At the Tower of the Hand…
Arya Stark had been training by herself near the balcony; a year had passed since Syrio Forel returned to Braavos once he’d been paid for tutoring the 12-year-old Stark girl.
She moved and danced around, wielding her blade, Needle, with her left hand, spinning and twirling it in a fluid motion.
Being a water dancer had apparently been the thing Arya had excelled at.
She seemed to have matured since then, but Arya still remained adamant in wanting to find her own destiny instead of it being made for her.
Balancing on her tiptoes for hours at a time, chasing cats around to improve her agility and reflexes… Arya had grown even fiercer than she had before.
*SWISH!*
*SWOON!*
*SLASH!*
*THRUST!*
“Left, right, right,” Arya huffed, concentrating as she thrust and spun.
“Right, down, left, right, up, down, left.”
*THRUST!*
*SWISH!*
*SLASH!*
*SWISH!*
*THRUST!*
She was venting her frustrations in her movements.
War was going on around her, and she heard rumors of a massive fleet on its way to the capital.
Even though Arya couldn’t care less about what happened to those she hated, she remembered her sister Sansa and her father Eddard.
Arya couldn’t bring herself to hate them; she didn’t get along with Sansa, but Arya still didn’t wish anything bad to happen to her.
She loved her father, even though she had yearned for Eddard to let her be the person Arya knew she was.
Arya had even wanted to at least help her soon-to-be brother-in-law in any way possible despite any differences they had, but her father, Eddard, expressly forbade his youngest daughter from being actively involved in the defense of King’s Landing in any way possible.
She had protested being sidelined, but her father reminded her that Arya was still just a child; his child.
She didn’t want to disobey her father, but Arya reluctantly did as she was told.
She knew it was because her father loved her and her sister, but she still didn’t like sitting around doing nothing.
*THRUST!*
*SWIPE!*
*SWISH!*
“Right, left, right,” she panted.
“Left, down, right, up, left, right, up, down…”
*THRUST!*
Arya thrust forward and stabbed the training dummy in front of her, piercing it in the center of the chest.
Panting heavily, Arya pulled back and grabbed a rag to wipe the sweat from her brow.
Soon as she put Needle down, Arya’s mind slowly began to drift away.
In her daydreaming, Arya dreamt about being like the warrior queen Nymeria of the Rhoynar or a skinchanger with the ability to morph into a direwolf at will.
She missed Nymeria terribly, having to send her away to keep her safe from the Lannisters for mauling Joffrey’s arm at the Trident nearly a year ago.
She had heard gossip of a large wolf leading a pack around the Gods Eye that had no fear of men, and though she had at least hoped, Arya begrudgingly conceded that she might not see her old direwolf again.
*KNOCK!
KNOCK!
KNOCK!*
“Go away!” Arya shouted at the door.
“Arya, open the door.
We need to talk,” a voice called out.
‘Father!’ she recognized.
Arya crossed the room and opened the door for her father.
Eddard seemed more exhausted and tired, making the lines in his face more visible to show his age.
“May I come in?”
Arya nodded and then stepped aside, allowing Eddard entry.
“You’ve been practicing?”
“Every day.”
After a while, Eddard took notice of how labored Arya’s breathing was and how her hands slightly shook.
“You have a wildness in you, child.” ‘The wolf blood,’ your grandfather used to call it.
Your aunt Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon had more than a touch.
It brought them both to an early grave.”
Arya heard sadness in his voice; he did not often speak of his father or of the brother and sister who had died before she was born.
“Lyanna might have carried a sword if my lord father had allowed it.
You remind me of her sometimes.
You even look like her.”
“Aunt Lyanna was beautiful, wasn’t she?”
Eddard nodded.
“She was beautiful and willful and dead before her time.
Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?”
“Jon once told me to ‘stick them with the pointy end.
“But Syrio also told me that all men are made of water, and if you pierce them, then the water leaks out.”
“That is the essence of it, I suppose,” Eddard snorted back laughter.
