An Arm of Iron-A Narrative Stannis AAR (GoT mod)

Victor227 said:

Say what you will about his parenting skills but there's no one in Westeros who can brag they've gotten one up on Randyll Tarly in a war.

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Speaking of the Tarlys, I recently played a game as them. It ended rather abruptly when King Samwell (yes, that Samwell) was slain in personal combat with Grand Maester Drogo (yes, that Drogo) after he was captured fighting a war to install Daenerys on the throne. Also, you can expect a Loras update shortly.

The tall, fat man with the pronged beard looked Loras over. He felt his arms, his hair, and even forced him to open his mouth so he could get a look at the teeth. "This one is weak," he said in a heavy accent. "I will give you two-hundred for him."

Uthar looked aghast. "That's a knight of Westeros! He's got to be worth at least four-hundred. He'll do well in the fighting pits, I promise you."

The slave trader looked over Loras once again. "Three-hundred, no more."

"Done," Uthar said, and instantly Loras was hauled onto the slave trader's ship. They had arrived at a prearranged meeting place on a soggy beach somewhere, although Loras had long ago lost his sense of where he was in Westeros. They could be as far north as the Neck for all he knew. The slaver ship was a gaudy thing, full of gaudy men with gaudy clothes. They reminded Loras of knights at tourneys; all pomp and show. One by one the slaves were brought before the "Wise Master" (that was what his fellows called him), stripped down to a loincloth, inspected, and a price negotiated. Slowly Uthar was filling several chests full of gold. All of Uthar's men, even the ones that didn't usually travel with the group, had met there as well.

The Kingslayer was next. It only took a few moments for them to settle on a price of four-hundred and fifty. Lannister gave Loras a sly smile, as if a slaver paying more for him actually meant anything. He was the last to be sold, and the Wise Master filled Uthar's last chest with gold for him. Uthar smiled and bowed stiffly, then turned around to his men, around three dozen in all, and announced, "Each man take your share, and no more!" The ratty sellswords and brigands descended on the chests of gold, tearing each other apart to make sure they could get more gold than their fellows. Uthar took one chest, the largest, sat on it, and drew his dagger, and no man approached him.

The sailors ignored the scramble on the beach and made preparations to cast off. They were just about to do so when Solio called to them from the shore, his arms filled with gold. "Hey you!" he yelled, "How much for a trip to Tyrosh?"

The Wise Master glared at the small man. "We're not going to Tyrosh. We're going strait back to Yunkai. We have no supplies to stop at the Free Cities."

"I'll make it worth your while," Solio said, holding up his big pile of gold coins.

The Wise Master stared at Solio for a few moments. Loras could practically see the wheels turning in his head, measuring the costs and benefits. Finally his mouth twitched open and he asked, "Are you a great warror?"

Solio laughed, "You mistake me. I am a killer, not a warrior."

That coaxed a laugh from the Wise Master as well. "Yes, yes I think I will take you."

Solio ran on board the ship and the gangplank was pulled up behind him. The ship was practically already moving as he said, "Thank you, thank you. A thousand blessings on you, your children, and their children. And a few extra blessings for your bastards, as we all know they need a few more. Here is your pay." He dumped his entire share of the gold onto the deck. The Wise Master motioned for some of his servants to pick them up, and they did, although Loras saw many of them slipping a few pieces into their own pockets.

"Thank you for the gold Tyroshi," the Wise Master said, "I will keep it, although I intend for you to pay for your passage a different way. Red Rat! Blue Rat! Green Rat!" He moment later three men appeared on the deck. They were not dressed gaudy and rich like the rest of the Wise Master's men. They had plain dark grey armor, with featureless round shields and standard swords in their other hand. They wore helmets that were the same color as their armor, although it had a great spike on top. They had no facial hair, and possessed no sigil or sign of who they fought for, and had dead eyes that seemed to see through you. The Wise Master smiled. Now the ship was pushed away from the shore, and even if they could Uthar and his men wouldn't do anything. It was already speeding away into the ocean, where there was no escape.

Solio's eyes widened when he saw the warriors. "Those are..."

"Unsullied," the Wise Master finished. "Cost me much of my gold. But they have been worth it. I have no intention of stopping in Tyrosh. Either you put on chains and go with the other slaves, or I command my rats to open you up and spill out all your insides. I hope to get a good amount of money from you. You'll do well in the fighting pits I think."

Solio's mouth split into a big grin, showing his pointed teeth. "You are forgetting my third option Wise Master," he said.

The Wise Master smiled back, although it did not have the same effect. "What is that exactly Tyroshi?"

Solio laughed, in spite of everything. "I may very well decide to kill your Unsullied, kill every single one of your men, and then hang you from the bow of your own boat, to be beaten by waves until your skin flakes off."

The Wise Master laughed as well. "Kill him," he ordered the Unsullied.

The three massive men advanced on tiny Solio, but when they slashed at him he lept backward like a cat, avoiding their blows. Before they could slash again he charged at the one closest to him. At the last moment he dropped to his chest and slid between the man's legs, bowling the slave over then leaping to his feet in an instant. One of the normal sailors tried to stop him, drawing a sword. He lasted less than a second, as Solio swept his pointed nails across the man's throat, opening it, then grabbed the fellow's blade and deftly cut his head off. Freshly armed, Solio parried the next Unsullied who attacked him, then slipped through them as quick as a mouse.

Suddenly the small Tyroshi was standing over Loras. "You are a knight, yes?"

"Yes," Loras told him.

"Then fight like one," Solio said, bringing his blade down on Loras's chains. There was a screech of metal on metal, then somehow Loras could move again, his hands and legs were free. Solio had broken the chains in a single blow. Solio tossed the sword into Loras's hands, and then sped off again.

Loras shakily got to his feet, and was nearly knocked to the ground again as one of the Unsullied came for him. Loras barely got his sword up to parry. He was out of practice. With a series of quick, surgical strikes the Unsullied drove him back, laying a cut across Loras's cheek. With the spilling of blood, everything Loras had ever been taught about sword fighting came to him in one swift blow. Recover quickly from every blow, the master of arms at Highgarden told him as a little boy. Loras parried the Unsullied's next three thrusts without even thinking about it. Always take the initiative, the his teacher at Storm's End told him, as he fought next to Renly. He launched a flurry of blows in quick succession, all blocked by the Unsullied, but the last one only just. Control your enemy's central line, Renly himself told him during a tourney. He slashed a few more times, forcing the Unsullied to back up. Dan't look, see, Ser Vortimer Crane told him. Loras's eyes saw an opening, in the armpit of the Unsullied's armor. He drove his sword into the man, slicing through fabric and skin, bone and blood, until the sword forced his enemy's heart to stop beating.

