Grandmaester. A strange hour for a visit," she said, leaning back on her chair as Lady perked up by her side, sniffing the air. She could smell the trace of Spicemilk in the Grandmaester's fingers… had Pycelle been scraping the bottom of his stash? His addiction to the potent stimulant was a double edged sword, and quick to betrayal when consumption was cut.
"It is indeed, hm, Your Grace," he said, thick drops of sweat lining his crown, "I'm afraid this is a most urgent m-matter."
Her skin tingled, Lady's fur standing on edge as she realized Pycelle was undergoing withdrawal. His chain was being pulled. "Your hidden master has cut off your supply," she said, her smile relaxed as she stilled within and the shadows around the room leaned towards her. His Citadel patrons –whoever they were- were forcing him to do this. "This must be urgent, then," she said as Lady rose to her full, terrifying height.
Two masters, Joffrey had told her, one hiding under the shadow of the other. And she was certain it wasn't Tywin's orders Pycelle was following right now.
Pycelle turned even paler, blinking in shock, "You knew? How"- he shook his head -"No, no matter." He took a deep breath, regret creeping up his voice, "I didn't want to. I really didn't- ah!" He held his temple with a trembling hand, "He wants to meet! He wants to meet you, Your Grace," he said as he tried to avoid Lady's gaze.
Meet? "If he wants to talk with me, he is more than welcome to do so," she said carefully, trying to pinpoint the wrongness creeping into the room.
Pycelle stuttered into silence as Lady growled and the shadows flickered. Sansa reared back in shock, the chair tumbling behind her as Pycelle clutched his head in pain. His moan was long and low, but when he straightened his eyes were as white as milk. "Well met, Queen Sansa," he said in an even tone, the shaking all but gone.
Sansa's question died in her throat, her mind open to the Second Sight as she saw beyond the Grandmaester. A mask and rod and ring, their pale surface reflecting Sansa's own face back at her with a burnished glint as a candle shined bright. They were made of Valyrian steel.
"Archmaester Marwyn," she said, "I should've known."
Pycelle bowed in admiration. "Your shadow trails long indeed. We've much to discuss, Your Grace," he said with a smile that was a
ll yellowed teeth.Interlude: Mance.
"I don't like this, Mance," said Harma the Dogshead. The leader of his vanguard looked at him, and Mance regarded her with an air of cool nonchalance.
"I don't like it either, but you saw that army with your own eyes. That is not a battle we can win. At least not well enough to survive the true war."
"Already weak at the knees, Harma?" said the Lord of Bones, who sat by his other side.
She leaned on the table, scoffing at him, "How well do you think that rattleshirt of yours will handle a steel halberd? Or a crossbow bolt for that matter?"
"We've got the numbers," he said. The bone armor that gave him his name crackled as he leaned forward and smiled, "Let the kneelers try and fight without their leaders. See how fast they kneel to us."
"Enough," said Mance, his voice clear within the confines of the tent. Both of them simmered down, though they didn't even deign to look at him. The Free Folk loved their pride like a treasured steel axe; it was the last thing they'd ever part with.
Styr, Magnar of the Thenn, roused himself from the bear pelt we wore like a second skin, bronze scale armor glinting softly by the early morning's light piercing the tent. "Let's hear what they have to say," he said, cunning eyes missing nothing.
The last member of their council chose that moment flick the tent flap. "Big plume of snow from the south. They're coming," said Tormund Giantsbane as he walked around the empty seats towards their side of the table. "Getting out the finery, eh Mance?" he said as he knocked on the wooden table.
"And what would you know of finery, Thunderfist?" said Mance.
His laughter was fit to shake a mountain, and he sat with aplomb by Harma's side. "Fair enough, but she won't be impressed. I reckon she shits around better than this," he said, tugging one of the elk hides on the ground.
Mance grunted a smile at that, though his belly felt rotten. They'd set out for this parley on neutral ground, Mance's own guards few in number as a show of trust. A handful of Free Folk were also inside the tent, standing behind his own council; confidants or lieutenants of what the southrons would've called his vassals, though the term would've meant little to all but the Thenns. Bronze armored captains, scar-covered hunt leaders, and village matriarchs half blind from age but filled with wisdom. Mance was not unaware of the ways of the South, and knew how to project a strong front of his own. He didn't doubt the southron contingent would be just as numerous, though probably a lot more polished.
Tis' a sad day when all the Free Folk have left is mummery, he thought as he gazed back at them, putting up grim faces and stern postures. To voice that aloud would've seen the tent descend into fratricide in an instant, though all knew this for truth.
