoyable afternoon with two buxom lasses. The brothel he attended was known to be pricier than most; as a Lannister, only the best would do. Strangely enough, the prices were not as high as they would normally be.
Trying to curry favor with me, perhaps? I am Lady Myrcella's uncle.
Further thought was interrupted by the arrival of King Aegon's Master of Whisperers.
"Ah, Lord Varys! I had not thought you would be familiar with the inside of a brothel."
The eunuch smiled. "I am familiar with every corner of King's Landing."
"Ah, honesty, what refreshing vintage." Tyrion drained his cup. "Hmm, no, this is better still." He looked at Varys up and down, taking in the cloak that hid most features and the normal courtly clothing. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"Tyrion Lannister, the only surviving child of Tywin Lannister. By all rights, Casterly Rock should be yours. And yet, a different name is heard by my little birds. Tell me, Tyrion, did you know your father plans to disinherit you?" Varys asked.
I've known it for some time now; anyone with half a wit would know.
"I did not know you cared so much for my wellbeing," Tyrion replied.
Varys tittered. "I have always cared for future lords who have the cunning to rule wisely."
"After a good fuck and wine, a man often wishes to sleep. If you have a point, get to it," Tyrion said mildly.
"Wine? May as well be water – quite different from your usual desires," Varys said softly.
"Seven Hells, just get on with it. Yes, you are perceptive and disturbingly knowledgeable about my habits. Speak plainly – why are you here?"
Normally, Tyrion would have enjoyed the banter, but his niece had warned him off. Varys was a skilled dissembler, and every verbal joust was one the canny small council member would gain information from.
Varys drew himself up straighter. "Only to tell you this: King Aegon is more than willing to support your claim to Casterly Rock. You'll find him among the few of nobility who care not about your status as a dwarf. Along with Casterly Rock, the Queen has comely cousins, and other ladies from the Reach would be eager to wed the future Warden of the West and Paramount Lord of the Westerlands."
Tyrion cocked his head. "How generous – and what would they seek in return?"
"You are one of the few people Lady Myrcella will listen to. All that we wish is for this ugly matter to be resolved. In the event that the Trial of Seven is won by Aegon's seven, you simply need to convince Lady Myrcella to abide by it and not turn the streets of King's Landing into a charnel house." Varys' soft tone had become more vibrant as he spoke.
Tyrion laughed. "Wait, the bribe, this meeting, it was all to get me to convince her to abide by the Trial of Seven?" He laughed again. "Varys, Varys, Varys. My niece has no intention of losing. It is us that are worried that Aegon will not abide by the terms for the Trial of Seven. But if she were to lose, she has every intention to stand by her word."
He shook his head in humor. "What was her exact phrasing again? We must abide by our word, for if we do not, no rational person will trust us in the future. Something to that effect. It will also be a public trial; how can she retain the loyalty of the smallfolk if they see her violate her given word? You worry over shadows."
Varys seemed taken aback and was silent for several moments. "I know about the communication between her and the sparrows. And I know about the small army you've already brought into the walls of the city. She has power, a power that terrifies me, Tyrion. Power is a curious thing – I am curious about your thoughts on a particular riddle."
Tyrion motioned for him to continue. Was Varys putting on a show, or did he truly fear that Myrcella would lead an uprising after she lost the Trial of Seven?
"In a room sit three great men: a king, a priest, and a rich man with gold. Between them stands a sellsword, a little man of common birth and no great mind. Each of the great ones bids him slay the other two. Who lives and who dies?"
Tyrion shrugged. "It depends on the man. In this city, I suspect it will be the priest who lives!"
"And yet, the sellsword is no one," Varys said. "He has neither crown nor gold nor favor of the Gods, only a piece of pointed steel."
"That piece of steel is the power of life and death."
"Just so… yet if it is the swordsmen who rule us in truth, why do we pretend our Kings hold the power? Why should a strong man with a sword ever obey a wine-sodden oaf like Robert, or a boy like Tommen who has no proven virtues?"