Ser Loras ripped the blade from his enemy, seending a spray of blood across the ship's deck. He managed to take a quick look around. It was utter chaos. Solio had freed The Kingslayer as well, who was now battling another Unsullied. The third was on the deck, his throat slit open by Solio's claws, blood pouring across the deck. The Wise Master hid behind a wall of men, shouting as loud as he could, "Kill them! Kill them! Kill all of them!"

Loras slashed another man across the chest, sending him to the ground, screaming in pain. The next one lost his hand. The next was stabbed through the leg, then slashed across the throat. Lannister had killed the last Unsullied now, and the three rebels joined together, slicing apart the remainder of the Wise Master's crew. When they were done the ship's deck was slick with blood, dead and dying everywhere. Only the Wise Master remained, and Solio did exactly what he had threatened, ignoring the man's pleas and tying him to the bow and letting the crashing waves drown him

And just like that, the ship was theirs.

Victor227 said:

My first game with this mod was a Tarly one, Robert's Rebellion era. Some very interesting things happened! Wound up with Samwell inheriting the Iron Throne through elective succession, as well as the Reach too when his son with Margery Tyrell's died.

Some crazy things happen in this game!

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I know. What was great about the game this AAR is based on is that it remained fairly probable throughout, without the usual craziness like the Iron Throne switching hands every ten minutes.

Tyrion was brought out of his rememberings by the sent of the lemon cake being set in front of him. A lovely thing to be sure, honeyed bread, with golden lemon within. It was, as far as he knew, the last of it's kind left in King's Landing. After this, all left to eat would be bread and a variety of salted meat. Tyrion's stomach protested that the pastry was not already consumed. It lay there in front of him, past the cluster of papers and notes on his desk, beckoning him.

“That looks good,” Bronn came into his chambers, sweeping up the cake and consumed the cake in three bites. He licked his fingers and mumbled, “Rich too. I thought we were all out of lemons.”

Tyrion glared at him, wrath building in his empty stomach. “That was the last,” he said, “I had the cook make it especially for me. It was to be my reward for surviving the riot.”

“Well now it's my reward for stopping the riot,” Bronn said, smiling. “Took half the gold cloaks, but I finally managed to stop the city screaming bloody murder at you. Not to mention committing bloody murder. My advice is that you and your cunt of a nephew don't show your faces in Flea Bottom for a very long time. Never, actually.”

“Did you find Sansa?” Tyrion asked quickly.

“Nah, the dog did,” Bronn told him. “He carried her through the streets back to the keep. Both covered in blood. Luckily it wasn't their blood. She's safe and sound. Scared out of her mind, but safe and sound.”

Tyrion sighed with relief. “Remind me to thank him the next time I see him. From what I can tell he saved Joffery's life to.”

“Pity 'bout that,” Bronn noted, picking his teeth with the point of his dagger.

“Cersei wanted to go to the Great Sept of Baelor to pray, that's what started it,” Tyrion told him, glancing again at the maps and notes on his desk. “I should have never let her go, but soon Joffery was going, and Sansa, and Tommen, and then me.” He glanced up to see Bronn giving him a mocking grin. “I wasn't going to pray. I just wanted to make sure that Sansa and Tommen were safe.” He turned to the map of the underground passages. “Since Stannis sent half his army north to fight my father, I think we've got an opportunity to smuggle some fresh supplies into the city.”

“About time. Food is so scarce people in the slums are eating-”

“Rats,” Tyrion interrupted. “Yes, I know.”

Bronn shook his head and said, “Cockroaches. They make big stews out of them. Only merchants can afford rats anymore. They're going to be near extinct by the end of the siege.”

“Well at least one good thing is happening because of the siege,” Tyrion joked.

Suddenly Lancel rushed into the room. “The Queen requests your presence in her chambers immediately My Lord Hand,” the young blond knight announced.

“Tell her that if she wants to talk she should come here,” Tyrion explained. “Tell her I am glad that she feels remorse for endangering our lives, and I am relived that she survived.”

Lancel remained, rocking from side to side like a tree in the wind. The boy had nobly taken less rations than the rest of the castle. He must have been starving. “Her Majesty was most insistent. She... she says she's figured out how to win the war.”

Tyrion sighed. His sister had grown more and more touched over the course of the siege. She virtually never left her chambers, not even for meals, and often kept Tommen in with her. Sometimes Tyrion could hear her singing breaking over the battlements. Other times it was her screaming. He decided it would be better to indulge her, though for who he did not know. “Fine. Bronn, you will accompany me.”

“You couldn't make me miss this,” Bronn grinned, following Lancel as he led them to the Queen's chambers. Today Ser Arys Oakheart was guarding the Queen's chambers. Arys was a comely man, and kind, but lacked the nerve to disobey Joffery.

“How is she?” Lancel asked.

“One of her better days,” Arys admitted, opening the door to let Tyrion through, but closing it before Bronn could follow.

They were alone in the Queen's chambers. Much of the once good furniture in the room had been smashed, splinters everywhere. The bed was unmade, and it's pillows were scattered about the room, some ripped open with fluff everywhere. In the corner dirty plates and goblets were piled in a corner, for Cersei had not let any servants in, except with her meals. Finally, sitting on the one intact table, with her knees drawn up to her chest, fingers tapping on her knees, was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her hair was matted and unwashed, and dark circles lay under her eyes, which where restless, as if trying to follow some unseen fly.

“Sister?” Tyrion asked cautiously, unsure of how to approach her.

“Is that my little boy?” she said, eyes flicking to look at him. “Is that my darling boy. Hush child, mother's here.” The Queen rushed over to Tyrion and wrapped him in a hug. “Hush now. No one can hurt my darling darling boy. No wolves or stags here. One day you'll be king of them all, and they'll know, yes, they'll know.”

She thinks I'm Tommen, he realized. Understandable, we are about the same size. “Sister, it's me, Tyrion. You sent for me.”

At the sound of his name she jumped backward, screaming, “No! You'll kill me! You'll kill me! You murderer! You murderer!”

