Epilogue-The Stormlords’s Plight

There are many theories about King Jon Stark III’s mother. Some more outrageous claims propose that Jon Stark was the fruit of a sordid affair between Queen Rhaella Targaryen and Lord Eddard Stark, but offer no proof.

The Breaker himself claims not to know who his mother was, as Lord Eddard Stark passed away before he could tell him. Another popular theory is that his mother was the late Lady Ashara of House Dayne. While this theory was considered plausible since Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne were seen dancing during the Tourney of Harrenhal, it falls short as the Dayne beauty had given birth to a stillborn girl towards the end of the rebellion.

The difficulty of pinpointing Jon Stark’s mother is only further increased by the fact that he was first seen in Winterfell. By the time he ascended to the Winter Throne, two decades had passed since his birth, and most of Westeros had already been badly ravaged by years of war. According to Archmaester Perestan, the Northern Dragon’s mother is one of the many unnamed dragonseeds left as byblows of the House of the Dragon over the centuries. While no bastards were acknowledged after Daemon Blackfyre, House Targaryen continued siring them, and most left descendants of their own. Aerys himself was rumoured to have many a mistress—

Excerpt from ‘The Northern Dragon’ by Maester Yandel

308 AC

Lord Ralph Buckler, The North

The farmers diligently toiled over their fields beneath the pale sky. Golden stalks of wheat swayed in the breeze, stretching far as sight allowed, broken only by green hills where cattle grazed contentedly. Birdsong echoed in the air, completing the picture of peace and harmony.

There were four of them from the Stormlands here, with a retinue of two servants, squires, and a single cook.

Their group passed a mule cart being dragged through the muddy ditch. The old man guiding it barely spared them a glance. He did not bow nor quicken his pace—he simply passed them, slow as the turning of the seasons. It was as if none of them carried a sword or banner.

“All looks… peaceful,” said Ser Alyn Estermont, his voice laced with wonder. “No fleeing smallfolk, no shuttered windows. Even the merchants wear smiles and stroll like war never touched them.”

His face turned sombre, doubtlessly remembering the grim lawlessness back home. “Do you think the Queen will aid us?”

“She has to help us,” Lord Robert Fell insisted. “My cousin died for Stannis in the North. All of us here bled for her father’s claim. We raised our swords and all our Houses sacrificed much for Stannis and his crown.”

He cast a glance over his shoulder, ever wary. Caution came easily to those who still rode through the Stormlands, where the forests were full of outlaws, and the roads led oft to ambushes. Robbery was commonplace, and brigands rode out in broad daylight.

Ralph couldn’t truly fault his caution. The former royal domain and everything south of the Wendwater had turned into a half-lawless domain. Knights turned outlaw, some for coin, some for vengeance, others simply for bread. Lesser lords, too, ruined by war and the long winter, sold their swords to anyone who’d pay. When nobody would, they would turn their swords to their neighbours and passing merchants, acting no better than common outlaws. Three moons past, brigands had slain Lord Rosby on the road to Duskendale and stripped his corpse naked. Even in his own lands, it was hard to keep order with threats pressing on from every side.

“Spilling blood means little as of late,” muttered Ser Robin Massey, again tugging on his pale hair. “Lives are cheaper and death even more so. Stannis is dust and bone, even less loved in death than in life, and Shireen has nothing to do with his claim. They say she fled into the snow, half-dead, and it was not Stannis’s men or any Stormlander who saved her but the Demon of Winterfell.”

“You speak true,” Ralph murmured, voice heavy. “None of the lords swore fealty to her—she owes us nothing.”

“Aegon had us by the balls,” Robert spat.

And Strickland would still have them by the balls as well if their hostages hadn’t died from the winter cold or the spring sickness. In fact, the Essosi knight still held over a third of the Stormlords hostage; the ones here were just the fortunate to not be chained by their kin. Or unfortunate to have lost it. Ralph still mourned his nephew.

“As if it mattered. None of us expected Shireen to survive to adulthood, let alone mount a dragon and wed the King in the North. I concur. There is no duty nor any obligation binding her or us.”

“So what?” the young Fell lord sighed. “We’d gift Stark two kingdoms on a platter. I’ve yet to see a king turn down more land. Jon Stark has a dragon, and helping us would be easy, nearly effortless.”

“If you’re so eager for dragons, you might have tried claiming the beast nesting in Harrenhal,” Ser Alyn Estermont said with a snort. “If you succeeded, you could have put a crown on your head and called yourself king, and few would object.”

“I’m not mad enough to try,” Lord Robert Fell barked in laughter. “Hundreds of men died in the attempt. Last I heard, some poor sods from Lys got roasted, together with their horses.”

“Starks don’t care for the South,” Ser Robin said. “And you can put flowery words on it, but this would be no gift. He’d have to fight Strickland, the Tyroshi corsairs, the Dornish vultures, and who knows how many turncloaks.”

Ralph said nothing. None of them did. The kingdoms were all splintered, weakened by war and winter, and burdened by old grudges and new enemies; the Essosi had descended as soon as they had sensed weakness.

Alyn pointed ahead. “Are those Blackwood colours?”

The scarlet field, black ravens, and white tree were a well-known sight in the Seven Kingdoms. Half a dozen horsemen were riding down the path in their direction, heading the same way they were.

“Blackwood, aye,” said Massey. “I’ve seen them a dozen times before. They even came to one of the Storm’s End tourneys…”

“Strange, to see them this far north,” Lord Fell muttered.

Word from the Trident was sparse. King’s Landing was silent now, swallowed by the Jade Blight. The dragon roosting in Harrenhal scoured the land from the Gods Eye to the Trident, and few merchants dared brave Blackwater Bay or the Bay of Crabs—the eastern coasts were too full of pirates and slavers.

“I doubt they’d stay with Bracken ruling,” Ralph said. “The Blackwoods keep to the Old Gods and fought for the Young Wolf. The North would welcome them.”

They had stayed one night at Castle Cerwyn. Lady Cerwyn had spoken little, save to hint at marriage prospects—an unsubtle effort, coming from a plump woman past her childbearing years and a plain face that could charm only a hungry bear. As courteous as they had been in response, none of them had entertained the thought.

The horsemen neared swiftly, their mounts sure-footed on the hardened snow. Ralph recognised the man at their head, older with his mane gone fully grey now, but his face was unmistakable.

“Lord Tytos of the Blackwood!” he greeted. “Didn’t expect to meet you here, of all places.”

“Odd words coming from a Buckler in the North,” Tytos said back, but there was no bite in his words. “I am here now as a Lord of the North. But what brings Stormlanders like you all the way here?”

“We have come to see Winterfell,” Ralph answered vaguely.

Tytos raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Massey leaned in.

“How did you come north, my lord?”

“When Aegon raised Bracken as the Lord of the Trident, I packed my household and fled,” Tytos said bluntly. “Lord Mallister was generous enough to grant me passage on his ships, and the seas were kind. Jon Stark granted me the Stony Shore and enough coin to raise a castle to rival Raventree Hall.”

“That’s near a third the size of the Stormlands,” Ralph murmured, stunned.

“A generous gift,” Fell muttered, suspicion thick in his voice. “Even if the land is full of rocks and stone.”

“We were the last to strike the direwolf banner,” Blackwood replied, not rising to the bait. “The King remembers those who stood with his brother, and deemed my house worthy of a reward. The Stony Shore might be barred, but it is not without opportunity. But enough about me. I see you bring quite the retinue. Are you perhaps here to join Winterfell’s tourney?”

“And does the king host a tourney?” Estermont asked, incredulous. “I thought Northerners scorned such games.”

