Sixth Moon, 108 AD (7 AC)
The Courtier
Court was no longer a wondrous place to Lady Marianne Vance. The once peaceful and idyllic Summerhall had become dour and grey, a specter of darkness and war looming overhead.
The attack on the Targaryen family had shocked the whole of the Riverlands, none more than the people of Summerhall itself. Enemy assassins had walked in their midst, drank their food, and slept in their inns. They had plotted and schemed against their royal house, and if the rumors were true, they had turned the very animals against them. Birds, rats, even the Targaryen children's own pets.
The royal family had refused to officially comment on what had happened all those months ago beyond saying that two attempts had been made on the lives of the royal throuple and their children. Yet their actions had almost seemed to confirm the rumors, they had ravaged the North with dragonfire and made new decrees clamping down on weirwood trees and skinchangers. It gave new life and certainty to the testimonies of some townspeople, guards, and servants about what had had happened that night.
Fear was rife in Summerhall now, and no one knew who to trust. The peers they had once interacted with could be spies or assassins in disguise, the animals around them could hide the mind of a skinchanger ready to kill. Paranoia had set in.
It did not help that the Dragonguard and Rangers were relentlessly rooting out any whispers of treason, hunting down spies and assassins wherever they could be found and enforcing strict rules to ensure security. Rumors were even being spread of a more secretive organization of spies in the shadows and Marianne still shuddered to even think of the stories of the so-called King's Eyes and what they would do to any who gave even the slightest inkling of treason.
The Targaryens refused to take any chances after their children had almost died but as a result all the joy in the court had been sucked out. There were no more feasts or balls, no more games or salons. They were no longer even allowed to freely roam the grounds of the castle without the guards watching them like hawks. And even if they were, what would even be the point?
All the princes and princesses had been shipped off to Dragonstone and their parents had returned to the frontlines. The whole reason court existed, that all of them attended it, was to gain the favor of House Targaryen and prove their loyalty and with them gone, it was like the sun had been removed and they the orbiters had been left adrift in the darkness.
And yet despite all of this, despite how grim court had become, her father still refused to let her and her mother return to Atranta. Her father and older brother had returned to Atranta by the order of the King and they had raised the levies and retinues of their family and marched into the Stormlands where they did battle alongside the King putting down the Stormlanders who had dared to try and invade their kingdom.
Atranta's lands were thus denuded of soldiers even if the garrison remained strong and with how close the castle was to the border with the Reach; her father did not want either her or her mother in danger should the Reach manage to send sorties into their domain.
For all its new grimness and all the fears of skinchangers still abound, Summerhall was still seen as safe by many and few in the court dared to leave and return home with the war ongoing. Rebellions were still rife in the Westerlands and Vale, the swamps of the Neck continued to burn, the King and his armies continued to conquer more territory in the Stormlands, and the Reach and Faith Militant continued to sortie at the Blackwater Rush.
Some septons had even snuck over the border and tried preaching against the Targaryens and their supposed sins in septs across the Riverlands only to get mobbed and killed by infuriated Rivermen. Yet it wasn't rage and loyalty that had fueled them alone but also the fear of reprisal.
The Dragon's Wroth, for all that it had been cheered, had shown even the devoted Riverlanders that the Targaryens were to be feared as much as loved and with the ongoing war against the Faith, none wished to give their rulers any reason to question their loyalty. More than ever before, the people of the Riverlands were abandoning the faith of their forefathers and turning to the Fourteen Flames or the other Essosi religions, or at the very least adhering as close as they could to the tenets of the Exceptionalist branch of the Faith in their kingdom.
Donations were no longer being given to septs, motherhouses, temples, or other religious bodies but instead used to fund supplies and equipment for the brave soldiers and levies fighting the war on all fronts. More and more men were being enlisted into the legions or levied as part of the auxiliaries, and those that remained would work with the women to produce essential goods for the war effort.
Even noble ladies like Marianne and her mother took part, with naught else to do in the dull and strict court, sewing blankets for the soldiers to keep warm in their cots at night and banners of three-headed dragons to bear when battle came so they might proudly declare their allegiance.
The Targaryens had called upon the Riverlands to prove their loyalty, their gratitude for being saved from the blackhearted Hoares and raised to new heights of peace and prosperity. And the Riverlands had answered, mobilized and united for one cause like never before in their history.
Marianne just hoped that House Targaryen did not forget her people's sacrifice at the hour of victory. That they remained true to themselves, to the goodness they held within them, and the promises they had made them.
The Conqueror, the Ruthless, the Witch-Queen, the Bloodstained Red Twins…The Riverlands had endured the cruel yoke of the Hoares, but they would not survive if those they loved as saviors betrayed them. She prayed to any god that might listen that Targaryens did not lose themselves in their grief and bloodlust and kept their cruelty aimed at their enemies and far away from the good and loyal people of the Riverlands.
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The Warg
It had taken them a month to escape the Riverlands, constantly hounded and chased by the Targaryens and their cavalry. With all of their bonds dead and their minds still too fractured and broken to make new ones, they had been as blind as normal men riding desperately north and trying to forage.
By the time they had recovered enough to take new animals and try and scout out their path, it was too late for them to try a different path. They had entered into the Neck hoping to find shelter and safety, unaware that the accursed Targaryens were burning the whole fucking place down.
He didn't know how, but the Targaryens had tracked down every single crannog in the Neck and destroyed them with their dragons and the fires that had caused spread. What they had thought would be safety had turned into a deathtrap. Even their new birds had shown them only fire in every direction and those of his nine surviving Wolf's Teeth that had hailed from the Neck wept at the scale of the devastation.
They didn't know how long the fires would burn they had told him. They could burn until a third, half, or even all of the Neck was gone and even if the fires stopped now, their people were gone. No more crannogmen, no more crannogs, and no more shelter for them. An entire culture of people wiped out by the abominable dragonlords for the crime of simply existing.
They hadn't been able to sleep soundly for so long, unable to find any safe and dry ground away from lizard lions or snakes or the approaching firestorms ravaging the Neck. They had struggled to forage and hunt for themselves without any safe bases and the local ecosystem in turmoil.
It had been two whole months before they had finally managed to escape the Neck, starving and sleep deprived, barely able to even walk, and the fire had been chasing them the whole time they had been in the swamps. So much fire.
But the nightmare had not ended with their escape from the Neck. Moat Cailin had been obliterated, and they soon found that it was not alone. They had learned the horrible truth from panicked travelers, eavesdropped on conversations and scouted with their birds, and spoken to whichever innkeepers were willing to take them in. The North had been ravaged like never before. The Dragon's Wroth they were calling it.
The eradication of the crannogmen and the fires in the Neck had simply been the encore. The Targaryens had destroyed countless castles that had stood since the Age of Heroes. Ryder's Mark, Flint's Finger, Widow's Watch, Oldcastle, and more. They had strategically targeted the castles and ports of White Harbor and Barrowton too, destroying all their fleets and shipyards. And worst of all, they had destroyed Winterfell.
Brandon hadn't wanted to believe it. He had refused to believe it. He would not believe Winterfell was gone until he saw it with his own eyes. But deep in his heart he had known the truth.
Final confirmation had come from the Three Sisters that his second nephew Rodrik had perished with the whole fleet and with Torrhen and his eldest nephew dead at the Twins, if it was true his last nephew Edwyle had died in Winterfell, then the male line of House Stark had been extinguished but for him and some cousins so distant they were not even deserving of the name.
By some miracle, his niece Alayne and her Manderly husband still lived. They had not been in the New Castle or Wolf's Den when the Targaryens had obliterated them, yet their claim was not recognized by many the North. Alayne was a woman and no woman had ever sat the Throne of Winter. Her husband was a Manderly, a Southron in all but name, a soft follower of the Faith of the Seven, and some were suspicious that most of White Harbor had been spared destruction by the vengeful Targaryens.
The North was falling into chaos. There had been too much destruction, too much loss, and with no clear heir to the throne, the unity that had long kept them strong had been broken. Alayne and the Manderlys tried in vain to assert their claim but with even White Harbor still crippled by the Wroth they were having difficulties.
The Karstarks, Boltons and other houses were making moves to try and press for the kingship themselves, Skagos and the mountain clans had withdrawn to their lands and refused to answer missives, and many smallfolk were fleeing from the destroyed or damaged holdfasts. Bandits now prowled the land, preying on these poor people and any unlucky travelers, many of them had even once been smallfolk themselves.
Yet despite all the damage, Brandon had pressed onwards, leading his remaining Wolf's Teeth almost desperately to Winterfell. He needed to see it for himself, only then could he truly understand what had to be done to save the North.
Everywhere they went, they found the results of the Wroth, they would find the burnt-out husks of holdfasts and castles, fires caused either by dragons or the savagery of their own people turned upon each other as the North descended into civil war and chaos.
Brandon had had enough of fire. Every night as he slept, the flames drew nearer, consuming everything in their path. First, they took his raven, Ebony. Then his direwolf Shadow. Then all of his kin and comrades that he had lost in the south. Even the damn cat would burn as he watched and then the Neck, White Harbor, Moat Cailin, Winterfell and all the North entire. And then he would wake in a fright, and find reality was no kinder.
When they finally reached Winterfell, Brandon felt his heart filled with a sudden fragile hope as he saw the banners of the running grey direwolf on white fields aflutter from ruined towers. Though the castle was a burnt out and utterly annihilated husk. The Stark banner still flew, despite all the rumors, Edwyle still lived! He was certain of it!
And then all his hope came crashing down when he saw the banners of the white sunburst on black beside the direwolf. In some cases, even quartered on the same banner.
"Karstark!" he growled.
Hope could be a cruel thing, and when you were given hope in such a dark hour only to have it taken away, rage was all that could follow.
They dared!? They dared to think that they were worthy heirs of his brother!!??
Something gave way inside Brandon then, and he would not understand what more of himself he had lost for many, many more years. His fury burned hotter than ever before, hotter than it had even against the Targaryens, almost like he took into himself all the fires that haunted his mind and made them his own.
Torrhen and all of his sons were dead. Alayne was too weak. Brandon was the last true scion of House Stark. He would save the North, he would reunify his people, and he would protect them and prepare for when the Targaryens inevitably returned.
And he would start, right here. By making these Karstark pretenders wish they had never been born for daring to think they could ever have any claim to Winterfell! His ancestors had destroyed the Greystarks, and he would do the same unto Karstark, Bolton, and anyone else that tried to stop him and hinder his mission.
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The Yellow Toad
Meria drummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair. A steady rhythm, the constant sound helped her to think, especially after she had lost her eyesight. Her son Nymor's words had given her much to consider.
"Are you… certain that this will be wise?" she asked him.
"Yes, Mother," Nymor answered, almost sounding exasperated.
She raised her eyebrow. "Oh? Getting frustrated with your mother now? Pray tell me Nymor, have you considered how we will go about convincing the Orphans of the Greenblood to help us? They've been quite stubborn about their refusal to integrate into our society, still clinging on to their antiquated ways and resenting us for trying to convince them to assimilate. Who is to say they even have any water magic left? It has been centuries since there have been any water witches or wizards and few if any texts survived."
"Is there any harm in trying?" Nymor asked her.
"You know what they will ask for," Meria rebuked.
"And is there any reason we cannot grant it?" he retorted.
"It has been the policy of House Martell ever since the days of the Red Princes to outlaw the speaking of the Rhoynish tongue and the practice of water magic. And you know what this was for, to ensure that the Rhoynar integrated into Dorne and mingled their ways and blood with its people Many abandoned Nymeria's cause and turned back and they were enslaved for it."
"And the Faith of the Seven looked askance upon water magic and the Red Princes agreed to keep the peace, yes, I know this Mother, but perhaps have you stopped to consider that the policy of House Martell is wrong? Are we not Nymeria's heirs? And yet we outlawed her culture and language, and for what? To appease a religion whose strictures we flout anyway with our paramours and other habits?"
"To ensure that Dorne remains united and the Rhoynar, Andals, and First Men mingled," Meria rebuked. "Dorne is still divided even to this day, with many great differences in culture and even complexion between those that live in the Red Mountains, compared to those that live along the banks of the Greenblood or dwell in the deserts. A common language, and a common religion, is necessary to keep the peace and ensure that these disparate groups can be one whole.
"You used to understand this Nymor. And yet now you are questioning something that was decided three hundred years ago, and for what? You would destabilize our realm in this time of crisis for the Orphans and water magic?
"You need to reassess your priorities my son. Volantis lays siege to Tyrosh as we speak, and whether they fail or succeed, the danger to Dorne has never been greater. We have no navy, and our attempts to build one have failed. Many of our merchant ships are being raided and the crews enslaved or pressed into service for either Volantis or its enemies. This is not the time to risk disunity or dissent in Dorne."
"There is already disunity," Nymor retorted. "Some houses fight for the Faith Militant while others raid the Marches even as we speak. It cannot get worse than that."