“Sister,” Tyrion said softly, but she kept screaming, so he yelled again, “Sister! You sent for me! What did you want to tell me?” Tears were welling up in his eyes. He loved Cersei, in a fashion, and it pained him to see her this way.

“Oh! Yes, I know exactly how to beat Stannis! We can marry the Tyrell girl to Joffery. Then... then her father will have to come and help us with his army, and he'll beat Stannis. And they'll be food for everyone, and they won't hate us anymore. I don't know why they hate us. It's not our fault-”

She continued ranting, and tears drew lines across Tyrion's face. Finally he grabbed her arm and promised, “I'll bring it up at the next council.”

It was pointless trying to talk to her after that, as she didn't seem to know he was there. He explained the plan at the next council. It was just the rantings of a mad mind of course. Margaery Tyrell was hairless and broken, and Mace Tyrell was probably far more interested in revenge than alliance. But Tyrion kept his promises.

Then they went into the serious matters; how much food was left, what they could do if Stannis attacked with his nearly built siege tower, how the prisoners were faring. They kept at it long into the night, having a dinner of roasted raven. Stannis shot down the birds when they tried to fly out, and there was no point in keeping them alive when they couldn't be fed.

When the council finally ended Tyrion had one last duty to preform. He went through the prisoners' quarters, making sure all were fed and well looked after. He paid special attention to Margaery, whose hair was starting to grow back. He visited all the captive knights, and knew many of them by name now. Duncan, Tath, Allard, James. At last he came to the cell of the Red Woman, who had never spoken a word to him since the day she was whipped through the streets. The woman who had been unfazed by humiliation and torturer. The woman that always stared through him with her fierce eyes, as if she knew something he did not.

Her cell was empty.

The boat glided through Blackwater Rush like a dream, muffled oars making next to no sound. Davos paddled slowly and carefully, keeping a stern watch on the walls above. The night was black as sin, but Davos had long ago learned how to sail in the dark. His skills as a smuggler were being put to good use. Three longboats packed with soldiers carefully made their way up to the river, toward the cluster of abandoned fishing huts. There was a cave next to them, right where the fishermen had said.

"Leads right up to the belly of the Red Keep," he'd told them while enjoying the wine Stannis had treated him with. "Send your army through, and you can end this siege. Should have ended months ago. No one is coming to break it. That's why I slipped out."

It was an opportunity, one that had to be exploited. Food was running dangerously short amid the besiegers' camp, and brigands had attacked some nights, killing men and stealing supplies. The siege had to end soon, and this was the way to do it. A small, surgical strike to take the Imp and the false king in one swoop. In his hand Davos carried a torch, unlit. When he dropped it from the top of the keep, Stannis would begin his attack. The siege tower had been completed. They would overrun the walls and crush the leaderless defenders. Or at least that was the idea. Davos had learned from years of smuggling and war that luck was often what made the difference. And on this black night he had a curious feeling in the pit of his stomach that luck was against them.

There was near sixty men all told, all handpicked by Davos. Ser Grent commanded the second boat, and Maester Rece the third. Rece had volunteered, showing Davos the heavy iron links in his chain. "Iron for warcraft," he'd said, "Don't tell me I earned these for nothing." Now he had a sword swinging from his side, and a plain steel helmet with a nose guard. One hand was pressed to his neck, to make sure the links of his chain did not rattle and give away their position. Dale had wanted to come, but he was still ill with fever, although the worst had long past.

They pulled up beside the rocks, and with great care and silence slipped off the ships. Davos drew his sword as quietly as he could, and then led the way into the cave, silently mouthing prayers to each of the Seven. Darkness enveloped him, but he dared not light a torch. He felt the wall beside him turn from chaotic rocks to orderly stones, and suddenly he was climbing a stairway. They climbed up and up, and soon Davos was breathing heavily. It seemed so high they should already be on the Red Keep's battlements.

Suddenly Davos bumped into something in the dark. "Hold," he ordered as silently as he could, then reached forward to feel what was in front of him. It was hard, but had a different texture than stone or metal. It was massive, and suddenly it dawned on him. "Dragon skull," he breathed, in awe at the sheer size of the creature. He could have rode a horse through the mouth without even grazing the teeth. "Come on, nearly there," he whispered, and led his men through a maze of dragon skulls. None were as large as the first, and by the end they looked like oddly shaped dog skulls. The end of the world's magic is before me, he thought as he passed the last few.

They came to a second set of stairs. Torchlight flickered down. Davos pressed a finger to his lips, calling for absolute silence. Slowly, so slowly it seemed to take an hour, he crept up the stairs, followed by his dead-silent men. They encountered two men in Lannister crimson with swords in their belts. They were dead before they made a sound. They climbed higher into the castle, and came within sight of Maegor's Holdfast. A single Kingsguard, an ugly, fat man who seemed entirely out of place as a knight, stood on the drawbridge, totally unaware the Keep had been breached.

"Grent, take twenty men and go to the Tower of the Hand. Take the Imp and meet me in the Great Hall," Davos ordered. "Take him alive." Davos turned to the remainder of his men. "Now we storm the holdfast. We find the king's chambers and take him. Dallmon, you take the torch and get to the top of the keep with it. Stannis needs to start now." Dallmon was a boy of fifteen who ran faster and quieter than any man Davos had ever seen. Out of them he had the best chance of getting the torch there. If he didn't they were doomed. "Get ready." He turned back to face that single kingsguard. Sweat ran down Davos's face and gripped his sword, waiting for the right moment. "CHARGE!" he yelled, and his men surged forward.

Most took up the cry of "The Last Stag!" and some even shouted "The Onion Knight!" They most have woken the entire castle with their screaming.

Maester Rece came on the white cloak like a bolt of lighting, chopping through his defense and crying, "What is dead may never die!" With a few quick strokes he opened the man's throat, spraying blood all over his maester's chain.

Davos charged in and came face to face with a half dressed Lannister knight. He hadn't even drawn his sword when Davos put the sword to his throat. "Yield," he advised, and the knight did so. Around him half awake defenders were overwhelmed by his men. Aside from the kingsguard, two more bodies lay on the ground, both in Lannister crimson. The other half-dozen men had the good sense to yield.

"Take us to the king's chambers," Rece growled at one, little more than a servant boy. The boy nodded meekly and led the maester, Davos and ten men following. The rest were to stay and guard the drawbridge.

Two more kingsguard stood outside the king's chambers, swords at the ready. The first was a cruel-looking man with a red beard. Rece launched a savage flurry of blows, catching the white cloak off guard. Not wasting a moment, the maester grabbed his dagger and slid it under the man's chin and into his brain. The second man was a strong, broad shouldered fellow with a morning star. He buried his mace in one of Davos's men, then cut another with a sword. While he did so Rece slipped behind him, and chopped halfway through his neck with his sword. The third kingsguard slain by the maester fell to the ground dead.

"You're an unusual maester," Davos noted.

"So I've been told," Rece admitted, then kicked the door to the king's chambers down.

The young, blonde-haired, bastard boy was sitting upright in his bed, mouth quivering and eyes wide. As Davos and Rece approached with swords drawn he pleaded, "No! Please, my uncle can have the throne, just don't kill me!"

"We're not here to kill you," Davos admitted, putting his sword to the boy's throat. "But that doesn't mean we won't."


Four kingsguard in total were slain that day. Ser Boros Blount, Ser Meryn Trant, and Ser Balon Swann had all been slain by Rece. Ser Mandon Moore had been killed as well while defending the queen, swarmed by a dozen men. Arys Oakheart had the good sense to surrender before meeting the same fate. Joffery, the queen, Tommen and Myrcella had all been taken as well. If Grent succeeded in taking the Tower of the Hand, every member of the Royal Family in King's Landing would be theirs.

Captives in hand Davos at his men made their way to the throne room. It was easy enough; no one had any real idea what was going on in the castle. Soldiers had been woken, but few knew where to find the invaders, and those few were cut down.

Grent's forces were already in the throne room, a few dead guards scattered around. It was a massive room, easily the largest Davos had ever seen. It could have sat a thousand men, and to Davos's surprise there were around a hundred assembled in the room, not just the twenty that had been sent with Grent. The Iron Throne loomed over all, and a tall, thin man with long dark hair sat in it, sharpening his sword and smiling.

Ser Grent hailed him as he entered with his own captives. "We have the Imp," he announced.

"Who are the rest?" Davos wondered.

"The Imp's household guard," Grent said confidently. "Their commander sold out to us the moment he saw we were in the castle." Grent pointed at the man sitting on the Iron Throne. "His name is Bronn. Cut down the guard that stayed loyal and the Imp's whore as well."

Davos eyed the man suspiciously. Any man who turned on his lord was just as likely to turn back. "He's sitting in Stannis's chair."

"I'm sure he'll get off it for Stannis," Grent assured him. Grent was often far to trusting of some people.

"Has the signal been sent?" Davos asked. Grent shrugged. They could hear no fighting, although it was probably a long way off. "We're all dead men if it hasn't."

"Then I pray to old gods and new that no signal has been sent," the Imp commented as the rest of the Royal Family herded with him. "This may surprise you but I like my head where it is. I will remember your face knight. I will remember all of your faces. And when you are rotting in the dungeons I will think up a very special way of getting revenge on each of you. Especially Bronn. I think I'll give you to my nephew Bronn." The threat was thinned by the Imp's nephew sitting beside him, whimpering in fear.

"You can do that m'lord," Bronn smiled, "And in a month's time you'll be dead of starvation."

Davos was about to order quiet when something slammed against the throne room's heavy doors. "Get ready!" the smuggler turned knight ordered. "Could be a Lannister counterattack! Keep ready!" Men drew their swords and spears and bows and whatever else they had to fight with. The doors shuddered again and cracked inward, showering the stone floor with splinters. "Keep ready!"

The door burst open and a press of men flowed into the room. "The Last Stag! The Last Stag! The Last Stag!" they roared, and Davos's men put up their weapons to join in the chant. Out of the press King Stannis Baratheon, First of his Name, walked, carrying himself like a king. Davos swore he almost saw a hint of a smile play across the king's lips as he said, "The city is ours. And the Iron Throne is mine."

SirNolan said:

Excellent aar. I'm always excited when a new chapter pops up. Rece takes out 3 kingsguard, an Ironborn maester makes for one badass bookworm. Now the only question is what the Red Woman is up to.

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I saw Davos's Maester was a Ironborn with the berserker trait, and I just knew he had to be a character. The next chapter will deal with what fiendish things Melisandre is up to.

The coast was on fire. Loras looked at the raging flame from the deck of the slaver's ship, in awe at the burning city before him. Ships filled the Blackwater and crammed the docks, bearing the sigils of House Redwyne, House Florent, and the Flaming Stag of Stannis Baratheon. Sounds echoed from the terror in King's Landing, but not the sounds of battle. Maiden's screams filed the air, along with drunken roars and sound of consuming flames.

"Stannis has taken the city," Jaime noted, watching beside Loras. "Looks worse than when my father sacked it. We should get out before they see us."

"No," Loras disagreed. "Most of Stannis's men are my father's bannermen. If we keep sailing who knows where we'll end up."

Pure chance had brought them to King's Landing. Loras didn't have the faintest idea how to sale the ship, and the same could be said for Jaime. They had turned to Solio for help, but he'd rather angrily said, "Just because I am Tyroshi you think me a great sailor? I can't even swim my friends." None of the other captives knew how to sail, so they'd ended up adrift, current carrying them wherever it fancied. In that time Loras had built up a companionship of a kind for Jaime. He was the only other person of high birth on the ship, and a knight besides, and they spent much of their time discussing fighting and tourneys. Solio was a good companion as well. He told them little of his past except what he felt like telling, usually unnecessarily brutal stories of adventure, but was always ready to laugh. Now the three of them stood at the bow of the boat, watching Stannis turn a city to ash.

"I've been a captive of Robb Stark, and I've been a captive of slavers, and I refuse to be a captive of anyone else," Jaime said absolutely, firm resolve in his voice.

"Then I suggest you get below decks," Solio told him. "That one is heading right for us." True enough, a war galley with near two hundred oars was blasting through the waves towards them. The flowered fox of Florent was on it's sails. Jaime took the suggestion as quickly as possible, slipping below decks as the ship came within hailing distance.

A broken voice challenged them. "Who...who sails?" a clean shaven man on the deck shouted in their general direction.

Here goes nothing, Loras thought, than called back, "Ser Loras Tyrell."

