Riverlands
Seagard
Festivities were over, and the host had gathered itself, ready to march to Highgarden first and then to Sunspear.
They would enter Reach through Stoney Sept, taking keeps north of Highgarden, whether by surrender or Ei bringing down the castle walls and taking the garrison by force.
The fleet, as it had been prepared for the invasion of the Iron Islands, which had become unnecessary, had sailed for the western shores of Reach, led by Ian Tarth, accompanied by Kage and the Thunder Dragon.
The Shield Islands, the Arbor, and the Oldtown made up the bulk of the Reach's naval might, and her patchwork fleet would be easy prey for them. The puppets, however, would be more than enough to wipe out any opposition Lord Ian and the fleet faced.
After Highgarden fell, her next target was Oldtown and the Starry Sept. The Faith Militant would have to be dismantled. A decentralized force of religious fanatics that drew men from all regions of the continent, which could be called to war quickly by the High Septon and had legitimacy in the eyes of the people, was an entity she would not allow to exist.
The High Septon had proven how dangerous it could be by calling forty thousand men to fight, mostly commoners, but hundreds of knights as well.
Lucenor Hightower, the current High Septon, was waiting in the Starry Sept, and either both orders would be disbanded with the Faith taking oaths to disarm entirely, or Ei would eradicate them until there was nothing left to rise again.
—
Kingdom of the Reach
Shield Islands
For the Shield Islanders, seeing Ironborn ships near their shores was a regular thing. It did not happen every day, but often enough for them to be always ready for the reavers.
The fleet that had sailed past them to Weeping Town had given them quite the scare.
However, not seeing any Ironborn ships for close to a month meant two things. Either they were fighting someone else, such as the North, the Storm Kingdom, or the Kingdom of the Rock.
Or the reavers were preparing for an attack.
With the word that their fleet had sunk before even docking near Weeping Town, it was unlikely.
To see what the Ironborn were planning, the Shield Islands made a bold decision to send their fastest ship to Lannisport. The sailors would listen to the rumors, and if nothing of importance was discovered, sail around the Iron Islands to find out what the reavers were doing.
The dromon's journey to Lannisport was fast; its return, even more so.
Word was that the Iron Islands were devastated, with the only living thing to be found near its waters being monsters, sighted by the sailors, and not a single Ironborn vessel to be seen.
The reason?
Argella Durrandon had slain the Drowned God in single combat while carving the island of Pyke in half, and the enormous tidal wave caused by the death of a god had done the rest, drowning the Ironborn to the last person.
It would have been a reason for celebration to know that their ancient enemy had been sent to the deepest part of the seven hells, but one small issue had just made things worse.
King Mern's attack on the Storm Kingdom.
When House Chester had sent a ship to tell Highgarden of what had happened and to somehow convince King Mern to turn his host back, Lord Hugh Chester had discovered that it was too late.
Argella Durrandon had destroyed the seventy thousand strong host, along with their allies, the thirty thousand strong Dornish, and a part of the Red Mountains as well.
Hugh Chester, already old and ailing, had died of a seizure of the heart on the spot.
—
Highgarden
"We must surrender." Lady Aveline Florent, the queen's sister, advised. The Reachlords had gone to war, with every man that could hold a weapon following them, so assured of their success, only leaving their wives, sisters, and daughters behind.
With all of them dead, there simply weren't enough men of proper age to make choices, and the women had to shoulder the duty.
There were no screams of refusal or name-calling, for everyone was mourning someone: a father, a husband, or a brother.
"And be ruled by the Durrandons?" Alyra Hightower, the youngest, unwed daughter of Lord Manfred Hightower, had been brought to court following her father and brothers' departure with King Mern.
Her nephew, Addam's youngest son, was too young to take Oldown's seat, and she was left speaking for House Hightower.
Her words did not have any bite to them, as she was merely weighing her choices.
Ceryse Tarly, wife of the late Lord Tarly, who was now speaking for her last grandson since his mother had fallen ill, grunted an answer. "Would you rather die by their hand?"
"My queen, what do you wish to do?" Olyssia Fossoway asked. Much like Alyra Hightower, she too was a regent for her nephew.