"That is my nephew you are speaking of, and as to your question, it is because other men with swords do listen."
"Then it is those other swordsmen who rule in truth."
Tyrion just looked at Varys. "We could go back and forth for a time, but perhaps it is best for you to simply provide the answer you think I should come to."
"War has changed you," Varys said somberly.
Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "Aye, it has. I lost a brother and an uncle, both of whom I cared for. To the point."
"Here, then. Power resides where men believe it resides. No more and no less. And right now, nearly the entire damned city believes that power resides in Myrcella Baratheon, Storm Queen, the Maiden-made-flesh, and the embodiment of the Seven who are One. That is what I fear, Tyrion. This adder in the grass escaped my attention throughout her childhood. Somehow, she has carefully crafted this religious persona and at the same time trained her body to be as lethal as any knight. If you think such a careful schemer would allow power to slip her grasp, you are allowing family ties to blind you," Varys warned.
Tyrion mused the words he had just heard. Varys seemed almost terrified of his niece.
"And you tried to kill her."
"I did."
Tyrion blinked in surprise. "No denials? The King certainly has shielded you from censure unless there is evidence."
Varys shifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. "I am not speaking with a fool; you know the truth, as does Myrcella."
"I will speak with her and do all I can to encourage her to abide by the agreement. But I warn you – should there be some sort of treachery by your hand, I will also advise her to let the streets run with blood before allowing you to profit." Tyrion gave Varys a chilling smile. "And should we win, I suggest you leave the city posthaste, for she will kill you. Only the temporary truce prevents a knife from blossoming in your throat."
"We have an agreement then, Tyrion. Casterly Rock will be yours if Aegon's seven win."
Tyrion hesitated for a moment, but as the eunuch turned to go, he said, "Varys, know that I am not my niece. If our seven do win, I would have use for you. Myrcella has promised me a seat on the small council," Tyrion lied, "but I'm not sure if I would prefer Master of Coin or Master of Whisperers. If it is the latter, I would like to know your secrets. Your life and a good sum of gold in exchange for your assistance."
Varys looked back. "An intriguing offer; we shall see what results from the trial."
***
Despite her pregnancy, Margaery and her husband did not quit their bed sport. She had thought it amusing how Aegon, for all his surprising depth of knowledge on all manner of subjects, had been concerned for the babe in her swelling belly.
It appears Lord Connington didn't quite teach him everything. Though I suppose, given his proclivities, it was understandable.
After their mutual delight, they rested with her body curled to his. Her fingers on one hand played with the near-translucent hairs on Aegon's chest.
"Are you nervous, my love?" she asked.
"Somewhat. I have confidence in my Hand and the selections that have been made. Your brother certainly trounced me in the practice yard," he said with a laugh, indicating to her he felt no shame in his defeat, "and the twins' size is impressive." He took her hand in his. "I worry somewhat about our Dornish contingent. Ser Gerold is hungry for glory, and I suspect he will seek to showcase his skills as opposed to focusing on victory. Areo Hotah has a grand reputation but little experience in tournaments."
"My brother has said much the same; besting Dayne in the spar seems to have snapped him somewhat to his senses. The Darkstar does not want to be on the losing side, and the realization that he is not the greatest sword to walk the land has helped."
Aegon gave an appreciative hum. "Good, that's good. Griff, ah Jon, has said Lady Myrcella and Lord Tywin must be desperate given whom they have selected. The Bold has an injured leg, and being able to move around the battlefield is far more important than many think. They are also fielding a common sellsword, not even a knight!"
"I've heard stories of the Hound; only a deadly fighter would be chosen to be the King's sworn shield," Margaery warned.
"That's the one we're most worried about. He's almost as tall as the twins and is quick for a man of his size. The Stark heir is another; his reputation in the wars against the Lannisters makes him someone to be wary of. The others…" Aegon sat up a bit and gave a shrug. "Morrigan, Marbrand, and Rolland Storm are all good but not among the greatest in the realm."