Arya perched on the edge of her bed, sitting alongside her father.
“Why can’t I help?” she asked.
“I’ve gotten better—”
“Arya, my answer is still no.” Eddard shook his head.
“You are my daughter, and I will not allow any harm to come to you.
I understand you want to help, but you haven’t been to war as I have.
Twice I’ve had to fight in wars, and this one is no different.
You are too young to be burdened with all my cares.”
She hugged her knees against her chest, suddenly afraid.
“Let me tell you something about wolves, child.
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
Summer is the time for squabbles.
In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, and share our strengths.
So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm.
Septa Mordane is a good woman, Daveth is to be your brother by law, and Sansa… Sansa is your sister.
You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts.
You need her, as she needs you… and I need both of you, gods help me.”
He sounded so tired that it made Arya sad.
“I don’t hate Sansa,” she told him.
“Not truly.” It was only half a lie.
“I do not mean to frighten you, but neither will I lie to you.
We’re at war now.
We have enemies who mean us ill.
We cannot fight a war among ourselves.
This willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience… at home, these were only the summer games of a child.
Here and now, with winter soon upon us, that is a different matter.”
“I understand, Father,” Arya vowed.
She had never loved him so much as she did in that instant.
“I can be strong too.
I can be as strong as Robb.”
‘Robb…’ thought Eddard.
Last he heard of his eldest son and heir, King Daveth I reported to Lord Hand Eddard that Robb and his troops had successfully crossed the Twins with Lord Walder Frey’s levies in tow; they would soon be arriving at Riverrun to resupply before marching towards Harrenhal.
However, it seemed Robb’s expected arrival might be a bit delayed once word arrived that his maternal grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully, was bedridden due to a prolonged serious illness.
The day-to-day basis of ruling both Riverrun and the Riverlands was passed on to his son and heir, Edmure Tully.
“He’s on his way here,” he confessed.
Arya’s eyes widened in surprise.
“What?”
“The King asked me to pass word to Robb; he’s raised our banners to aid us in ending this war.
He’ll be here soon.”
“Robb’s… coming?” Arya couldn’t believe what she heard, but at the same time a smile crept upon her face.
Before any more could be said, a royal steward entered the room unannounced.
“Beg your pardon, my Lord Hand,” he said, “but I’m afraid His Grace has requested your presence in the throne room.”
“Did he say why?”
“He wouldn’t say, my Lord Hand.
All I know is he couldn’t summon you for anything unless it was absolutely important.
Here,” the steward said as he handed Eddard a letter.
It had to be about the war.
And what of this letter?
Eddard opened it and recognized the sigil of the Kingsguard waxed onto it.
“Leave us,” he commanded.
“Inform His Grace that I’ll be on my way shortly.”
“At once, my Lord Hand,” the steward obeyed and exited the room.
Eddard took a few moments to open the letter and read its content.
When he was finished, his face looked rather grim, and he turned to Arya.
“Find your sister,” he told his daughter.
“Have her brought here.”
“Father?” asked Arya.
“Now,” Eddard’s voice was sharp with impatience.
Arya felt startled for a moment, left speechless.
Something must be seriously wrong if he raised his voice to her like that.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Arya ran off to find Sansa.
Eddard looked at the paper yet again, recognizing the handwriting belonging to Ser Barristan Selmy.
“He’s been caught…”
At the Lannister main camp near the Westerland Reach border…
“They have my son,” Tywin Lannister said.
Over the past several days, Lannister troops had been fighting Reachmen soldiers day and night.
Tyrion, along with several of the hill tribesmen, had taken part in a few skirmishes as well—though the Imp was accidentally knocked unconscious by the swinging of Shagga’s club before even setting foot on the battlefield.
The Lannisters won a series of victories en route to Storm’s End, defeating capable soldiers from the rebel Tyrells and Renly Baratheon’s forces.