“They do,” Tytos said with a shrug. “But this is no tourney as the South knows it. No jousts—”

“No joust?”! Ser Alyn all but roared, and Ralph could shake his head. Still young and hot-headed.

“There’s archery.” Lord Fell scoffed, but Lord Blackwood continued unperturbed, “And other things, I suppose. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. If not for the tourney, what are you Stormlords doing far away from your marches and forests?”

The question was far firmer now. The Blackwood Lord looked at them with narrowed eyes, and his retinue numbered nearly two dozen warriors, all with their hands on their swords now.

The tight-lipped Stormlanders all looked at him. Years of adversity in the South had made them all cautious, but it would not do to come to blows before they even reached their destination.

“We’re here to request aid from the Stark King,” Ralph finally admitted. “Half the Stormlands is under the yoke of Strickland and his Golden company, and Essosi pirates ravage the Crownlands unopposed. We need someone to rally behind—someone who could lead us against all the scum and ambitious upstarts.”

“The Golden Company?” Tytos murmured. “I thought they were broken at the Golden Tooth.”

“Only some. Aegon had used most of them as outriders, garrison, and scouts, so plenty survived. That cunt Strickland had a good garrison in Storm’s End and managed to rally the company’s remaining commanders and the fleeing remnants.” Ralph’s face darkened. “He handed out a few smaller lordships to his captains, won the allegiance of the Marcher Lords by helping them beat away a Vulture King, and now almost fully subjugated the Rainwood and the Red Watch.”

“Tyroshi pirates have sacked Driftmark and have taken over Maidenpool and Dragonstone,” Ser Robin Massey continued, his jaw set tight.

His own home had been twice raided by pirates, who had been repelled at a heavy price.

The rage, reluctance, and indignity of being reduced to beggars at the mercy of strangers was etched across the face of every man here. Fear could be seen in their eyes—the very same fear Ralph felt—spiced with a hearty dose of desperation and reluctance. For the proud lords of the Stormlands and the Crownlands, it was a terrible blow to their ego to seek help, but they had come here to do it regardless.

Ralph clenched his seven-pointed pendant and muttered a prayer. “Do you think the King would be amenable to helping us?”

Lord Blackwood straightened up and carefully measured them with his dark eyes.

“I can’t speak in the name of His Grace, but—”

A roar so loud Ralph felt his soul shake interrupted Tytos, and all the horses shuffled, stomping about nervously. The neighing beasts soon froze on the spot, refusing to move no matter what they did.

Then, they saw it and froze in turn. From the north, an enormous figure loomed on the horizon, and a pair of gigantic wings the colour of sapphire parted clouds like the hands of a giant. Even from afar, its shadow blotted the sun.

The dragon wheeled around the sky, the sound of its wings beating against the wind like an enormous drum. Warm gusts of wind washed over them, reminding Ralph of the warm summer storms from Shipbreaker Bay. Then, the behemoth finally turned towards the wolfswood to the west, shrinking in the distance.

Ralph finally released the breath he had been holding, blinking as the dragon soared through the sky. It was real. Hearing of such a beast could hardly compare to seeing it or bearing the brunt of its monstrous presence.

“Fuck!” Lord Fell swore, face pale as snow.

“Larger than any ship I’ve seen,” said Estermont, eyes wide. “Even those grand Myrish carracks are smaller.”

The Lord of Bronzegate could still hear his heart thundering in his ears. His back was soaked with cold sweat. He felt small, insignificant, no more important than an ant.

So this was a dragon.

Even Ser Robin Massey looked shaken—his face was stony, but his fists holding the reins were shaking. “This must be as large as the Black Dread,” he said, voice mixed between disbelief and awe.

“Not yet,” Blackwood amended, voice unruffled from the dragon’s roar. “I’ve seen the skulls in the Red Keep while the Dragons still ruled, and Winter is less than half the size of the Black Dread.”

‘At least for now,’ remained unsaid, but Ralph still heard it.