Margaery hoped that was the case. She was worried over her brother; even in victory he could be wounded or killed. Aegon turned to her and lightly her in, and they kissed.
"We will win. The Targaryen dynasty has come again, and you will remain the Queen of Westeros. The real dilemmas will reveal themselves after our victory."
"Oh?"
"What to do with Myrcella. Connington suggests we send her back to Storm's End with strict orders to remain there. Varys suggests she should be allowed a small army and help the Reach fend off the Ironborn."
Margaery shook her head. "She should remain here."
"Why? Varys and my Hand both agree she should not be in King's Landing where she has access to crowds she could use against us," Aegon asked in confusion.
"It will prove difficult to use the people of King's Landing against you after she swears her obeisance. Lord Varys believes she is responsible, at least in part, for the military tactics the Stormlanders have used. If we truly fear her perfidy, it would be best to keep her close."
Aegon considered her words. She loved that about him.
"She is the Paramount Lady of the Stormlands; if she were to remain here, I would have to provide at least some reason, even if it be mummery."
"She is but ten-and-three; Lord Cortnay is her regent. To prepare her for the rulership of her domain at maturity, it would be wise to have her observe how a ruling lady operates. I will make her one of my ladies-in-waiting," Margaery said with a smile.
Aegon blinked. "Oh, Varys will have a fit! And I suspect so will Lady Myrcella. Her intelligence is evident, and from the way her Stormguard obey her, it is clear she is used to command."
"And she will be tempted to use that acumen if left unchecked. My grandmother doesn't trust the Old Lion. I believe Myrcella can be trusted, but if she is free from King's Landing and her grandfather convinces her, there is cause to break faith…" Margaery's voice trailed off.
"But if she is here, under our influence, he won't be able to sway her mind."
Margaery yawned. "Exactly, my love. Plus, by having her by my side in a role where she serves the Queen, it will reinforce the people's view of her. The swearing of oaths and a quick bending of knees can be forgotten months from now, but regular reminders that the 'blessed' Lady Myrcella serves the Queen of Westeros will degrade her ability to use the people as a weapon against us." Her voice had been serious but then grew lighter. "Plus, if I can truly befriend her, our rule will be that much more secure. She is different from my cousins and the other ladies of Highgarden, but I believe I can charm her."
"Of that," Aegon said with a grin, "I have no doubt."
***
Asha was still captain of a ship, but the loyalty of her men was dubious. Euron had spread the tale of her kinslaying, and Ser Harras Harlaw had confirmed it.
Fuck him too.
It had hurt, since he had been one of the most loyal members of her crew. He was a knight, and while murder and plundering were things his oaths seemingly allowed, kinslaying was something different.
I didn't have a choice!
He and the rest of her crew now looked at her with disdain. None would likely try to disobey or even plant a knife in her back – none wished to anger the Crow's Eye – but neither would they do much to help her if she needed it. Even now, they obeyed, but slowly. Neither did she dare to discipline them too harshly. It was a dire situation, and the rage she felt at the predicament had no good outlet.
The Shield Islands had been taken easily. Almost too easily – she suspected some foul sorcery was at work. That Red Priest with Euron filled her with dread. And now, they were nearing Oldtown. Her ship's task, alongside some dozen other ships, was to kill the captives they had taken when the signal was given. A great mass of bloodletting to start the invasion. The air reeked of a foulness she had never sensed before.
Refusal was never even considered. If she tried to flee on the vessel, her own crew would kill her. Her only hope was to try to escape during the fighting, but without a ship and without a crew? She might as well be dead. She would have no home to return to on the Iron Islands, and most of Westeros hated her people. Trapped and forced to help perform unholy rituals that would make her own kinslaying seem irrelevant.
The horn sounded. The wind howled. The throats cut.
Asha feared for the safety of the ship, but despite the rough waters and destructive gusts of fury, it remained unharmed, as did the other ships of the King of the Iron Isles. The storm surged and rushed into Old Town. As it passed, the sky grew brighter as the storm clouds moved past the armada.