He let out silent huff, steam drifting up through the hole at the top of the tent and joining the rest of the sharp morning breeze. He was about to gamble absolutely everything on this, and not exactly by choice. The sight of over thirty thousand armored pikes on the Wall had been enough to send a fifth of his host scrambling back north, and only unleashing the Thenns on the most hysterical offenders had prevented his host from evaporating like so much piss on the snow. Now Magnar Styr had almost as much of a say as all the others sitting on this table combined, excluding Mance himself. For now.
All he had truly left were these negotiations, trying to seem stronger than what he was.
I've dealt with worse hands. The thought had turned distressingly familiar since he'd amassed a host of Free Folk unseen in living memory, but he feared his luck was finally at its end.
And now comes the royal party, he thought as he heard a commotion outside. The rumors he'd gathered during his brief visit to Winterfell had been contradictory. If this southron queen were an overconfident brat -fit to give them lenient terms despite her incredibly strong position- such leadership would see them all dead come the true war. On the other hand, the kind of Queen they'd need to win said war would likely see the Free Folk so diminished and humiliated at this parley that a battle would turn inevitable and they would all be dead come next light. All without the Others lifting an arm.
In a word, Mance and his people were fucked either way. The rest was a matter of degrees.
The guards outside the tent erupted in murmurs, soon giving way to shouts of surprise as a long powerful howl overpowered the wind. A surprise attack? He'd deterred his own but never even thought the southrons would do the opposite, such was their advantage. Mance flinched as if struck by an arrow, something large churning against snow as a low running growl reverberated against his chest.
"Mance?" said Tormund, standing up as those inside the tent grew restless.
The tent flap flew open and a direwolf the size of a horse trotted over the elk hide, leaving muddy paw prints all over it before coming to a stop in front of the table. Mance was not the only one standing up, though his hand did not fly to his pommel as most others' did. "Stay your hand, Giantsbane!" he shouted, mind racing as he beheld the frightful beast with sharp looking fur. It has to be warged, there's no other way.
Tormund held back his long axe by a hair, growling back at the beast in its own tongue as Harma hefted her spear and the rest readied for battle. Amber eyes stared back unimpressed, bits of frost and dew clinging to its rich fur; an ethereal mantle that worked to give the direwolf a fierce but regal presence. Mance realized there was someone riding astride it.
"Hail, Free Folk," said the woman in chainmail and snowfox furs. A crown of sapphires mirrored her gaze, though they lacked the grey edge that hugged the inside of her eyes like a gathering storm. "What news from the marching dead?" she asked as the storm focused on Mance, voice ringing within the tent.
Mance's silver tongue did fly then, the King stunned as bard's instincts thrummed. "They move like mist down the Haunted Forest; scouts and raiders clearing a path for the might gathering up further north." Mance licked his lips, a drily surreal tang to them. This was not the way this was supposed to go. "The dead prepare for war."
The rider took a deep breath, furs and mail expanding lightly before she dipped her head at him, "Then I, Sansa Baratheon nee Stark, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and heiress of the Magnars of Winter, call upon the ancient pacts witnessed before Stone and Tree."
Magnar Styr whispered in the Old Tongue, hands shaking for the first time since Mance knew him. Could this be a trap? Why? For what? She knows, he realized. She knows.
"We've a war to win and your force is on the wrong side of the Wall, King Mance." She gave him a wolfish smile as knights armored in silver and maidens wrapped in furs entered the tent and clustered around her, lords of the North and senior members of the Night's Watch taking their respective seats at the table. Already gazes were locked, centuries of bad blood itching for a fight as an old man festooned with chains whispered up at the Leader of the South.
Queen Sansa Baratheon nee Stark seemed confident as she dismounted, her direwolf sitting back on its haunches as she passed a hand under its jaw, the dew sticking to her fingers. "I think it's high time we rectified that."
"I think so as well, Queen Sansa," said Mance, taking his own seat with all the apparent confidence of the Fat King at his feast.
And thus, the parley began.
Interlude: Lancel.
"You really think it might have been a Stannis sympathizer?" asked Lancel.
Lev shrugged, old eyes trawling the collapsed tunnel before centering back on the Legate. "Dis' were good ones'," he said, thumping one of the collapsed pillars that peeked out of the rubble with a gnarled hand. "Good logs, solid. One? Maybe'. Three?" He shook his head.
Lancel kneeled, grasping a glittering piece of obsidian with a gauntleted hand. It seemed to drink in the light of the torches, a piece of blackness in his hand. "Stannis wasn't well loved in Dragonstone," he said.
Lev seemed to shrug, though it was difficult to tell due to the stoop in the old man's shoulders. "Some love' him. Few, true." His eyes swept up, and he stretched a hand over a horizontal oak beam, "Wouldn't take many too many to 'llapse one of these." He gave it a good thunk, and Lancel winced as dust drifted down.