Queen Merina, whose swollen eyes had been carefully hidden with powder, was silent. Her husband, Mern IX Gardner, and three sons, Edmund, Gawen, and Eldric, had fallen at war.
Eldric, who had gone to battle, was merely twenty-two years old, and she had begged her husband to reconsider it.
Mern merely laughed it off, saying there would be no battle to put him in danger.
Now, only her youngest, Martyn, was left, and she wasn't the only one.
"We will seek terms to retain our lives, seats, and honor." Merina saw no other way forward. There weren't enough men to wage war, much less anyone seasoned enough to command a host.
"If the Storm Queen refuses?" Someone with the power to destroy mountains and slay gods—a god herself if the rumors are to be believed—did not have any reason to accept anything less than total surrender.
Ceryse, too old to care anymore, gave the answer they were all too afraid to hear. "Then our choices will be between choosing a dignified death and living in whatever way she allows us to."
—
Kingdom of the North
Winterfell
The King in the North, Torrhen Stark, was worried.
The Ironborn attacks on his lands had ceased, and it wasn't because the reavers had suddenly desired peace.
No, it was because they were busy fighting the Storm Queen.
It did not explain why the Ironborn had disappeared entirely, so he sent Brandon, his baseborn brother, to see the state of their war against the Storm Kingdom.
It did not bode well for his brave brother, sometimes to the point of recklessness, to look so humbled.
"My king." Brandon knelt, his voice gruff and face weary beyond his years.
Torrhen waved his hand. "Brandon, get up; it's just the two of us."
His brother did as bidden, sitting on the chair, head still down.
"What happened? Were the Ironborn victorious?" If so, that would only add to their worries, because the Ironborn had one less enemy to fight.
Brandon shook his head, his thick brown locks covering his face. "The Ironborn are gone."
Torrhen raised an eyebrow, frowning. "Gone? What, did they find lands to settle and leave their islands?"
"Nay, as in, they are all dead." Brandon's grave face and tired eyes told the King in the North that his baseborn brother was not jesting.
"How is that possible?"
—
"What do you wish to do now?" Brandon asked his king and brother. He had spoken of his findings, from the destruction of Harrenhal to the current state of the Iron Islands and the sightings of the flying wyrm, one that had sunk a three hundred ship strong Ironborn fleet in defense of the Storm Kingdom.
Torrhen looked at Brandon for a brief moment before resuming his contemplation.
"How sure are you about the Drowned God?" The King in the North did not know which impossibility to not believe. That the Drowned God existed, or that Argella Durrandon had slain it in combat, quite easily no less.
Brandon rubbed his head, unsure what to say. "I did not see it with my eyes, but thousands claim it happened. Even if all of it is a hoax, one thing is certain. Argella Durrandon led a fleet against the Iron Islands, and now, only monsters roam there."
His choice to sail to the Iron Islands was a risk, but after hearing the people of Lannisport talk, Brandon knew there was no other choice but to see everything with his eyes.
"Have you seen any of them?"
"Aye. One jumped into our ship and ripped three sailors to pieces before I put my sword through its head. I have the corpse, if you wish to see it." The creature was human enough; it had two legs, arms, and a head, but that was where it ended. A bloated body as if it had drowned, covered in gray and green scales, claws sharp enough to cut through thick leather, and it smelled like rotten fish.
Bringing it to the North was nothing short of torture, but at least they had covered it in snow and ice, stopping the body from rotting anymore.
"Later." Torrhen had to see it to make a decision.
"What of Argella Durrandon? Is the Sorceress Queen a conqueror or someone defending her lands?" Perhaps this was the most important part, because with her might, conquering the Seven Kingdoms would be a simple affair, as if she were fighting against children.
Torrhen did not wish to imagine it.
"She took the Blackwater Bay lands, including Duskendale, but I can't tell you if she intends to set her sights on the North or not." Brandon had learned so much, yet it was nowhere near enough.
"Leave me, brother; I wish to think alone."
"As you command."
—
It has been a long time since Torrhen visited the godswood of Winterfell. Not that he was lacking in respect for the old gods, but he tended to journey a lot due to the Ironborn threat.