However, not long after, word reached Lord Tywin that his son Ser Jaime Lannister, who had been laying siege to Highgarden with 30,000 men, was ambushed and captured by Lord Randyll Tarly and his men, scattering the Kingslayer’s armies and forcing them to retreat.
Once the rebels heard they had captured the infamous Kingslayer, morale surged, and they left to assemble on the island of Tarth to sail to King’s Landing for their last-ditch, desperate attempt to end the war in their favor.
The generals gathered at the Lannister war camp were silent when Tywin read the scout’s report.
Tyrion took a sip of wine and said not a word, thinking of Jaime.
When he lifted his arm, pain shot through his elbow, reminding him of his own brief first taste of battle.
He loved his brother, but he would not have wanted to be with him in the northern Reach for all the gold in Casterly Rock.
“It seems we’ve sorely underestimated the military prowess and experience of Lord Randyll Tarly,” Tyrion said.
“The king was wise to warn us about him.”
“And yet Ser Jaime didn’t appear to take His Grace’s warnings seriously,” replied Ser Harys Swyft.
“What madness made him decide to split his men into three separate directions?
Surely he knew how vulnerable that would leave them?”
‘Better than you, you chinless craven,’ Tyrion thought.
Jaime might have lost Highgarden, but it angered him to hear his brother slandered by the likes of Swyft, a shameless lickspittle whose greatest accomplishment was marrying his equally chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, and thereby attaching himself to the Lannisters.
“I’ve heard his men were already set on marching back to the capital,” chimed in Lord Leo Lefford.
Ser Addam Marbrand joined in.
“Is it true about Renly’s fleet?”
Lord Tywin wove his fingers together under his chin.
Only his eyes moved as he listened.
His bristling golden side whiskers framed a face so still it might have been a mask, but Tyrion could see tiny beads of sweat dappling his father’s head.
“The pretender Renly Baratheon is said to be amassing the bulk of his remaining forces on Tarth, some 40,000 men,” Ser Kevan Lannister informed.
“Our scouts tell us that he intends to take them aboard the Redwyne Fleet to lay siege to King’s Landing under the command of Lord Paxter Redwyne and Ser Loras Tyrell.
Jaime captured him; his armies scattered.
It’s a catastrophe.
Perhaps we should sue for peace.”
‘Peace?’ Tyrion swirled his wine thoughtfully, took a deep breath, and hurled his empty cup to the floor.
*SHATTER!*
Nearly everyone in the room turned to look at Tyrion.
“There’s your peace.
Renly saw it as a chance for payback for having to endure so many humiliating defeats.
You’ll have an easier time drinking from that cup than you will convincing him to make peace now.
Renly’s been getting more and more desperate, and he’s bound to make one last mistake in the end.”
“I’m told the Tyrells are considering pulling out of the war.”
“And by doing so they would be leaving Renly Baratheon without any allies to call upon,” Ser Addam realized.
“Yes, I see.
We should seize the opportunity and strike now while we still have the chance.”
“No,” Leo shook his head.
“The first order of business is ransoming Ser Jaime.”
“First we must return to Casterly Rock to raise—”
“THEY HAVE MY SON!” roared Tywin, his voice cutting through the babble like a sword through suet.
“Get out.
All of you.”
Ever the soul of obedience, Tyrion rose to depart with the rest, but his father gave him a look.
“Not you.”
Tyrion eased himself back onto the bench, startled into speechlessness.
Reaching for a cup, his movements ceased when Tywin grabbed the pitcher.
His father offered his dwarfish son a cup whilst pouring one for himself.
Now Tyrion was surprised.
Lord Tywin seated himself.
“You were right about the Young Stag’s determination.
The Baratheons are rather headstrong in pursuing their goals, refusing to back down once their minds are made up…” His hand curled into a fist.
“He was right about this, though: Madness and stupidity are spreading like a plague.”
“Daveth’s not a boy anymore.
And I seem to recall he’s a very fast learner once he puts his mind to something.”
His father gave him a sharp look.
“I suppose we ought to be grateful that my grandson has Lannister blood running through his veins to help temper the famous Baratheon rage.