"Damn...really?" the man on the other ship exclaimed. "Lord... Alester will be www...wanting to see you. He's at the docks if you'll just follow my ship."

"Of course," Loras called back. He had enough control over the ship's functions to guide it into port, although there were a few close calls among the other ships. Every one of them was built larger and tougher than the slaver ship, which was built for speed, not battle. They pulled up beside the docks and Loras put a sword in his belt, preparing to get off the ship for the first time in weeks.

"I will go with you," Solio said. It was not a request. "But the rest should stay on the ship, and not let anyone on," he instructed the huddle of freed slaves.

They were led through clusters of men, most of them drunk, the rest getting drunk. A dozen or so were passing a naked girl between them, raping her in turns. Solio growled at that, and Loras ordered them to cease. They ignored him. Another man stumbled around, shouting to the heavens, "Praise the Lord of Light! Praise R'hllor! He has given our great king victory!" Another man ran after a girl with his trousers around his ankles. Others sang songs and drank themselves half to death. Chaos reined on the docks, and Loras could only imagine how much worse it must be in the burning city.

Lord Alester Florent, current admiral of King Stannis's navies, was tall, white haired man with a pointed beard. It seemed like the joints of his body were rusty when he moved, and liver spots doted his hands and partly bald head. Loras had seen the man before, at a few of his father's feasts, but had never actually had a conversation with the man. A crying girl was being held in front of him, and he examined her much the same way the slaver had examined potential slaves. "She'll serve fine," he said, and motioned for his guards to take her away. Only then he realized Loras and Solio were looking at him. "Ser Loras! When my scout told me I scarcely believed it! Most of us had given you up for dead. A sad thing, especially once your brother fell."

"My brother?" Loras asked, fear taking him. "Did something happen to Garlan? Or to Willas?"

"Garlan," Alester said mournfully. "A heavy loss to all of us. Slain in a challenge by Ser Allard Seaworth. Fighting for your father's honor of course."

"Allard Seaworth?" Loras wondered. He had never heard of the knight. The name Seaworth brought up that old smuggler that sat in at Stannis's councils, but he couldn't have possibly slain his brother. "What is happening in the city?"

"It's been liberated by the forces of good King Stannis," Alester said without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Less than a week ago we took the city by storm. The King is in the Red Keep now, honoring those who preformed valiantly in the battle. Not that it was much of a battle. The sellswords in the city joined us as the attack began, and the people rioted. As far as I know they're still rioting, which is why I'm keeping a heavy guard around my person at all times. King Stannis has named me Master of Coin. No good to the kingdom dead am I?" He turned to look at Solio, and narrowed his eyes. "I see you've got a bodyguard of your own."

"I am no bodyguard," Solio said proudly, and flexed his huge muscles.

Alester looked unnerved by the boast, then turned back to Loras. "I suppose you'll want to announce your presence to the king. Horses!" The last command was directed at his guards, which brought horses for them and a few of Alester's guards.

Loras mounted quickly and easily. It was good to have a horse between his legs again. Solio was reluctant to get on his horse, and clutched the reins tightly when he did. They slowly made their way toward the burning city, and Alester explained what had been happening while Loras had been gone. He told him the full story of Garlan's death, being cut down by a lowborn, but then advised, "I wouldn't challenge the Seaworth's at the moment. Lord Davos has been given the whole Stormlands, and named hand of the king. One of his sons... Matthos I think, not sure, there seem to be as many Seaworth's as there are Freys, has been named Master of Ships, and another one, Devan, has become Stannis's personal squire. Can't take three steps in court without running into a Seaworth. Disgusting lowborns. Don't even follow the Lord of Light." Apparently Lord Alester had forgotten that the Tyrells did not follow the Lord of Light either.

The Mud Gate was pushed open for the procession, and they entered the city. It was more hellish than Loras had imagined. All the activity in the docks was being repeated tenfold within the city walls. Loras tried to ignore worst of it and concentrate on what Lord Alester was telling them, something about how the old Seaworth had led a raid and captured King Joffery, but the carnage was to great to ignore. Bodies covered the streets, not just men, but women and children as well. The stench was near overpowering. Rape and torture abounded, filling the streets with screams. Worst of all were the men in ragged red cloaks, building pyres and burning people alive, those around them praising the Red God as the sacrifice screamed.

It was when he saw the Great Sept of Belor burning that Loras swore never to convert to the Faith of R'hllor. It was burning like a beacon, surrounded by thousands of Queen's Men, all roaring in approval. Before them all stood the Red Woman Melisandre. She was different from the last time Loras saw her, but still beautiful. She had short hair now, no longer than most men's, and looked thick with scars and even some fresh wounds. But she wore the robes of the Red God, and spoke to them as the most holy place in Westeros burned behind her. "We beseech the Lord of Light to heal our ailments and grant us new strength for the future. His enemies have been defeated, but not destroyed. We offer him this sacrifice, and any others we can."

Lord Alester cheered as well, stopping for a few moments. Loras and Solio gave each other dark looks.

"I have a sacrifice! The Kingslayer!" someone shouted from behind them, and Loras turned. A dozen men, most drunk, were pulling Jaime forward, although he was resisting. A dozen more Queen's Men came down and got control of him, pulling him to his knees before the Red Woman. "We found him hiding on some trade ship at the docks," they announced proudly.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," Melisandre said, looking down on him. "Your crimes are many. Incest, murder, and treachery are all among them! Prepare to face the judgement of the Red God!" The Queen's Men roared and shouted, banged their weapons together. Men brought forward a stake, and faggots of wood, and began tying Jaime down.

"You think I'm afraid to die witch?" Jaime said, never losing his smug smile.

"You should be," the Red Woman smiled back.

Loras could not stand it. He made his horse move forward. He would put a stop to this madness. Then strong hands squeezed his arm. Solio held him back, slowly shaking his head. "Flowers burn easy," he told him, looking Loras in the eyes. The Knight of the Flowers stood back and did nothing as the ceremony continued.

The pyre was finished and Jaime secured to it. Melisandre came for him with a torch in her hand. "Face now the judgement of the Lord of Light," she said, then thrust the flame into the wood. Jaime kept his smile even as the flames grew around him. He lost it as his clothing caught, and then his hair, and then his face. And as the flames burned, Ser Jaime Lannister began to scream. He screamed and screamed and screamed, until the flames consumed him, and nothing was left but ash.