But Meria ignored him and continued. "The other idea you had to try recruiting shadowbinders or warlocks from Essos using the contacts from our port's red temples… it is somehow even worse. Do you honestly believe that we can trust any of these supposed sorcerers? Or that they aren't just mummers faking actual talent?"
"No. I had hoped for the Faceless Men but they rejected my request. The Braavosi have exclusively booked their services for use in the war against Volantis and the sacrifice they demanded to break that exclusivity and kill all eleven targets I wanted was… simply unthinkable. So shadowbinders, warlocks, and water mages are our only choice."
Meria hardly paid the rest of her son's words any heed, however. "You went behind my back to contact the Faceless Men?" she asked, outraged.
"Yes! Because you are so focused on Essos and so content to allow our vassals to do as they please that you overlook the true threat to Dorne Mother! It is not Volantis nor Tyrosh, nor Braavos or any of the other Free Cities, nor is it the Faith or our vassals getting uppity because we allow the Orphans the use of our ancestral language once again! It is the Targaryens! Them and their dragons!"
Meria shook her head. "The Targaryens are struggling to put down rebellions in their own realm or even protect their own children. They are no Valyria. They will break themselves against the Faith Militant before they can even hope to threaten Dorne."
"And we are no Garin the Great with his vast army and thousands of water mages either nor are we even Nymeria with ships to bear us hither to another land if need be. Dornishmen have already taken up arms against the Targaryens because you allowed our vassals to back the Faith Militant if they so pleased.
"What happens if the Targaryens see that as a provocation and attack our lands without invading as they did the North in the Dragon's Wroth? What happens when all of their children grow up and they bring the rest of the kingdoms to heel with eleven dragons and turn their full attention upon us?"
She scoffed. "Let them come. We will bring their dragons down from the sky as our Rhoynar ancestors did. We will put bounties on their heads and have them killed."
It was Nymor's turn to scoff now. "Do you honestly think it is as easy as saying that? Our ancestors brought down dragons with magic. The Starks almost killed the Targaryens with magic. We need magic, Mother, it is our only shield against dragonfire."
"Have you so little faith in our people Nymor? In our lands? Dorne is not like all the other kingdoms. The deserts and the mountains will be our shield. Let the Targaryens invade if they dare, let them have Sunspear and all the other castles if they must. I would like to see how they keep them."
"There are not enough hidden oases or sietches in the deserts and mountains to support all of our people! Even a portion would struggle to survive more than a few years once the supplies are exhausted. Thousands of our people would starve."
"So be it then. A million Dornish may die, but another million will still stand and fight on."
"And if there are no Dornish left? What then? You know what the Targaryens did to the Neck. How they found even the legendary moving castle of Greywater Watch and destroyed it and all the other crannogmen settlements. Do you think they cannot find our hidden oases and sietches if they could find the crannogs?"
Try as she might, Meria could not ignore the logic in her son's words. But age had made her stubborn, and she was not willing to hear them any further today.
"I will consider it," she said finally.
Nymor's voice was frustrated, desperate. "You always say that," he said before he walked away, his footsteps audible in the corridor as he left.
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Author's Note: Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Sorry it was late, I got sidetracked.
The Targaryens' actions have struck fear into the hearts of even their loyalists it seems. Hopefully they don't go too far like Maegor did and alienate even their allies. Brandon Snow has evidently snapped, stay tuned to see how that will play out!
And then we have Dorne. Everybody's favorite (sarcasm). Writing them was so difficult this chapter to be completely honest. Nothing about their successful resistance to the Targaryens in canon makes any iota of sense, nor does their whole I hate my own culture and outlawing Rhoynish language and culture policy. Just nothing makes sense about it at all. I was tearing my hair out trying to come up with even remotely sensible logic for it and I still don't know if I succeeded.
All of that just feeds into how almost hardcoded it is into Dorne and especially the Martells to be very fucking stupid and I just dislike them so much lol that writing Nymor actually being smart displeased me lmao arghhgghg. Omar convinced me to do it lol and I suppose it does make sense since Nymor was a little wiser than his mother Meria in canon (low fucking bar I know) and ITTL changes like the Dragon's Wroth on the Neck and more powerful Targaryens overall could stimulate even his low IQ Martell mind to come up with some new ideas but gahhhh lol it feels weird to me XD.
Lmk what y'all think of this chapter, your thoughts, comments, suggestions, and questions, and on what I've brought up in the author's note in the comments below or over on the Discord! https://discord.com/invite/NSEwuzpcWm