Our position remains quite strong thanks to our influence at court, you know.”
“And yet he’s called on us and those loyal to him to help defend the Red Keep against the Redwyne Fleet.
He seems to know where the rebels will land, where they’ll go, and how many there are.
If I know my nephew right, which I do, Daveth knows his limits.
He knows he’s outnumbered and will most likely put up a strong defense long enough to hold the city until reinforcements arrive.
Starks, Lannisters, Tullys… the Oathkeeper always gets what he wants in the end.”
“Yes, he does.
I always thought you were a stunted fool.
Perhaps I was wrong.”
“Half wrong.
What of Stannis?
He’s Robert’s younger brother, older than Renly.
How does he feel about Renly’s claim?”
“Stannis spent the first year building ships, hiring sellswords since leaving King’s Landing,” he gave an irritated shrug.
“Yet he remains mindful of his duties and sided with Daveth, granting us the necessary naval power to rival the Redwyne Fleet.”
“Yet if we abandon our position here, our backside will be left exposed to the Tyrells.”
“The Tyrells do not concern me, nor do I have any intention of exposing our weak spots.
Lord Mace doesn’t have a mind for warfare, but at least we gave him a moment of pause.
If enough pressure is applied, the Lord of Highgarden will sue for peace at the behest of the Queen of Thorns herself, which shouldn’t come as a surprise given how she rules the Reach from the shadows.
The rest of us will make for Harrenhal to rendezvous with the Stark vanguard in the morning.”
‘Seven hells,’ Tyrion swore thoughtfully.
He knew that the Lannisters and Starks were maintaining a truce, albeit a hostile if not uneasy one after the Oathkeeper himself intervened on Tyrion’s behalf when the Imp was taken by Lord Eddard’s wife Lady Catelyn Stark and was imprisoned at the Eyrie for over a year for allegedly poisoning Lord Jon Arryn and attempting to murder Catelyn’s young son Bran.
No doubt the tensions would increasingly rise when Stark and Lannister forces met face to face, and this time Daveth couldn’t intervene again.
“Your savages might relish a bit of rapine,” Tywin continued.
“Tell them they may ride with Vargo Hoat and plunder the neighboring villages in the Stormlands as they like; goods, stock, women—they may take what they want and burn the rest.”
“Telling Shagga and Timett how to pillage is like telling a rooster how to crow,” Tyrion commented, “but I should prefer to keep them with me.”
Uncouth and unruly they might be, yet the wildlings were his, and he trusted them more than any of his father’s men.
He was not about to hand them over.
“Then you had best learn to control them.
I will not have the city plundered.”
“The city?
What city?”
“King’s Landing.
And you will be going along with them.”
“To do what?”
“Advise the king, of course,” his father said curtly.
Tyrion hooted with laughter.
“My sweet sister might have a word or two to say about that!”
“Let Cersei protest all she likes; she knows that she cannot curb her son.
You will help Daveth and Ned Stark bring his mother and those false jackanapes on the council to heel, if need be.
And if you get so much as a whiff of treason from any of the rest, Baelish, Varys, Pycelle…”
“Heads, spikes, walls,” Tyrion finished; he knew.
“I see Daveth was not the only one to take a few lessons from me.”
“More than you know, Father.
But why not my uncle?
Why not anyone?
Why me?”
“You’re my son.”
Tyrion sat there, silent and still.
He wasn’t sure if it was either a compliment, an acknowledgment of the Imp’s contributions as a Lannister, or merely an insult.
Either way, the Imp said nothing as the shards of the broken cup crunched beneath his father’s heels as Lord Tywin crossed the room.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said.
“You will not take that new whore of yours to court.
Do you understand?”
Tyrion opened his mouth to say something but froze on the spot.
During his time in the Lannister camps, Tyrion became acquainted with a young woman from the Free City of Lorath named Shae, who arrived as a camp follower with the Lannister army.
Bronn, a sellsword in service of Tyrion, found Shae as per the Imp’s request.