Perhaps it was for the better. Nobody wanted to face the Black Dread reborn. Or the Northern Fury, as some had begun calling it.

“And Stannis’s daughter?” Robert prodded. “I heard she has mastered a dragon and flies with her husband.”

“Aye,” said Blackwood. “Her Grace rides Stromstrider, a mischievous dragon with purple scales. Her beast is slender and not nearly as monstrous in size.” Then, the smile on his face cooled, and something far more dangerous took its place. “And you better address Queen Shireen with respect, ser.”

The young Fell Lord spluttered, quickly giving an apology.

Ralph tried to halt the shaking in his hands, squeezing the reins, but it barely helped. He believed now. He believed all those tales about the Second Field of Fire and more. Atop Winter, Jon Stark was no less dangerous than the Conqueror.

So why, he wondered, had the Starks not taken the realm?

He had the claim—or Shireen Baratheon did. He had the strength to back it, yet made no move to do so.

“What manner of man is the King?” Ralph asked softly. “We have heard too much hearsay that it’s hard to separate the truth from the lies.”

“We would be indebted for any assistance you can lend us, Lord Blackwood,” Robert added solemnly.

Tytos turned north, eyes growing distant.

“There’s no need for favours,” he said slowly, tasting each word in his mouth. “His Grace is a fair man. Just and honest, but firm of hand against all those who wrong him. But he will suffer no fools, nor flatterers, nor liars. He hates them and their courtly games most of all. I cannot say if he would aid you, but just speak plainly and with respect, and you will be fine.”

Since the Conquest, the Red Faith has attempted many a time to gain a foothold in Westeros. Yet, despite House Targaryen’s love for fire and blood, the teaching of the Lord of the Light found little purchase for nearly three hundred years. The Demon of the Trident proved no different, as the man worshipped only wine and whores. Yet, things began to change with the King’s brother.

Melisandre of Asshai, also known as the Red Witch, was a priestess of R’hllor. She shadowed King Stannis Baratheon, and many rumours spread about her sorcerous ways that supposedly aided the King of the Narrow Sea. But by the end of the War of the Five Kings, Stannis was still defeated in the First Battle of Winterfell, slain by the Boltons.

The Red Witch survived and attached herself to the rising Jon Stark but found no support in the Northern Court, nor did her Lord of Fire and Shadow. The last time she was seen was in the Year 303 After the Conquest, travelling through the devastated Riverlands and preaching of her Red God to the smallfolk. While she mysteriously disappeared afterwards, her previous actions in Westeros could be felt for many years.

King Jonos Bracken ruthlessly crushed the fledgling faith of the Lord of Light in the Riverlands, but most of the population of Dragonstone had turned their worship to R’hllor, abandoning the light of the Seven. Not only did the Archon of Tyrosh continue holding the ancestral seat of the vanquished Targaryens, but he sent an official chapter of the Red God to build a red temple there—

Excerpt from ‘Treatise on the Red Faith in Westeros’ by Maester Yadrack

A few days later.

The tourney was indeed like nothing Ralph had seen before. While it did not have the traditional joust, many odd competitions looked surprisingly… intriguing. Even smallfolk and sellswords could sign up if they had the coin. Many did, as the entrance fee for most competitions was modest.

“Bah, who would ever compete in slinging?” Lord Robert Fell whinged as they watched half a dozen clansmen below compete. Slings swirled as the men tried to strike at dummies at seventy-five paces.

“You do know that one of these can crack your head open or knock you out even if you have a helmet, right?” Ralph asked. “A well-thrown rock might be just as devastating as a javelin or an axe. Even King Maekar died from a thrown rock under the walls of Starpike.”

The Fell Lord winced as one of the wooden targets was shattered by a slung rock, splinters flying everywhere.

While it was not a great spectacle of a royal tourney, he could appreciate the deadly simplicity of the men below.

“It’s been forever since I’ve seen a tourney,” Ser Robin Massey said, his voice full of longing. “Even if it isn’t a proper one. The crowd, the cheers, and the tension of the competition are still here. Stark probably takes some of the most skilled men in his employ.”

“How big is the reward anyway?” Ser Alyn Estermont drawled out. The knight still wasn’t happy about the absence of the joust, doubtlessly thinking the Northmen were half-savages for abandoning the sacred tradition of the tilt.

“The lowest is fifty dragons for the winner and fifteen for the runner-up,” Ralph said. “It goes up to two hundred for fisticuffs and archery for first place and sixty for second. And the melee’s prize is by far the biggest. Six thousand dragons for the winner and two thousand for the runner-up.”

Lord Fell whistled. Ralph could only recall one person who had been nearly as generous with the victor’s purse at tourneys. Even Viserys Targaryen, the king who had been famous for his balls and hunts and feasts, had rarely put such generous rewards.

“I’m signing up for the melee!” the Estermont knight declared, his earlier indignation completely forgotten.

“Are you sure, Estermont?” Robert Fell’s smile turned sly. “Last time there was a great tourney in the North, eighteen men died in the melee, and nearly twice as many were maimed.”

“Really?”

“Yes, the melee of Last Hearth, over a century past.”

“How would you ever know such a thing? I thought the Northmen didn’t host tourneys.”

“They do, if rarely.” Fell took a sip from his flask of mead and grunted with approval. “Most of them don’t get mentioned because they lack the pomp or the pull that the ones in the Andal kingdoms do. As for why I know, it’s simple—I once wagered with my cousin to memorise all the tourneys that had been held after the Conquest.”

The Estermont knight paled.

Ralph couldn’t help but look at the royal box where the King and the Queen would usually sit. Sadly, he could at most see their faces from his position unless they stood up. And that was all they managed to catch a glimpse of. Unlike the Targaryens and, later, the Baratheons of King’s Landing, the Northern Royals seemed to prefer to avoid parading their presence.

The days dragged on as their request for a meeting lingered in uncertainty. At least the tourney provided a source of entertainment, even if the games couldn’t soothe their anxiousness. Each day spent here in the North was a day that Strickland could consolidate his grasp over the Stormlands and tear at yet another lord or holdfast.

A short, stout man with a thick beard won the slinging, and the games of the day finished with a spear-throwing contest clinched by a young man wearing Mazin heraldry, with a Crowl coming second.

It was the fourth day when their request was approved. Just as they were returning to their lodgings at the Smoking Log after the games, a bull of a man met them at the tourney ground’s entrance.

His tabard depicted a grey stone on a green hill, the Flints of the Mountain, if Ralph remembered correctly, but that was hardly the most eye-catching detail.

No, while the young man was about six feet tall, his shoulders were nearly twice as wide as those of a normal man, and his arms and legs were bulging with muscle, reminding the Lord of Bronzegate of tree trunks. If anyone could have contested in strength with the Mountain That Rode, it would be the man in front of him.

“King Stark shall see you now, Sers,” the young man said, his deep voice rumbling as he beckoned to follow them. His sharp face was clean-shaven, yet his hair was a long, shaggy mane of dark locks.

They silently trailed after the Flint, who moved with surprisingly quiet steps for a man of his impressive stature.

The entrance to the royal box was guarded by two burly guardsmen clad in direwolf livery with chain and grey doublets peaking underneath. While slightly taller than the clansman leading the way, they looked like twigs he could snap at any time, compared to his broad frame.

“Your arms.” One of the guardsmen in question stiffly motioned to a small wooden stand on the side.

With a bit of grumbling from Lord Fell, they left all their weapons behind, including the hidden dagger in Estermont’s boot that was found in the search afterwards.

After a short climb on the oaken steps, Ralph and the rest finally found themselves face-to-face with the Northern King.

Ralph wouldn’t have thought him a king if not for the plain crown atop his brow. His silken doublet was plain and unadorned, with a single white wolf stitched on his collar. His belt had a dark bronze buckle, and his cloak was masterfully made but of cotton and linen.

While he was not as tall or broad as some Northmen, his presence alone filled the royal box, and the king’s sharp gaze pierced through the Lord of Bronzegate like a war lance.

For a moment, Ralph felt like all his secrets and inner thoughts had been laid bare before Jon Stark. The crown looked more like a band of dark metal than something a king would wear, but there was a majestic weight to it, a crushing presence that made it harder to breathe, as if a mountain was pressing on his chest. It made Ralph feel small, like an ant before a giant—

The king tilted his head. The spell was broken, and the Lord of Bronzegate remembered to breathe again.

Remembering his etiquette, he quickly bent the knee, followed by Massey, Estermont, and Fell, all looking pale and shaken.

“Rise.” Jon Stark’s voice was bland, bordering on boredom, but his face betrayed no feelings, and Ralph was not sure what to make of the man who managed to scream danger by simply lazily sitting on a wooden throne.

At last, he allowed himself to look around the royal box.

To the King’s left stood a young woman in a modest crown of pale bronze and sapphire—Queen Shireen Baratheon, beyond doubt. Yet she was fairer than Ralph Buckler had imagined the daughter of Stannis and Selyse could ever be. There was a trace of her father’s sharp, jutting jaw and her mother’s Florent ears there, but not as prominent as they had been in her childhood. Her hair was black as a raven’s wing, and her eyes were the same blue as her father’s and royal uncle’s. Her chest was so full that even a whore would turn green with envy, and the gilded bodice threatened to burst under its weight.

Calling Shireen Baratheon a beauty would be a lie. But calling her ugly was not true either.

Her face bore no sign of greyscale, only a pale silver scar across her left cheek and down her neck.

But Ralph had seen that grey, flaky flesh that many avoided like a leper. Even the best maesters of the Citadel had proven powerless before it, yet it was now gone.

Perhaps there was some truth in the whispers of Jon Stark’s mastery of the arcane.

On the King’s right sat a heavy man swaddled in a fine blue velvet doublet, upon which was stitched a golden trident — Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, and by the bronze hand pinned to his breast, clearly the King’s Hand.

Behind the Queen stood a woman in plain steel-grey plate, her face seamed with old scars and her expression as hard as boiled leather. A shieldmaiden from the mountains, by the look of her. And the Flint that led them here now stood behind the king.

But what drew their eyes was a stirring from the far end of the box.

All of them froze, even Ralph.

It was a white beast, taller than most men, yawning and stretching lazily. Ralph saw Lord Fell reach for a sword that was not at his belt. Ser Massey looked like he might faint. Even Estermont swallowed visibly. His own fingers twitched, eager for the shaft of a spear.

But there were no weapons here. None besides those that the Northerners themselves wielded.

“You have nothing to fear from Ghost, my lords,” said Queen Shireen, her voice soft and warm.

The direwolf padded to her side, and she scratched behind its ear as if it were nought but a young pup from a kennel. It sat beside her like a silent shadow, one red eye fixed on the men of the Stormlands.

But perhaps there was something to the queen’s words, something in her voice that Ralph made his unease fade.

“Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate. Lord Robert Fell of Felwood. Ser Robin Massey of Stonedance. Ser Alyn Estermont of Greenstone,” Lord Manderly said, listing their names without hurry. “Not names oft heard in the halls of Winterfell. What brings you here?”

They had agreed that Ralph would speak, as he was the oldest and highest in rank.

He stepped forward, bowed his head, and knelt once more.

“Your Grace,” he began, voice cracking in his throat. “Storm’s End lies in the hands of a cruel Essosi sellsword who acts like a bandit more than a lord. The pirates swarm the Narrow Sea. Slavers raid our shores. The Stormlands suffer, and no king heeds our cries. Yet many of us fought for your father. We come now, humbled, to seek aid from the North.”

“Rise, Lord of Bronzegate.” The warmth was gone from the queen’s voice. Her face had grown cold, and her eyes colder. “Aye, many lords swore oaths to Stannis Baratheon. But I remember well how few honoured them when he called. Ravens he sent, and envoys too, and it was Renly’s banner most of you followed. Where were you, then?”

Ralph cleared his throat. “To rise against one’s liege is treason, Your Grace…”

“And to spurn your king is not?” Her voice was edged now, sharp as Valyrian steel. “You speak of loyalty, yet none lifted a finger when my uncle declared himself on false claims, or when Joffrey the Ill-born took my father’s crown. To me, it seems your loyalty shifts with the wind. But it is of no matter. I have nought to do with it. I have left the bitter past behind, for I am now Shireen Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and the Queen of the North.”

Lord Fell stepped forward, face pinched. “Would you cast aside your own father and his name so easily?”

“The same father who would have burned me alive in the name of his Red God?” Her laugh was harsh and joyless. “Yes. A thousand times, yes. And not a soul raised their voice in protest. Not my mother, and certainly not the king’s men. After all, who would gainsay the king? Only a young squire with more fear of his father than anything else.”

Ralph clenched his fists. He had heard whispers, but never thought Stannis would be so mad or so desperate to try and burn his daughter alive. It was the vilest form of kinslaying! Hearing it from her lips chilled him to the bone.

Even his companions looked queasy and indignant.

Sighing, Ralph bowed his head.

“King Stannis was under the thrall of that Essosi woman, Your Grace,” he said softly. “She had a way of charming people with her honeyed words and sweet promises of future victory.”

“She burned many before me,” the queen admitted. “Yet when I fled into the wilderness, it was not the Lords of Storm’s End that sought to save me, nor the knights of the Stormlands. It was the old Onion Knight and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Men of the North.” Her hand found her husband’s. “I may have been born Baratheon, but I am Stark now.”

Ralph saw then the set of her jaw—the same stubborn cast worn by Robert, Renly, and Stannis alike. Claiming another name, she might be, but she was Baratheon down to the bone. There would be no moving her.

So he turned to her royal husband.

The King in the North sat unmoving, no different from a statue. His face gave away nothing, and his purple eyes looked like two bottomless pits threatening to drown him if he gazed for too long.

Ralph found himself unable to voice his thoughts.

Thankfully, the silence was broken by the overplump old man.

“What would you ask of His Grace?” Lord Manderly prompted with deceptive cheer.

“We are willing to swear fealty,” Ralph said. “To bend our knees and pledge lands and loyalty, as subjects to the King of Winter and the North. Our lines will answer to Winterfell in perpetuity in exchange for protection.”

“And what of Tommen Baratheon?” the Hand asked. “Was he not your liege after Joffrey?”

“That boy is no Baratheon!” Ser Alyn burst out. “He’s a Lannister bastard—”

“Alyn,” Ralph hissed.

The knight shrank back.

“Forgive Ser Alyn,” he said quickly. “But the truth remains—we are lords and knights without a liege. The Iron Throne is lost in that cursed ruin. Tommen has crowned himself in the West as a Lannister and the King of the Rock. But he cannot move to aid us even if he wants to, not as long as Tyrell watches from the Reach like a hawk and Bracken has not forgotten his hatred for all things Lannister. No help will come from Casterly Rock.”

Manderly opened his mouth, but it was the King who moved first.

Jon Stark reached to his right and drew a sword as long as a man and as black, with dark, smoky ripples of grey and dark blue. Valyrian steel.

“Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark.” The King’s voice was dispassionate; not even a hint of emotion leaked. “Few Houses in Westeros can claim to be as ancient as House Stark. Yet when Tywin Lannister decided to steal our ancestral sword for his own, nobody raised a word in protest. Nobody cared when the North was torn and ravaged by vain fools, foolish pirates, and greedy traitors. Many celebrated when House Stark was considered gone, cast into the pages of history. Yet now you come here, begging for my aid?”

The blade slid back into its scabbard and was left to rest by the king’s seat.

“King Stannis still came to aid the North,” the Lord of Bronzegate pointed out quietly.

“That much is true. And I’ve taken his daughter in return and made her my queen.” Shireen smiled faintly from the side. “But let us not fool ourselves, Lord Buckler. Stannis came to the North to regain his strength and refill his ranks with wildlings and Northmen, and his desire to aid the North came second. With the largest kingdom under his command, his chances of winning the Iron Throne would have soared. And regardless of all the help Stannis levied to the North, all of you were absent.”

“Your Grace.” Ralph knelt again, bowing his head deeply. His companions followed suit. “We still humbly beseech your aid. Our lands are at peril, and our smallfolk suffer.”

“Shameless,” he heard someone mutter, but he did not move.

“People suffer all the way from here to Asshai by the Shadow to the Sunset Sea,” the Stark king said flatly. “Many seek my help and would pay dearly to earn it. I’ve had requests and petitioners for aid coming all the way from the deserts of Dorne to the distant port city of Tolos. Yet if I were to answer only a third of them, I would spend my whole life with a sword at hand, flying from one battlefield to another and dealing with lickspittles and backstabbers who dare not face me on the field.”

The king’s voice thickened with disdain. “You are no different from them. In fact, you might be worse, for you come before me out of pride! Too proud to kneel to Strickland, who could defeat the pirates and slavers with the Stormlands united at his back. Essosi sellsword or not, but House Strickland was a noble House from around the Kingswood before its exile. So far, he’s been a better king than Joffrey the Ill-born, to whom you were sworn before. Nay, as Tommen said, the realm is shattered, and only the broken kingdoms remain.”

“House Stark has severed all obligations it had below the Neck. I will not fly south or meddle in your petty squabbles. You’re welcome to stay in the North as much as you wish, but expect no aid from me and mine.”

They were quickly ushered out of the royal box and ended up at the now-empty stands with their returned arms.

“Well,” the Lord of Felwood began with a long, drawn-out sigh. “We expected this already.”

“What now?” Ser Alyn asked bitterly. “I’m not going to kneel to fucking Strickland. Others take that bastard—he is a bloody Essosi copper-counter!”

“We could fight him,” said the young Fell Lord, palming the axe at his hip.

“With what swords?” Ralph snapped. “Your elder brother already died doing the very same thing. And Connington, Caron, and Morrigen fell with him. We came for help because we lack the strength to dislodge the pirates from Blackwater Bay, let alone kick Strickland out of Storm’s End.”

Their mood plummeted again, and unwillingness returned to their eyes.

Then Massey cleared his throat. “There is one more path.”

Ralph sighed. “Go on.”

“Garlan Tyrell has fifty thousand swords at his command.”

Estermont spat in the mud. “A Reachman? You’d trade one tyrant for another? Once the thorny roses root, we’ll never get rid of them!”

“Calm down, Alyn.” Ralph placed a hand on the younger knight’s shoulder. “Unless you have some better plan for us?”

For a hundred years, it seemed that Pentos would stay weak and in the shadow of the bastard daughter of Valyria.

The Braavosi had clipped the wings of Pentos after a series of wars, making many consider it the weakest Free City of them all despite its high walls and immense wealth. With harsh restrictions on the Pentoshi fleet, sellswords, and army, anyone could come and go from the city as they wished. Many Dothraki Khals loved to visit, extracting an easy tribute from the city’s magisters. But a century later, the Titan’s gaze to the south had grown lax. In 308 AC, Pentos began rebuilding its army and fleet openly, causing Braavos to levy a warning. Once it was ignored, a punitive fleet followed in its wake—

Excerpt from ‘The Decade of Blood’ by Archmaester Perestan