Cuban said:

Keep it up man ! Stannis the mannis is on a roll !

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Which by GoT rules means his life is forfeit.

The Old Gods were taking a mighty piss. Rain crashed down on the battlements of Riverrun, and the rivers around were swollen to bursting. The drops were fast and sharp, like arrows from the sky. The Greatjon Umber wished they were arrows. The rain didn't irritate him, but all this waiting did. They'd spent six months in Riverrun now, the entire army of the North. Well, most of it anyway. Some had been lost with Roose Bolton when he was caught, but still, near twenty thousand Northerners and Riverlanders sat outside the walls, trying to keep their fires going in the rain.

The Greatjon was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, with the largest greatsword in the North hanging from his belt, and an equally impressive weapon between his legs. He was wrapped in furs, but he hardly needed them. He could run stark naked through the rain and still be warmer than Last Hearth in winter. His face was full of thick brown hair that had slowly faded towards grey, but he was not old. His uncles were old, his father had been old when he kicked it, but Greatjon was still young. Still the greatest warrior in the army, and the most loyal. At least, as far as he was concerned.

He enjoyed walking the battlements of Riverrun some nights, gazing at the fires of King Robb's army. He also checked to make sure none of the sentries were sleeping on duty, or by thunder he would strike their heads off to save His Grace the trouble. Lord Edmure had noted the remarkable alertness of his guard since the Greatjon began his rounds.

This night someone other than the fishmen stood watch on the battlements. A small girl with milk white skin and a fragile face, stood on the walls, wrapped up in furs and coats, gazing at the Northern army. Greatjon frowned when he saw her. Roslin Frey, or Her Grace, the Queen in the North. She was in no way worthy of the honor, a delicate thing that looked as if she might break if you took her roughly, with hips to narrow for decent childbirth. Sometimes he swore he heard her crying when she was with the King, which Greatjon considered proof of his theory, whatever the maesters said. In spite of all her coverings she was shivering.

"You cold Your Grace?" Greatjon asked gruffly.

The Queen looked at him and shied away. "Um... yes," she said, her voice shivering as her body did. "It hasn't been winter for so long. I forgot how cold it got."

Greatjon laughed, probably scaring the Frey out of her mind. "It's not winter yet Your Grace. It will be ten times colder when winter truly comes, and colder still when we win the war and His Grace takes you back to Winterfell. If you ever visit Last Hearth, it will be colder still. This is no cold."

The Queen looked up at him with fear on her face. She considered him a barbarian, a label the Greatjon didn't mind at all. If liking drink, war, and the love of a strong woman made him a barbarian, than he was indeed a barbarian. He liked scaring the wits out of her with his barbaric talk. For a good while she was to scared to speak, so they looked out at the fires of the camp, twinkling like another set of stars.

"What brings you out here so late Your Grace?" Greatjon asked when he grew bored, "Can't sleep after His Grace fills ya?" He laughed when he saw the shocked look on her face.

"I... I was just thinking about the war," she said, looking down when she spoke to him. "My brothers say it's lost."

"Lost!" Greatjon roared, "Your royal husband has yet to be beaten! Lord Tywin's brother sits in one of our cells! Stannis has smashed our enemies for us at King's Landing! Unless your father is planning to switch sides and kill us all I'd say the war is far from lost!"

The Queen stared at him with big brown eyes. "He's not."

The Greatjon laughed again. "I didn't expect it. Now those flowery Tyrell's are marching north for Stannis. With a little luck they'll butcher the Lannisters for us, and then if Stannis won't let us go your husband will beat them to a bloody pulp. Any man with a flower for a sigil can't be too hard to kill."

The Queen flinched at the word "kill". She's far to soft for Robb, Greatjon thought. "They say Ser Loras Tyrell is the greatest knight in the world now that the Kingslayer is dead," the queen said, flinching again as if she thought Greatjon might hit her.

He only laughed for the forth time since seeing her however. "The Knight of the Flowers? Robb would cut him open if they ever met! And if he didn't I would! If he is fool enough to oppose us we'll beat him just like we beat the Kingslayer. Robb will beat every enemy we face," he said in absolute confidence.

"My husband is a great warrior isn't he?" the Queen said, and Greatjon thought he heard a hint of pride in her voice. Maybe there was something to this girl.

"He's Ageon the Conqueror Reborn Your Grace, with a wolf instead of a dragon," Greatjon told her. "He's beat-" An arrow flew over the battlements and pierced the Greatjon's furs to bury itself in his chest. Greatjon looked down at it for a moment, then pulled it out in one swift movement. "Who in hell shot that?" he roared, holding the bloody arrow high. He was answered by another arrow that missed his ear by a hair. Suddenly there was a rain of arrows falling, and Greatjon quickly pushed the Queen behind the battlements, shouting, "We're under attack! We're under attack! Move you bastards, we're under attack!"

He pushed the Queen to move towards the keep with one hand, drawing his greatsword with the other. The Frey girl screamed over and over as more arrows fell. She screamed when they passed a dead guard, arrow sticking out of his chest, blood being washed away by the rain. She screamed as grappling hooks clanked onto the battlements and men wearing the flower of Highgarden and the huntsmen of Horn Hill clamored over the walls, drawing swords as they did.

The first man came at him and Greatjon carved out his bowls. The second got his head split open. A third got lucky, stabbing him in the stomach. The Greatjon smiled and decapitated him. And another and another came, spilling like a tide. "The King of the North!" Greatjon bellowed, a smile on his face. The waiting was finally done.

Cuban said:

I'm actually surprised he hasn't had his hand cut off while having molten gold poured over his head lol.

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Note to self: Keep Stannis far away from Dothraki.

Faces floated in front of Tyrion. The hedge knight called Grent, the old knight who led the sneak attack, Stannis Baratheon, and Bronn. All other faces he cursed and swore at, but Bronn he swiped at, clawed at. Bronn the Killer. Bronn the Traitor. Bronn the Faithless.

He had been with Shae when the shouting started. He got out of bed and ran to the door. Just before he reached it it slammed open, and Podrick rushed in, bleeding. “My...my lord...” he stuttered out before he fell to the floor like a sack of flour.

Then Bronn had come in, a smile playing on his lips. “I'm afraid there's a breach m'lord,” he said, then slashed Shae's throat open. He'd taken him then, dragged him through the Tower of the Hand as the few guards who remained loyal were slaughtered. And then Tyrion watched as Bronn sat on the Iron Throne and whistled a tune, as if he was resting after a hard days work.