Tyrion was charmed by the prostitute immediately when he first saw her.
What began as a brief customer and employer affair grew into love.
Finally, when Tywin left with most of his men to Harrenhal, Tyrion returned to his camp to spend one more night with Shae before leaving to return to King’s Landing.
Shae murmured in the tent sleepily and rolled toward Tyrion when he lay down on the featherbed.
He slid his hand under the blanket and cupped a soft breast, and her eyes opened.
“My lord,” Shae greeted with a drowsy smile.
When he felt Shae’s nipple stiffen, Tyrion kissed her.
“I have a mind to take you to King’s Landing, sweetling,” he whispered.
Elsewhere…
“Are you afraid, Onion Knight?” Melisandre asked Davos, who remained busy rowing both him and her ashore to a hidden cave near the Stormlands.
“Someone once told me the night is dark and full of terrors,” replied Davos.
“You’ve carried more unpleasant cargo in your time.
Are you a good man, Ser Davos Seaworth?”
“I’d say my parts are mixed, my lady.
Good and bad.”
“If half an onion is black with rot, it’s a rotten onion.
A man is good or he is evil.”
“And which are you?”
“Oh, good,” Melisandre answered.
“I’m a knight myself, of sorts, a champion of light and life.”
Davos rolled his eyes.
“Well, that must be very nice for you,” he said sarcastically.
The small boat carrying the two docked on the shoreline, with Davos pulling the boat to prevent it from being carried away by the tides, with only his lantern as a necessary tool in lighting the way as Melisandre lowered her hood.
“Do you love your wife?” she asked.
Davos began feeling uncomfortable.
“I do.”
“Yet you have known other women.”
“Don’t talk about my wife.”
“I’m not.
I’m talking about other women.
Like me, Ser Davos.
You want me.
You want to see what’s beneath this robe.
And you will.”
Both continued to venture into the cave, the end of it being sealed with a number of bars as dripping noises from within became more apparent with every step inward.
Davos shrugged at his new surroundings.
“Strange that this Lord of Light asks you to work in the shadows.”
“Shadows cannot live in the dark, Ser Davos.
They are servants of light, the children of fire.
And the brighter the flame, the darker they are.”
Davos felt a strange feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach as he hung the lantern onto the nearest hook to bring light into the cave.
Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead; instincts told Davos that something didn’t feel right.
Unnatural, it would seem.
“These weren’t here before.
They’ve barred the passage.”
“They can’t bar our passage,” Melisandre chuckled as she began disrobing.
Undoing the final strings, Melisandre tossed aside the red robe, revealing her enlarged, swollen stomach, showing Davos that she was very pregnant and ready to give birth.
“Gods protect us,” Davos gasped in horror about what was to happen next.
“There’s only one God, Ser Davos, and he only protects those who serve him.”
Melisandre sat on the ground as the lantern suddenly burned brighter and filled the darkened cave quickly, scaring Davos in the process.
She bathed in the light, and her stomach began to move, her muscles tensing up and pushing downwards.
*GASPS!*
*LAUGHS, GASPS!*
*MOANING!*
*MOANS!*
*SCREAMING!*
Melisandre fell into labor and pressed her chin down into her chest, her muscles repeatedly contracting to give birth.
Davos watched on in horror as he soon saw a shadow expelling itself from Melisandre’s body; it took the form of a hand and slowly pulled itself out.
Before long, the shadow took the form and physique of a man.
However, it was pure darkness.
A shadow demon had taken its form.
A magical creature or demon of darkness believed to be created by the Lord of Light, its worshipers and servants employ shadows to undertake dangerous missions on their behalf.
The exhausted red priestess smiled as she saw the creature both she and Stannis had made months ago appear in front of her before it vanished to take out its assigned target.
Davos, on the other hand, shook and trembled.
‘If this is what Lord Stannis believes in…’ thought Davos.
‘Then that means we’re all doomed.
I…
I have to warn the King!’