She watched in horrified awe as the storm struck the harbor at Old Town. It tore the piers apart and ripped ships into kindling. Large vessels crashed together, smashing into the refuse of the docks, while smaller vessels were lifted and hurled into the city itself. She had never seen a storm act in this fashion. Her uncle's command over the storm made him invincible at sea.
Lightning tore through the sky, arcing in maddening directions. The storm descended upon the Hightower of Oldtown, with lightning striking at the tower – or more precisely, at its base.
Gods, what is it that I am witnessing?
The storm swirled around the tower and green flame erupted from the spire's top. The howling gale and mad sheets of lightning seemed to weaken for several seconds, and for a moment Asha thought it was over. But then a keening shriek issued from the Silence, and the unholy storm redoubled in strength. An earsplitting crack left her ears ringing and reverberating with pain. She saw some of her crew stumble and clutch at their heads.
The base of the tallest tower in the world had a jagged gap in it. Slowly, the tower began to keel to one side, and Asha braced herself as the massive structure tumbled into the water. The ripples spread in all directions; had the docks not already been destroyed, the massive surge of water would have done them in. Despite this, the waves calmed and dissipated as they approached the Iron Fleet.
"The Crow's Eye is not just a King; he's a God," Qarl spoke in reverent tones, much to Asha's disgust.
"The city will be paralyzed in shock, but they still have knights and men-at-arms who can rally. Let us not dally; there is plunder to be had and salt wives to take!" Asha commanded, and her men began rowing for the shore.
Make this lot content with women and gold, and mayhaps they'll shape up.
It was a thin branch to rest her hopes on, but it was all she had.
***
Lum was not fond of the cold, nor was he fond of what he had learned since coming to the North. The men of the Night's Watch and Jon Targaryen were not fools. Perhaps they were liars, but Lum did not believe them to be. Jasper agreed with him. The threat out there was real, and, in Lum's mind, this was fate. Why else would the Stranger take on human form? Or perhaps the Stranger had just given Myrcella a portion of their power. Lum didn't know – he wasn't that religious – but he did know that, of all the aspects of the Seven, it would be the Stranger who would be most offended by the dead rising.
He hadn't shared that thought with anyone, but it was all starting to make sense. It was almost enough to convince him that they had sufficient evidence to return south, but knowing Myrcella, she would want him to put eyes on the threat.
With the Wall's immense height was clearly visible even at this distance. Lum was riding in the main column on the road to the Wall from Winterfell when one of the outriders reported back in.
"Ser Lum, a group of the Night's Watch. They look as if they've faced battle recently."
"On this side of the Wall?" Jasper rumbled.
The scout nodded, and Lum gave the command to keep swords sheathed and the twin banners raised high – one for truce and the other bearing the stag of House Baratheon. They had sent word ahead, both prior to their ride north and once at Winterfell. Still, it was best not to take chances.
The Night's Watch proved to not be hostile, and three approached them. The lead man was lean and rode high on the saddle. A shallow, day-old cut across his cheek gave truth to the scout's assessment.
"I am Ser Lum Weiss, and this is Ser Jasper Storm. We have the Lord Commander's permission to come to the Wall and observe these 'Others' and the undead they command." Lum kept his voice steady, as an emissary of Lady Myrcella should.
"Well met. Unfortunately, you'll find more enemies of living flesh and blood than the Others," the man responded, spitting to the side. "The damned wildlings are eager to get south. Thousands have tried to scale the Wall between the manned castles. Most don't make it, but those that do need to be hunted, lest they take us in the rear." He grimaced. "I'm Qhorin, oft known as the Halfhand."
Lum frowned. "They scaled the Wall? Isn't it 1,000 feet high?"
"Almost," Qhorin replied, "but it can be done. Near impossible to guard the length of it with our manpower so low." The man scowled. "No, not near impossible, just impossible. We were on our way back to Castle Black. You are welcome to join us. The Lord Commander will wish to speak with you."
They would arrive there soon. Along the way, Lum questioned Qhorin to see if there were inconsistencies with Jon, Sam, and Melisandre's accounts of what had happened. There weren't. This further confirmed it in Lum's mind – this was the real deal. It made sense that, in the face of such monstrous danger, the wildlings would throw themselves at the Wall.
"Do you have the wildlings contained?"
"As best as we can tell. Other rangers have their own squads patrolling the Wall. The castles are fortifications themselves; they can resist attack from any attackers that have already climbed the Wall. What the wildlings are looking to do is distract us and potentially attack from the rear along with a main assault." Qhorin looked grim. "Mammoths and giants have been spotted, and their strength may be enough to breach the gates. If that happens, their numbers will overwhelm us, and most like all the North."
"How many do you judge?" Lum asked.
"A hundred thousand wildlings, but not all are fighters. Mind you, wildling women are almost as dangerous as the men – so don't think they aren't a threat either."
Lum and Jasper both laughed, at which one of the other members of the Night's Watch sneered.
"You southerners don't know the North. We'll see who's laughing when a pair of spearwives gut ya."
Lum struggled to contain his chuckle, while Jasper continued to belly laugh. He raised his hand. "It isn't like that. 'Tis a lark because we would be the last to ever underestimate a woman. Lady Myrcella and Lady Brienne are two of the most dangerous people alive." He shook his head. "They both fought in the Trial of Seven in the Stormlands and devastated their opponents. Your warning is heard and well taken."
Qhorin grunted. "We've heard some tales even upon the Wall. That would have been a sight to…"
A sonorous boom reverberated in the air and seemed to resonate from deep within the ground. Lum had never heard such a noise. It sounded like a horn, yet it was coming from the other side of the Wall, which they were still hours away from The ground shook, and he turned to Qhorin for an explanation.
"Something is wrong," Qhorin said as the horses began to neigh and pull at their reins.
The ground rumbled as the horn continued to sound, long past the time when a blower would need to take a breath. Lum gasped as sheets of snow and ice cascaded down from the Wall, barely visible like a falling haze or curtains in the distance. Sheets of snow and ice crashed to the ground, but the crashing sound was nothing compared to the cacophony the horn was now producing. His teeth chattered as a horrific crack resounded.
"Gods be good… look," Jasper said, voice horrified as he pointed toward the Wall.
With the crack, the massive structure began to move, slowly collapsing before their very eyes.
"No… the Lord Commander, my brothers…" Qhorin had a look of horror etched on his face.
Eventually, the wretched horn sound faded. But now the sound of the wall cracking, breaking, and crumbling to the earth was all that could be heard.
"We need to check for survivors before the wildlings…" Qhorin began, making to move towards the destruction.
Lum grabbed him by the arm. "Nothing could survive that; you know it. There are few who know of the wildlings; your band may be the few dozen who can still give us knowledge. We must ride back to Last Hearth; you will be needed."
"What about the Others?" Jasper asked.
"We've heard from too many voices, who are all consistent, Jasper. There is also no time, and no Wall to protect Westeros. Lady Myrcella must be informed," Lum replied, voice urgent.
Qhorin joined them, as did the other members of the Night's Watch. Seeing the destruction, they must have known Lum was correct. The Wall's fall could not have left any survivors. It was a dispirited ride back south.
***
The day had dawned, and I was prepared for almost anything. The familiar sight of the jousting field, where tournaments and grand melees usually unfolded, stretched before me. Additional stands had been erected beyond the usual seating, and the place was more crowded than ever before. My champions were already on the field below, awaiting the High Septon's sermon – a speech I hoped would be brief. He wasn't a dreadful speaker, but neither could he be called great. The heat of summer had long since passed, but those around me perspired.
I was seated beside the ever-watchful Brienne, who hovered like a mother hen. As usual, knives were secreted about my person, though I wore the Valyrian steel dagger my grandfather had gifted me openly. My attire had a martial cut, complete with a leather cuirass. The powerful nobles and wealthy merchants had secured prime seating, but they were vastly outnumbered by the teeming throng of smallfolk surrounding the area, most of whom would scarcely catch a glimpse of the fight once it began.