He imagined killing Bronn. He thought up many ways to kill him slowly, painfully. Making him suffer for what he did. But that will never happen you fool, Tyrion thought, Stannis is going to put your head on a spike, and that will be the end of it. Someone might even make a song about it one day, applauding the bravery of the knights who stormed the castle, and skipping over the betrayal.

He wondered what his father was doing, what his brother was doing. He prayed to all the gods old and new that his father was beating Stannis back in the field. He invented fantasies of his father rescuing him, taking him out of the dark.

There was a screech of metal on metal. A island of light lit up the darkness, and suddenly Tyrion could see again. A dark gaoler trust a skin of water towards him. “Drink prisoner.” Tyrion drank, long and greedily, for he had not ate or drunk since his capture. “On your feet, His Grace wishes to see you.”

“I'm honored he cares so much,” Tyrion said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He was manacled, and slowly led toward the light. He was taken strait to the throne room with an escort of a half-dozen guards. Are they expecting a daring escape attempt? Do they realize I'm not my brother?

When they came to the throne room it was dead silent. Courtiers crowded it, a mighty feat considering the room's size, but not one made a sound, not even a murmur. The only sound in that hall was the sound of his boots on the stone, which echoed as he approached the Iron Throne.

Stannis sat on the ugly chair, dressed all in black, except for the crown of antlers on his head. His Small Council was assembled around him. On his right side where the Hand of the King stood was the old knight, dressed in sailor's garb as if he wasn't the second most powerful man in Westeros. On the king's left side was the Red Woman, hair grown barely past her ears, dressed all in red of course. Where the Master of Coin sat was a tall, white haired old man, dressed elegantly, with liver spots on his hands. There was the youngest of them, who looked like the old knight with twenty years taken away.

Tyrion looked up at them, just like he'd been looking up at people his entire life. Slowly Stannis stood, and spoke, “Tyrion of House Lannister, Heir to Casterly Rock, you are charged with treason, conspiracy to murder the king, and conspiracy to murder the king's hand. Do you have anything to say against these charges?”

Of all things Tyrion could have done at that moment, he laughed. “So this is my trial is it? I remain loyal to my house and now I'm on trial for treason. I've had quite a bit of bad luck haven't I? My only comfort is in knowing that when my father takes this city you are all going to have your heads taken from your shoulders. You in particular should be scared Stannis. My brother has experience killing kings.”

“Your brother is dead,” the king said flatly.

The words hit Tyrion like a lighting bolt. No, not Jaime, not the invincible Kingslayer. His whole life Jaime had been beside him, protecting him, being his greatest friend. And now he was gone just like Shea and Podrick. He knew Stannis well enough to know he was not a liar. “How?” he asked.

“Burned as tribute to the Lord of Light, just as you should be,” the Red Woman told him, small smile escaping her lips as she did.

“Quiet woman!” Stannis commanded, and Melisandre reluctantly closed her mouth. “He was found in a trade ship in port four days after we took the city. Nobody knows how he got there, but he was taken by the Queen's Men and burned before the Great Sept of Belor.”

“He faced the judgment of the Lord of Light,” Melisandre interrupted.

“I said quiet!” Stannis ordered, grinding his teeth. “We needed him as a hostage. We can't stop the invasion without the Lannister's army. And he was a good strong fighter, and you said we'd need those as well.”

“You righteous fury will be enough to stop the wildlings,” Melisandre said, interrupting a third time.

Stannis said nothing to that. He just glared at her and ground his teeth some more. He turned back to Tyrion and continued. “You will be sent back to your father as a token of my goodwill,” he explained, sounding like there was not a drop of goodwill to be found in him. “The Wall has been overrun by wildlings, and now they flood into the North. If we are to defeat them, we will need the armies of all the Seven Kingdoms. Mine is not large enough.”

No point in being clever here, Tyrion thought, I'm lucky enough to have my head. “Of course I will go to my father and beg him to join your march north,” he said. And Dorne will freeze over before he accepts.

“If he does not, I will kill his daughter and all his grandchildren,” Stannis said plainly. It was less of a threat than a statement of fact. “But you must still pay for your own treachery Lord Tywin. Ser Bronn.”

Out of the crowd stepped Bronn the Traitor, a smile on his face, and a greatsword slung over his shoulder. Tyrion recognized it as Ice, the sword Ilyn Payne had used to chop Ned Starks head off. He wore the badge of the King's Justice. What kind of message does Stannis plan to send? Tyrion thought, trying to keep fear off his face as Bronn knelt before the king. “What do you command Your Grace?”

“Blind the Imp,” Stannis ordered, sitting back on the throne.

“Yes Your Grace,” Bronn said, marching towards Tyrion and drawing a long dagger.

“My Lord!” the old knight pleaded, “There is no need for this. Tywin will bend the knee without such a threat.”

“This is not a threat,” Stannis said coldly, “This is justice.”

Bronn knelt before him, and put a dagger up to his eye. Tyrion struggled, and fought, but it was useless. Even unchained he could not have escaped the guards. Just before he drove the knife in, Bronn paused. “Sorry 'bout this,” he admitted, then all Tyrion felt was pain. Red clouds filled his vision, and then nothing. He was taken by darkness.

It's just like the blackcell, he thought before slipping into unconsciousness.

Davos's brow furrowed as he tried to sound out the words before him. "AegOn lAnded in draGonestone withe less than four-hundad... hundred! men." He had gotten the book from the Red Keep's library, and Rece had recommended he practice reading it whenever he had a spare moment.

"Father, if you keep reading like that in front of the council we'll be laughed out of the keep." Davos turned to see his third son entering the Small Council Chambers, a smile on his face and his back held strait. He was a handsome, clean shaven boy, who had never been as quiet as Dale, and never as loud as Allard. He had the same sea green eyes that all of Davos's sons shared, but lacked the skills of Dale and Allard when it came to swordplay. He had taken after his father in that respect. In every other way he was different. He was a Queen's man, and during the Siege of King's Landing he had distinguished himself enough in skirmishes to get into the king's favor. Now he had been named Lord of Summerhall and a seat on the Small Council as Master of Ships, titles he took like he was born to them. "You can't embarrass our family like that. Our family will be the Lords Paramount of the Stormlands now, from this time until the end of time. We should change our sigil. The onion just reminds people that we were lowborn."

"You already have I see," Davos motioned at Matthos's tunic, a finely and expensively woven thing that had three mermen on it, thrusting their tridents out of the water and into the sky, toward a blazing sun. Seeing his son in it made Davos self conscious in his plain sailor's garb.

"Oh yes, this," Matthos looked down at the tunic. "I've adopted it as my personal coat of arms. I hope it will differentiate my branch of the family from the main."

The thought made Davos sigh. Fifteen years ago he'd had a family with a home in Flea Bottom. Now he had a house with a sigil and words and banners and branches. Sometimes he thought it was all just a dream, and at any moment he could wake up and find he was just a smuggler from Flea Bottom again. He would have wished it, had it not been for the proud look Matthos had, the same pride Allard and Dale had. They would live better lives now than he could have ever hoped.

"Father?" Matthos asked, cutting into Davos's thoughts, "Have you considered converting to follow the one true god? His Grace is is the Lord of Light's chosen, it is only fitting that his hand convert."

Davos's face grew hard. "No. And I do not want you to ask me again. I will not give up the gods of my father because the Lady Melisandre says I should." He finished speaking a moment before he realized how it sounded. Matthos stared at him across the table. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way."

Matthos was about to speak when Lord Alester Florent entered the room. The old man was as usual richly dressed with a silver brooch in the shape of a foxhead, with lapis lazuli eyes and gold on the ears. He was carrying the largest book Davos had ever seen, and let it crash to the table the moment he could. He was breathing heavily and dabbed his forehead with a cloth. "I never knew a book of expenses could be so large," he admitted breathlessly, "Lord Matthos, My Lord Hand," he greeted each of them, giving Davos a small bow.

Lord Commander Richard Horpe entered next. The commander of the Kingsguard was a lean, dark man, who always seemed to walk looking at the floor, so his long black hair fell over his face, which was covered in scars and pockmarks. He didn't seem to fit in the white armor and cloak, the bright color not suiting him. He was another Queen's man, although not a fervently as others. Stannis had always called him "The Slayer" although Davos couldn't recall ever actually seeing him fight. He nodded in greeting and addressed him stiffly, "My Lord Hand."

Only a few moments later the Red Woman entered. She had been named Master of Wispers, the first woman to hold the title. She wore her heavy red robes as usual, but had the hood pulled over her head, to hide the fact her hair had yet to grow back past her ears. "Lord Alester, Lord Matthos," she greeted them, "My Lord Hand," she said to Davos, contempt in her voice.

They sat in silence for awhile, each waiting for the others to speak. The silence was broken as the King entered the chambers, walking with an urgent step and grinding his teeth. He glanced over each of them as he sat at the center of the table. "Let's begin," he said, not greeting any of them. "I want a full list of the captives we took during the battle."

"Yes Your Grace," Davos said, "Lady Cersei and Grand Maester Pycelle have all been put in blackcells, as you ordered. Myrcella and Tommen have both been confined to their chambers. Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Lancel Lannister, and Ser Ilyn Payne have all been taken as well."

"And the Usurper Joffery is enjoying the hospitality of the Queen's men," Lord Alester interrupted, sporting a small smile, "He faces the fiery wrath of the one true god just as his father did."

"What about the Stark girl?" Stannis asked, "She my means of making peace with her brother and putting an end to his rebellion."

"Disappeared Your Grace," Lord Alester said, "Lord Davos also failed to find Sandor Clegane and Lord Varys. The wolf girl lacks cunning, or so I've been told. At least one of them must have helped her to escape. We should send outriders to find-"

"You talk to much Lord Alester," Stannis said bluntly. "You are master of coin, and have no say in military matters. Lord Davos, what do you think the best course of action would be?"

Alester glared at him, but Davos did not squirm. "The Hound is the Lannister's animal. If he has her than he will go north, to Lord Tywin's camp at Harrenhall. Varys is more unpredictable. He might go south, west, north, or he could have taken her across the Narrow Sea. Either way, finding her in the Riverlands is more likely than anywhere else."

"You're right," the king agreed. “The army will be moving that way soon enough. Lord Alester, what is the condition of the Royal Treasury.”

“Littlefinger was a fool,” Lord Alester began. “He kept no money to speak of in the Royal Treasury. He's been borrowing money from the Iron Bank of Braavos, and from Tywin Lannister to cover crown expenses. All of the money he could us to pay off these debts has been wasted on investments. With a few adjustments I can begin paying off our debts, but it will take time.”

“All debts we owe to Tywin Lannister will be forgiven when he bends the knee,” Stannis said, “If he does not bend the knee, I will destroy him, and his heir will forgive the debts. Focus on paying the Iron Bank.”

“Of course Your Grace,” Alester bowed his head.

“Now, I intend to march north as soon as possible,” Stannis told them, “If his son convinces him to bend the knee, I will gather his troops and march against Robb Stark. We will destroy his army, and then march to the Wall.”

“That may not be so simple Your Grace,” Davos said. “Robb Stark is undefeated in the field. You will not beat him easily.”

“If Robb Stark cannot be defeated the Lord of Light will remove him,” Melisandre said with absolute conviction. “But you need neither of these lords my king. I have seen your victory in the flames. The wildlings are servants of the Great Other, and you are Azor Ahai reborn. They will flee before your fury, I have seen it.”

“The Black Brother we took from the cells said they had tens of thousands of men, and giants besides,” Davos urged, “You'll need every man you can get.”

“Agreed,” Stannis said, “You will raise a fresh host Lord Davos, and send them by sea to meet us.”

Davos was stunned for a moment. “I thought I would be with you Your Grace.”

“No,” Stannis told him, “You will remain here and sit the throne in my stead. Lady Melisandre and Ser Richard will accompany me north.”

Davos tried to hide the concern on his face. Alone with Melisandre for all that time, the king would fall under her spell again. If Davos was in King's Landing, there would be no one to curb her influence. Stannis might start burning men alive because they followed the wrong god, or worse. But as much as Davos pleaded for Stannis to allow him to march with the army, Stannis ground his teeth and said no.

Across the table, the Red Woman smiled.

Victor227 said:

Ouch.

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You're telling me.

Nael1 said:

Tyrion never gets any love in westeros, no matter which side is in power

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Well, his fortunes can only go up from here, right? Actually, this is Westeros, so no.