"If you say so," he said, blinking the dust away.
"Couple men with sa-us," said Lev, "Leave it shy a breath from breaking, 'thun run."
Lancel stood up, his Guardsmen escort giving the other miners a suspicious look. It was kind of comical, seeing them strain their necks within the confines of the tunnel.
"We'll have to suspend operations for the day. Maybe tomorrow too," said Lancel as they walked back. It was a crying shame; the next cog should reach Dragonstone tonight. "Centurion Karvert will interview your men before we open up this shaft again."
"Inter-whu, my Lord?" said Lev.
"Interrogate," said Centurion Karvert, crossing his barrel-shaped arms as the tunnel turned slimmer still, "And it's 'Legate' or 'Ser'."
"Ah," said Lev, "Don't touch the hands thun'. Man needs hands to 'pick."
"No one's getting tortured," said Lancel, huffing as the ascent took a toll on his knees, "I'd say it's fifty-fifty whether these idiots even made it out the tunnel before it collapsed." He almost tripped over a slanted, timbered step, but managed to recover with a groan and the steady hands of the centurion. "Assuming it wasn't an accident anyway." He'd been neglecting field duties here in Dragonstone, and it showed by the speed of his breath.
Damn my cousin and his plans. Olyvar and the others must be battling the wildling host right now… and Joffrey had dumped him on Dragonstone to oversee 'war-critical supply efforts'. Lancel didn't care how allergic the White Walkers were to dragonglass, but this was a job for a Tribune. And if it had to be a Legate, why not Renfred? Lancel knew the Legate from Duskendale would have loved overseeing this pack of miners and petty ship-captains, pouring over ledgers and optimizing supply chains. At least Jon's stuck in the south too. Training the Fourth Regiment from what he'd heard; the thought of him sharing his misery made Lancel smile. Perhaps they could both sneak back to King's Landing for a day or two, have a good time in Chataya's. He snorted. That will be the day.
The end of the tunnel loomed ahead, clear skies now hid by a grey sheen. His nose prickled. "Is that smoke?"
"I think it is, Ser," said Karvert. They shared a look, then quickened up the pace, mail clinking against half plate as their eyes narrowed and the sun beckoned them forth. If someone burnt the timbers by the entrance, they could trap them all underground in one fell swoop. But they'd have to get past the soldiers there, thought Lancel, running faster as the half-dozen Guardsmen with him picked up the pace as well, the miners not far behind as the tunnel shook lightly. It was the second time it did so.
They emerged into a fiery inferno, a stuttering scream cut short by the roar of a collapsing barracks. Mining Camp Four had been set ablaze in one fell swoop, fire leaping sideways from a streak of carbonized rock that started right in the middle of the camp and ate house and tent, ending as abruptly as it had begun.
"Seven Above," whispered Lancel, eyes drifting past the carbonized corpses of the Guardsmen by the entrance. Has the Dragonmont erupted? Lev began hollering for a 'wucket' chain as Lancel sprinted past the scattered, dead-eyed survivors of this hellish wasteland. He reached the edge of the retaining wall, and gazed down from the slopes of the volcano.
A dragon was flying low over the docks; a jade-green arrowhead setting a trail of destruction as it raked claws through the harbor. One of the cogs from the Royal Trading Company was trying to get away, but its sails had already caught aflame. It blazed right in the middle of the bay as the dragon swept away, the fires creeping into town as bells tolled.
"You!" said Lancel as he grabbed one of the shaking Guardsmen, eyes wide as the cries of the burning town reached him. Can't be the Keep's rookery; obvious target. Think! "Run to- run to the western lookout point and send a raven for the capital! Tell them we're under attack by a dragon and that Dragonstone burns! Go!"
The man gave a shaky nod before taking off, and Lancel cursed as he saw the green dragon take another pass at the town, right through the middle of a crowded plaza. This is slaughter, he thought, indiscriminate slaughter. Smoke was billowing out past the curve of the Dragonmont, to his east. He'd bet a hundred silver stags that Dragonstone Keep was burning once again.
"Watch out!" shouted Karvert, the Centurion plowing into him a second before a great dark thing raked the side of the still smoldering wooden barracks next to them. Its claws tore a huge chunk of it, scattering a rain of rubble before landing in the middle of the camp. A second dragon; a great black beast bigger than a small galley, a mess of spikes and scales and screeching hate. Lancel and the Guardsmen took cover behind the hot rubble from the barracks, the wind carrying smoke and the scent of burnt men up the slope.
The miners screamed, running like headless chickens down the road to town as the ethereal figure atop the black dragon gazed in their direction. One of the Guardsmen almost ran too, but Lancel slammed him down by the shoulder, "HOLD! Hold damn you!" he roared in the man's face, sweat lining his sides. They stayed in place, Joffrey's drills for Receive Artillery the only thing keeping them glued to the ground.
The green dragon swept from the skies, strafing the running miners with dragonfire, turning every last man into a living torch before they made it a hundred paces down the slope.
"If you run you're dead men," said Karvert, his voice like steel. "They're not taking prisoners."
Bless you, centurion, thought Lancel. The half-dozen Guardsmen shared grim looks as Lancel peaked over the rubble; he saw Old Lev slinking back into the mineshaft like an eel, and Lancel swallowed a bout of hysterical laughter at the sight of the old willow contorting down the hole. His lips ran thin as he gazed at the long-haired girl mounted atop the black dragon. She seemed to hold herself up with a sort of regal demeanor despite wearing half-torn rags, a wraith in the flesh.
The black beast pivoted in their direction, ponderous stomps shaking the earth itself as the green one landed behind them with a harsh impact. Half its bulk leered over the retaining wall, its line of attack clear of obstacles.
Dead, thought Lancel, blinking a hundred times in a single second, straining backwards and covering his face for what felt like infinity before he realized he was not on fire, the green devil content to hiss at them with foul breath that stank of rotten pig. "I know you're there. There's no use hiding," came the melodic voice from the other side of the rubble, a calm warning as serene as a herald proclaiming the next guest in the list to the feast.
Lancel shared a look with Karvert, his heart out of control as one of the Guardsmen peed himself under the green dragon's sharp gaze.
"We'll have one chance, ser," said the Centurion, voice thick through smoke and fear for all that he strained to hide it.
A ridiculously small chance, thought Lancel.
"One chance's all the Crown demands of us," he said, the words coming out of his mouth in a single breath. It sounded like something Joffrey would have said, and he felt oddly pleased with himself.
"Right you are, ser," said Karvert, looking at the other Guardsmen. "It's do or die now, boys. Don't drop your manhoods yet."
"We're with you, ser," squeaked one of the Guardsmen, crushing rubble with his hands.
"Well Guardsmen," said Lancel, coughing so his voice steadied, "You know our words." His small retinue looked terrified out of their minds, but he held each gaze with his own, steadying them with a half-smile, "Keep breathing. Wait for the signal," he said.
The green dragon snapped its maw two times in quick succession. "We're coming out!" Lancel hollered.
They walked over and then down mound of rubble, slowly making towards the black dragon with upraised hands. They hadn't carried halberds down the shaft, but he had his sword, and the Guardsmen still had handaxes on their belts… for all the good they'd do.
They must have been ten paces away before the black dragon hissed in warning and they jerked to a halt, the silver-haired girl appraising them with violet eyes. "You're a brave one," she said, her voice hollow, "What's your name?"
Lancel's guts clenched. There was no use lying, his golden hair made it futile. "Lancel Lannister," he quivered, but his voice grew stronger with each word, "Legate of the First Regiment, Royal Guard of Westeros-" he took another breath, the words tumbling out -"On the service of His Grace King Joffrey of the House Baratheon, Silver Lion, Commander of the Royal Guard, and rightful ruler of Westeros Undivided." He shouted the last, pride and fear and adrenaline flooding his being.
"I see," she said, her voice laced with the same hollow sadness as before, not a flicker of anger or fury marring her delicate features. Her dead eyes drifted down Lancel's body, "You reminded me of someone. A knight every bit as brave." Her smile was brittle, trying to reach her hollow eyes for half a breath before it gave up. Lancel felt pierced by that grey stare.
I'm going to die.
The certainty of the thought surprised him, even as its content did not. He breathed out harshly, marveled at the crystal-like clarity of its constitution. The last time he'd heard the Song like that, the skies had turned red.
She looked at them for a long moment, blinking slowly as the smile was swept away with the smoke and the screams of people burning alive beyond the slope, the gentle autumn breeze their emissary.
"We won't kneel," he said.
"It wouldn't have mattered," she whispered as her eyes drooped and came closed.
"I see." Lancel smiled, looking at the scorched ground for a moment. In an instant he was charging, arming sword in his hand, "How does the Guard die?!" he roared.
They would have bellowed the answer even if it hadn't been hammered every morning during training. They carried it like a banner, screamed it in abject terror and reckless pride both, hefted it with swords and handaxes in a mad dash aimed at the murderess mounted atop a monster. Companionship did strange things to a man.
"STANDING!!!" roared the Royal Guard of Westeros, as if a little forest of stakes awaited them on the other side just past the dragon, red ribbons tied to their ends. They almost reached the black beast before it opened its cavernous maw, a hurricane of fire enveloping them like a storm, an endless tide of searing red.