Preparations were in place to counter any treachery. I was seated less than thirty feet from the royal couple. The three Kingsguard flanking them, along with a nearby score of Tyrell soldiers, would be useless if they dared renege on our agreement. By contrast, I had only Ser Brienne and Ser Perwyn at my side. Ser Perwyn's task was clear: to ensure my uncle's safety if things took a turn for the worse.
At least he seems to be getting along well with Grey Wind. I can't fault Tyrion's courage; the wolf is now many times his size!
Robb had voiced concerns about how Grey Wind might behave during the fighting. At times, I wondered if the wolf was more trouble than he was worth. Still, I couldn't help wishing for one of my own – a formidable tool for sniffing out any… returned individuals or clandestine sorcery users. Robb had mentioned that the Stark wolves had shown suspicion toward Melisandre as well. From what I could tell, they were batting three for three: with me, with Melisandre, and with the Hound. That was enough to convince me of their ability to sense magic.
As a precaution, I had Grey Wind muzzled, though a quick-release mechanism was in place in case battle became necessary. The creature had been growling all day, making Tyrion's unbothered petting and fussing over him all the more remarkable.
Beyond my Stormguard and Grey Wind, I had two other resources at my disposal. The sparrows moved through the throng surrounding the tournament grounds, blending in with the restless crowd. While I had a handful of my own men among the spectators, the bulk of my forces were stationed near the King's Gate, poised to strike from within if the need arose.
Aegon had upwards of five hundred Gold Cloaks maintaining order here at the tourney grounds, bolstered by thousands of Reach and Dornish soldiers camped nearby. If treachery was in the air, things would escalate quickly. The sparrows, for all their zeal, would crumble under a charge of knights—and I had no doubt Connington had fully-armored knights at the ready, prepared to act at the slightest provocation.
"Others fuck me bloody – those two are bigger than the Hound!" Tyrion exclaimed.
I had seen the twins before; they towered over the other combatants. Neither had any history in tourneys, making them an unpredictable element. Now that they stood visible, I noted the massive swords they carried – larger even than a typical two-hander. Their plate armor was thicker than most, offering formidable protection, but at a cost. They would be difficult to bring down, yet their stamina would wane faster. Even now, I was certain Barristan and Robb were assessing them as low-priority targets. Easier prey abounded, and the twins' combat effectiveness would dwindle as the fight wore on.
Garlan Tyrell and Jon Connington were each armed with blade and shield, while Daemon Sand paired his shield with a hammer. Areo Hotah stood apart with his long axe, the only one on their side not clad in proper plate armor. Gerold Dayne wielded a sword without a shield, his lithe frame marking him as a Bronn-type fighter in my estimation.
For my own side, my greatest concern was Bronn. His lighter armor offered him little protection compared to the rest of my seven, all properly equipped with plate. Barristan carried Tidebreaker, lent to him by Brienne specifically for this battle. Robb wielded his favored two-handed blade, while Sandor, Rolland, and Addam had chosen hammer and shield. Hammers lacked the versatility of swords but were far superior when combating armored knights. I particularly approved of Guyard's choice of a halberd. He was a critical part of our squad tactics, his weapon ideal for tripping up a nearby opponent and creating openings for the rest.
"The bigger they are, the harder they fall," I quoted from my first life.
"Ah, another advantage to being our size then," Tyrion quipped back, trying to cover his unease.
"Our size? I've already surpassed you," I said, keeping my tone light, hoping it would ease Brienne's clear tension.
Tyrion laughed, but it was nervous rather than jovial. The chance of dying in these stands was real.
"No more wine, uncle. You may need your wits about you soon."
Tyrion mumbled something, pitched so I couldn't hear it, and I graced him with a smile. The obese High Septon was finally finishing. Within minutes, the Trial of Seven would begin.