Torrhen sat beneath the weirwood tree, taking solace in its solemn face.
He did not know what to do.
There was no ancient wisdom his house could offer him, no precedent for the maester to cite, so he came to the old gods, seeking wisdom.
He had rarely done so before because the gods never answered.
Yet he had nowhere else to turn.
Closing his eyes, Torrhen prayed in silence and slowly fell into a state of sleep without realizing it.
The shouts and screams did not even faze him as the King in the North dreamt.
—
"What is happening to him?! One of you fuckers answer me now." Brandon screamed at the top of his lungs, which usually would have roused the dead, but Torrhen continued to sleep, eyes milky white, as the weirwood tree wrapped around him.
The healer, an old woman who had been the head healer of Winterfell for tens of years, shrunk before the furious brother of the king. "I—I can't say; this has never happened before."
"The old gods must be speaking to him." One of the men-at-arms muttered, prompting Brandon to turn to him with narrowed eyes. "How can you know that?"
"What else could it be?" The man looked hesitant, but his idea made sense, unfortunately.
"They better fucking hurry then." Brandon grumbled to himself. If his brother was actually speaking to the old gods, it could not be good.
Torrhen gasped, the sound of it startling the healer tending to him as the branches and roots released him.
Brandon lurched forward, helping his coughing brother up. "My king, are you well?"
"Aye." The King in the North gasped, still coughing.
"Healer, do something." Brandon demanded, and the old woman approached the king, but Torrhen held out his hand, stopping her.
"Stop. I am fine."
"Your Grace, what happened? We feared the worst." Brandon asked. The sight of their king had frightened and worried everyone.
"The old gods, they spoke to me."
Brandon swallowed the bile in his throat. "What did they say?"
There was no chance. This was a coincidence.
—
The Riverlands
Blackwood-Bracken Border
Ei had intentionally avoided visiting Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge because of their ruling houses.
Visiting one keep first would mean that its lord would boast to the other, causing more friction between houses Blackwood and Bracken.
It would have been impressive to know that there were two houses stubborn enough to keep a dispute alive over thousands of years, but long-term enmity between kingdoms, nobles, lords, and even the smallfolk was prevalent on this continent.
"As you both agreed before, I will place the border markers, dividing the land in half, equal in wealth and size. Any disagreements will be brought to me, and I will remind you again, if I hear a single word of a raid, or that the markers had been tampered with, you won't like what I'll do." Ei warned again. She had kept both hosts on each flank and away from one another, but their lords did not stop glaring at each other during the entire march.
Mertyn and Hoster bowed. She wasn't like the Storm Kings of old, who did not care about the dispute, or the Hoares, who simply used it as an opportunity to extract more tribute from both houses. "Aye, Your Grace."
"Excellent."
"Psst, let me handle this." Saiguu came in, nudging Ei with her elbow.
Curious to see what her friend had in mind, Ei allowed it. "If you wish."
Saiguu cracked her knuckles, grinning. She had rested well enough in Seagard, and marching with the host was easy, as she had been granted a spacious carriage to use.
The power of the Shade of Life, even though she had a sliver of it, was more than enough for this task.
Closing her eyes, Saiguu brought her palms together, focusing. The air shifted, and she slowly pointed her palms out before thrusting them forward, as if she had just pushed something.
The nobles watched, wary and a tad excited, though none would admit to it, waiting for something to happen. They all looked around, thinking she had failed or that they had missed it.
The fertile land split open in an instant, and four trees grew up in the blink of an eye, each one large enough to cast shadows on a hundred people, cutting the disputed lands in half.
Mertyn Bracken captured one of the falling petals, feeling it. He watched Lady Saiguu with awe.
This was no illusion; she had just created four never-before-seentrees, all with some hand movements.
Hoster Blackwood was feeling much the same.
With reddish-brown bark and whitish-pink petals, they were easily the most beautiful trees any lords had seen.
"These cherry blossoms are the markers. May peace reign from now on." Her Excellency may have worded it as a wish, but both sides knew it was an order.
Hoster and Mertyn would never be friends or even stand the sight of each other, but in that moment, both lords agreed that their ancient feud must end, here and now.
—
In the next chapter: