Chapter Text

Cersei Lannister

King’s Landing was a city threatening to tear itself apart. She could feel the tension brewing in the city streets even from her balcony in Maegor’s Holdfast. The violence of the riot the day her monster of a brother meant to send Myrcella to Dorne was still fresh in Cersei’s mind even though it had been over a year ago. The tide of unwashed, ungrateful savages had forced them back to the Red Keep before they could reach the ships meant to cart her daughter away. Cersei had taken it as a sign from the gods that Myrcella was meant to stay with her mother. A not so small victory. Somehow these past few weeks were worse. Far worse.

It was due to fear. Word of the Northern army marching south had long reached the city due to the flood of refugees. That is until the burned soldiers began to return baring news and evidence of a dragon seemingly under control of the Northmen.

“Aegon the Conqueror has been resurrected and means to cast down the false king born by incest!” A madman had preached in the streets until the Gold Cloaks came down upon him. The more interesting of the rumors, Cersei decided, was the return of Rhaegar.

“Rhaegar Targaryen lives on! The last dragon faked his death to journey to the cursed lands of Old Valyria. He has claimed a dragon of old and now means to reclaim his throne! Rejoice the Last Dragon lives!” That town crier at least still lived, though however poorly in the black cells. Still, his words had spread like wildfire. Rhaegar’s miraculous survival was more believable than a king who died hundreds of years ago.

Rhaegar. Cersei thought with a mix of fear and desire. She wondered how the years would have treated a man that beautiful. Robert had been handsome once and yet he grew to be a fat lazy before a boar put him out of his misery. Rhaegar had taken a hammer to his chest, the rubies inlaid in his breastplate scattering to the wind. Her father and Mace Tyrell insisted that Rhaegar’s body had been burned in accordance to the traditions of the Targaryens by the loyalist who found it, but neither were there.

If father had married me to Prince Rhaegar instead of that oaf, he sold me to then none of this would have happened. She would have children with silver-gold hair and big beautiful purple eyes. No Rhaegar’s eyes had been indigo. Cersei remembered them as if she were still a girl frozen with awe. Melancholic and beautiful, in equal measure.

“The wrong man returned from the Trident and now we are meant to pay for it,” Cersei said to herself. Her voice was full of scorn.

“My lady,” Senelle’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“What is it?” Cersei asked the girl without turning.

“You wanted me to inform you when the small council was meeting. The Lord Hand and Lord Tyrell are already in the Small Council’s Chambers.” Cersei released a snarl.

“And now you tell me?” She would have slapped the girl if she were not pressed for time. “Where is my son?” She asked Boros Blount when she emerged from the room.

The knight fumbled with his words for a moment before squeaking out an answer. “With his grandfather and the small council.” Cersei would have slapped him too. Him knowing the whereabouts of Joffrey meant that he had a hand in keeping her away from the meeting.

She was a hot ball of fury as she stalked across the yard. The Red Keep was full of scared highborn sheep who had traveled from all corners to see her son wed the Tyrell girl. Their wedding had yet to happen but any cheer at the impending celebrations were replaced by uncertainty and fear. Her ire must have been plain for none stopped her advance.

Well… Meryn Trant and Arys Oakheart certainly tried. “My lady you must not interrupt.”

She did slap Meryn Trant when he laid a hand on her shoulder. “You forget yourself, knight. I am your queen.” Her glare at Ser Arys prompted him to hold open the door the Council Chamber for her.

If she were a lesser woman she would have raged in frustration at the sight before her eyes. Her father sat at one end of the table, Joffrey at the other. Mace Tyrell was present at her father’s side, pale with beads of sweat running from his brow. Margaery stood next to her plump father, worrying her lip between her teeth. Pycelle was there, looking more useless than normal as was Varys the Spider. She could smell his perfume from where she stood. Most frustrating was the sight of her dwarf brother and his wife.

Her father’s pale green eyes flickered over to her. “Cersei.” All of her anger left her. Her father looked troubled. Calm and confident Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion looked out of his element.

“Father I am sorry I am late.” She took a seat beside her son. Joffrey’s face was almost green. What have I missed? Cersei wondered.

“Go on Sansa. Tell us what you know about your brother. This Jon Snow.” Tyrion said gently. Cersei did not fail to notice how the child flinched away from the dwarf’s hand.

Sansa was nearly shaking with fear. Her blue eyes were filled with tears. “Half-brother. He is my half-brother. I don’t know much of him. Father did not allow him at Winterfell for long.”

“Half-brother or not, you alone know him best. Tell us what you know child,” Varys pressed gently.

It was Margaery’s reassuring smile across the table that prompted the terrified girl to speak. “He was quiet whenever he came to the castle. Shy and didn’t talk to anyone unless they were Father, Robb or Arya.”

“Not you?” Varys questioned. His voice was sickeningly sweet.

Sansa blushed and shook her head. “Mother didn’t want us to get too close to him. She said bastards were treacherous by nature but only I listened to her. The others… well they treated him like a real brother.”

Real brother. The words made her think of her twin. Jaime, where are you? Jaime had been a prisoner at Riverrun after his defeat in the Battle of Whispering Wood for months, but word had come that Catelyn Stark had released Jaime in either a fit of madness or desperation. Why are they speaking of a bastard when Jaime is being hunted like an animal?

This war was supposed to be over. Nothing made sense. Robb Stark survived the Red Wedding by the skin of his teeth and lay under siege at Riverrun with his stubborn uncles. How was he with an army and a dragon? Why did this Jon Snow matter?

“When your brother was not at Winterfell where did your father send him? Where did he live?” Varys questioned once again.

“The Master of Whisperers asks a little girl to do his job for him,” Tyrion drunkenly japed. Father’s glare did not seem to quell his humor.

“If you have nothing of worth to say then be silent or you will be removed,” Tywin growled, his eyes sharp. Tyrion grimaced, his ugly noseless face growing even more gruesome with the expression. Tywin’s pale eyes found Sansa. “Speak girl.”

Sansa swallowed nervously. A frightened little bird. “Greywater Watch with Lord Howland Reed, father’s friend.”

“Howland Reed?” The buffoon parroted. Mace Tyrell looked around the room. “I’ve never heard of him. Have any of you?”

“The Reeds are sworn to the Starks. Have been for more than a thousand years or so they say.” Tyrion belched. “Their lands lay in the Neck. Swamp men, bog devils, they have been making the Ironmen who hold Moat Cailin miserable. It seems Lord Stark’s trust in the man was well placed.” Her grotesque brother bore a smile that was unsettling as if he had settled on a truth before any of them. “Please my lovely wife, did Lord Stark ever tell you of the boy’s mother?”

Sansa shook her head. “Father never spoke of her.” She wrung her hands nervously. “There were rumors though.”

“Elaborate, Lady Stark,” Varys said. Sweat dripped from the spider’s brow. Chalky white from the powder on his face. It stained the hem of his brightly colored robes.

“The men said Jon’s mother was a woman from Lys that father met in Dorne during the war,” Sansa answered.

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “Honorable Lord Stark with a whore?” She chuckled until she saw the blank faces around the room. “I heard differently. Lord Stark got a child on Ashara Dayne and she killed herself when he stole him.” Sansa flinched. Cersei regarded her with sympathetic eyes. “No woman would like to hear her husband fathered a bastard, but it is easier to know he fucked a whore than charmed a highborn lady. I heard Lady Ashara was quite beautiful as well. Lord Stark likely considered it a small mercy for your mother.”

Mace Tyrell chimed in support. “Baseborn bastards are less problematic than sons born from two sides of nobility just on the wrong side of the blanket. I remember Lady Ashara from Harrenhal. She was one of the fairest women I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. There is little dishonor to be had on your father’s memory to be charmed by a lady such as she.”

Tyrion snorted. “I mean no offense Lord Tyrell but Stark’s love story with Ashara Dayne is merely a rumor, perhaps an elaborate cover story. If you’ve ever met Lord Stark, then you would know that if he had the opportunity to part Lady Ashara’s legs then I’d fear my lovely wife would not exist.” His mismatched eyes looked to Varys. “Tell me Lord Varys, we all know you keep track of each of our habits and vices. Did Lord Stark frequent brothels?”

Varys folded his hands before him. “Well… Lord Stark was seen returning from a brothel when he and Ser Jaime had their confrontation.” Cersei felt a flush run up her neck. It was made worse by Tyrion’s knowing smile.

“I find it hard to believe that Lord Stark was sampling the wares. Tell me, sweet sister, what do you think Lord Stark was up to?”

Tywin interrupted while Cersei fumbled for a reply. “Tyrion.” His tone was gravel.

Tyrion ignored their father. “Tell us my lovely wife, what is the color of your half-brother’s hair?”

“Silver-gold.” Sansa answered.

“And his eyes?”

“Indigo and grey,” Sansa quoted from memory. By the look on the girl’s face, it was a fond one.

“Mismatched or mixed?” Tyrion was grinning evilly over his goblet.

“His left eye is dark purple… indigo when the sun is out, and his right is grey or black when it is cloudy.”

Tyrion stroked his beardless chin. He looked around the room before his eyes settled on her. “Tell me, sweet sister, did you catch sight of Lord Stark’s bastard when were in Winterfell.” Cersei shook her head. For once she was glad to hear her little brother speak. Clearly, he was leading up to something monumental. “Strange or not.” Tyrion shrugged.

“Most would seek to hide their bastards. Perhaps you didn’t notice him,” Mace Tyrell offered.

“Perhaps,” Tyrion allowed. “How handsome is this half-brother of yours?” Sansa looked caught off guard at the question. Tyrion tried to smile disarmingly but with his noseless face any expression on his face was hideous. “Go on, I won’t be jealous. On a scale of me to my handsome nephew over there, where does this Jon Snow fall?” Sansa pointed shyly at Joffrey. Tyrion cocked a brow. “As handsome as my nephew or even prettier?”

The Stark girl grew bold. “Jon is beautiful.”

Joffrey scowled fiercely. “He won’t be when I am done with him. I’ll cut both of his eyes out and feed you them along with the tongue of your traitor brother.” His fist slammed against the table and he stood. Cersei felt a swell of pride. Her beautiful son, fierce as a lion should be. His blonde hair was loose, and a fire burned in his emerald eyes. “Why are we discussing a bastard when we should be discussing how to end these Northmen? Clearly, the Freys need to be punished as well. Their reports of Robb Stark being near death were exaggerated. We need to raise an army and crush them before they rally as my father would have done.”

“Sit down boy.” Her father affixed a cold unwavering stare at Joffrey.

Her son was not quelled. “Boy?! You forget yourself, grandfather. I am the King! I make the decisions here!”

“If you want to be a king for much longer then I’d suggest you sit and be silent nephew. Your grandfather and I were about to impart some truly insightful revelations to this council.” Tyrion gave Joffrey a bored look which only served to infuriate Joffrey further.

“I will not take orders from a dwarf. This is a council of war, why are there women and a halfman present?”

Tywin did not need to stand for his voice to cut through the chaos of Joffrey’s outburst. “Any man who needs to remind the world that he is a king is no true king. Do you think you would still lay claim to that Iron Chair if Stannis’ armies had smashed the River Gate and flooded into the city? Where were you when Tywin’s fleet burned? Where you when we smashed his armies against the walls of the city? Hiding behind your mother’s skirts if my memory serves me correct. Until you can lead and plan armies yourself then you will remain silent unless called upon or I will forbid you from the council meetings altogether.”

Joffrey’s face turned bright red. His voice cracked. “I-“ He thought better of what to say. “You can’t do that. I am the king, not you.”

“Kings can be made and unmade. Do not forget you have a little brother. Perhaps he would prove worthier.” Tywin stared at Joffrey until he took his seat. Her son swallowed heavily. Cersei squeezed his hand, but he snatched it away from her. Yet he remained silent.

Tyrion cleared his throat. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, there is a boy with what Lord Stark wants us to believe to be Valyrian or Dayne features running around Winterfell in a sea of Northmen and yet none of us noticed. My sweet sister certainly has an eye for pretty boys and I have a certain interest in bastards and broken things. I am sure if he was present then one of us would have taken notice. Tell me Lady Stark, did your brother visit Winterfell recently?”

Sansa nodded once again. “He rode with Father, Robb, and Bran up to watch a deserter from the Wall be beheaded. That’s the day they came back with the wolves and the day Father announced King Robert was journeying to Winterfell.” Sadness came on the Stark girl’s face. Cersei’s eyes narrowed. She remembered those foul beasts and how they had ruled the halls of Winterfell, scaring away the dogs who normally begged for scraps. Stark’s wild daughter’s wolf had attacked Joffrey. When she demanded a pelt as recompense, Stark claimed both wolves had disappeared. Demanding an eye from Arya Stark as replacement had not gone over well with either Ned Stark or Robert. My husband was always too soft on traitors.

“Did the bastard not want to witness the king’s arrival?” Tyrion questioned.

Sansa bit her lip. “Jon did want to stay but Father sent him back to Greywater Watch.”

Tyrion smirked. “Grand Maester Pycelle, I do hope you can prove useful and provide us some insight on this remote castle.”

Pycelle cleared his throat, offended. “M-my l-lord.” He stuttered.

Sansa smiled sweetly at the bumbling fool. “It is okay, Grand Maester. Greywater Watch has no Maester and the Crannogmen are not well known. Not even in the North.”

“I am failing to see your point, Lord Tyrion.” Mace Tyrell said. For once Cersei was inclined to agree with the man.

Margaery squeezed her father’s shoulder. “Father, isn’t it obvious?”

Tyrion smiled widely at Joffrey’s soon to be queen. The girl had the grace not to gag. “Go on, Lady Margaery. I’m sure the news will sound better coming from your lips.”

Margaery nerves were made evident by the way she smoothed her dress. Her long honey-brown locks fell in loose waves about her shoulder. She cleared her throat and spoke to Sansa, “Your half-brother, this Jon Snow has silver hair and a violet eye. He is beautiful, a rare quality in a man but not a dragonlord. The Northmen whose armies were decimated at the Red Wedding are said to have broken the siege of Winterfell with a dragon. Since the Doom of Valyria, the only family that had any control over the dragons were the Targaryens.”

Confusion colored Sansa’s face while realization slowly came to Cersei. No, no it cannot be. Sansa voiced the words in Cersei’s head.

Tyrion goaded the Tyrell bitch to say more. “Robert’s Rebellion began because Rhaegar Targaryen stole away Lyanna Stark. Your father returns with a child with silver-hair and hides him in a remote castle controlled by an extremely loyal bannerman in the middle of a swamp. This Jon Snow…”

“Is Rhaegar’s son,” Cersei finished. She felt light headed. Lyanna’s ghost is set to ruin me once again. The bitch was long dead but had gifted the world with Rhaegar’s babe. Fuck that wolf whore!

Mace Tyrell swallowed audibly. “This cannot be!”

Lord Tywin did not share in Mace Tyrell’s outburst. “The boy’s parentage does not matter if he cannot prove it and it seems Lord Stark had not planned for his bastard plan for his bastard to be of any import. Otherwise why wait so late in this war?”

“I think a dragon is proof enough.” Tyrion said dryly. He sipped from his wine cup. “A very large one if the rumors can be believed. A black dragon that could challenge the Black Dread at his Zenith.”

“Rumors and the ravings of mad men. All of the dragons were killed in the Dance.” Mace Tyrell denied. He shook his head and grew red in the face. Not even his daughter’s palm on his shoulder calmed him.

“Father please,” Margaery whispered.

Tyrion laughed loudly. “Not all of them. There was Silverwing who made a lair, one of her eggs could have hatched. Princess Rhaena’s dragon still lived or was it her sister Baela’s? Then there is Sheepstealer who disappeared. Cannibal too. What were their colors?”

Tywin’s voice was sharp and demanded order. “Those dragons died out a long time ago. If not, do you not think the Targaryens would not have moved heaven and earth to claim one for themselves? How many of them suffered foolish deaths just to hatch an egg? No, the boy got lucky and hatched an egg at most. A hatchling can be killed.”

Tyrion’s joy was uninterrupted. “Ah, well let us be glad he didn’t hatch three like the Targaryen girl across the Narrow Sea. Still, this Jon Snow if he is the same person in control of this rumored dragon, was enough to destroy a siege, nearly to the man. Now the Freys and the Brackens are scared shitless and calling for aid.”

Tywin grit his teeth. “And they will have it. We will destroy this Northern threat once and for all and put the realm back to order.”

Mace Tyrell, inspired by her father’s voice straightened his spine. “Lord Randall Tarly can lead the van.”

Tywin nodded. “I have already sent word to Tarly. He marches from Duskendale to the Kingsroad with six thousand men. In a week’s time those numbers will swell to nine thousand.”

“Aegon and his sister-wives met more than fifty thousand men on the Field of Fire,” Tyrion muttered over his cup.

Her father’s nostrils flared. “This Jon Snow does not have any sisters. Save for the one here and the little girl you failed to find. Did she have the makings of a dragonlord as well? I think not.”

Tyrion drummed his fingers against the table as he drank. “Maegor killed fifteen thousand men at Bitterbridge with just Balerion.”

Mace Tyrell had a quick retort, “Maegor for all his faults was the finest warrior of his time. Proven unmatched on the battlefield or on in the melee. This Jon Snow is a green boy of what sixteen, seventeen years old? One taste of war and we will send him running.”

Tyrion’s black eye gleamed. “Ah yes, across the Narrow Sea so he can fuck and breed his aunt and return with four dragons instead of one. Perhaps with children to ride all the others.” Then his green eye caught the sunlight as he leaned forward. “Need I remind you his first act was to save the Young Wolf who has been aided by his uncle the Blackfish? Robb Stark was a green boy, yet he has been a persistent thorn in my father’s side for more than a year. It seems Robb Stark has traded the strength of an army for a dragon. Wonderful.”

“Dragons can be killed.” Joffrey smiled. Cersei felt only pride. My brave lion. “The Dornish proved it.”

Tyrion snorted. He doubled over, and his jutting forehead hit the table with a bang. “Ow!” He rubbed the growing bump and winced through the pain. “I’ve never seen you pick up a book much less read. Color me surprised you know a shred of history.”

“Enough!” Tywin snarled, his patience at an end. The golden whiskers on his face granted him a fierceness unmatched in lesser men. Mace Tyrell cowed away while Tyrion was subdued. “Together we shattered Stannis Baratheon. A man who men speak of as the greatest military mind in all of Westeros and yet now he is some beggar king on Dragonstone. Together we cornered Robb Stark at Riverrun and Balon Greyjoy is dead. There will be one king of Westeros and together we will see that it is my grandson with Lady Margaery at his side and their children ruling after them. Together we will forge a dynasty that will last a thousand years.”

He stood and took flexed his command. “Lord Mace, you will send word to your bannermen. They are to send men up the Rose Road to defend the city. Tyrion you will see if you can recall your savages, we will have need of their skills. We will send word to the Crownlands and raise levies. Thousands can be raised in weeks.”

Tyrion cocked a brow. “Thousands of peasants and farmers. Untrained and untested. They’ll be cut to pieces if you make them fight on such notice.”

Tywin cocked a brow. “You have fought in a battle Tyrion. Do not tell me you do not know the importance of fodder. The Northmen are weak and scattered. By the time they rally we will be upon them and they do themselves no favors lingering at the Twins. We’ll march up the Kingsroad with a superior force and destroy them before they can within a hundred leagues of the city.”

“As you say, father.”

Tywin called out for the Kingsguard. Ser Arys entered. “Escort Sansa Stark back to her rooms. Double her guard and see to it that she is never alone. Two maidservants are to be with her at all times, even as she bathes.”  

Ser Arys nodded. Tears spilled from Sansa’s eyes, but the girl went with the Kingsguard without protest.

“Wise move father,” Tyrion muttered. “Anything happens to that girl and this Jon Snow might burn us all.”

Chapter Text

Before

Jon Snow

“I never knew my mother,” Jon Snow spat. He stared down at the two figures before him. By the shape of their bodies beneath their hooded robes and their voices he knew they were women. Tall for the fairer sex, they stood nearly eye to eye with him. Their faces were hidden by lacquered masks and the light of the candles were too dim for Jon to determine their eye color.

Visitors to Greywater Watch outside of the other Crannogmen were exceptionally rare. Only Jon’s father was one who could be considered a regular visitor (and he only made the journey at most once a year) and he had to be guided to the castle. For the lands around Greywater Watch were treacherous, a swamp filled with fearsome lizard lions and snakes large enough to swallow a man whole. The castle itself sat on a crannog, a man-made isle that made the castle impossible for outsiders or even ravens to find.

Not impossible for these two. Jon thought. His suspicions had not quelled, even when Lord Reed greeted the two masked women with courtesy great enough for queens. Lord Reed was a small, soft spoken man; often sickly from the wound he had taken in the war. Yet after the Lord emerged from his private conversation, he was paler than Jon had ever seen. As if he had seen a Ghost.

Now Jon sat alone with the women, save for Ghost in a corner room off the Great Hall that served as the castle’s modest library. He had read every book on the shelves. His wolf was silent and alert at one corner with watchful red eyes that did not stray from the robed figures.

“But I am sure you have heard rumors of her?” The one on the right asked. They sat across from Jon, a small table between them. Both wore dark robes made black in the light of the candles. The right one was the smaller of the two though only by an inch or less.

Jon clenched his jaw. “Why does it matter?”

A laugh came from the one on the left. “Are you always this rude to those who come to visit?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t have too many visitors here. And it is considered poor practice in most places to wear masks and not remove them at your hosts requests.”

Throaty laughter resounded throughout the room. Jon briefly felt foolish but schooled his face into a scowl. “Have you made such a request?” The one on the left asked. Her voice was almost playful.

“I am making it now,” Jon said, his voice firm.

“Very well, my prince.” The one on the left said. She shared a look with her companion and threw back her hood. Silver-gold hair spilled forth from her head down her back. It was the same shade as Jon’s own. He sat straighter in his seat. Her companion did the same and raven black locks spilled forth. “We hide our faces not for a trick or to scare but because the attention we would draw would be distracting.”

When their faces were revealed Jon knew they spoke the truth. His eyes widened, and he was driven speechless. The woman to his left was a beauty that would be heralded in the halls of Old Valyria. Her face was heart-shaped, her skin smooth and pale like cream. Flawless. The candles seemed to brighten allowing to Jon to take stock of the color of her eyes. One was a deep dark blue while the other was a bright green. Her lips were full and pink. Widening into a seductive smile in response to his reaction.

Her companion was nearly as beautiful. Light olive skin, nary a blemish with laughing violet eyes and high cheekbones. Lips a shade darker curved upward. He felt a flush come on his face. They let him gaze at them in silence until he gained control of his faculties.

“And now you know why.” The blonde woman set her elbow on the table and leaned forward. “Now Jon Snow, tell us what you know about your mother.”

Jon swallowed. He stared at the blonde woman’s mismatched eyes for the dozenth time. Save for his own silver-hair, his heterochromatic eyes were his most notable feature. Who are you?

The blonde woman smiled. “We will share our names soon enough. Speak Jon Snow.”

He felt compelled to answer her honestly. “I-” The words stilled in his throat. What did he truly know about his mother? How many times had he wanted to ask his father only to be dissuaded by Lord Reed? Your father loved your mother very much Jon but there is a pain that comes with loving a woman and losing her before her time. It is best not to reopen wounds. He will tell you when the time is right. “Just rumors,” Jon Snow answered.

“Tell us of these rumors you have heard,” The dark-haired woman spoke. Her voice was just as lovely as the look of her.

“She’s dead.” What else would explain why his father never spoke of her? Why Lord Stark left Jon in Greywater Watch away from his siblings? “I think I killed her.”  

“Women die in childbirth all the time Jon Snow. The world does have its cruelties,” The raven-haired woman soothed.

“And did you ever hear a name?” The blonde questioned.

He shook his head, but his jaw clenched at a memory that came to him from a rare visit to Winterfell. Your mother was a whore. A beautiful perfumed one from Lys. Her people are famous for it. Big purple eyes and silver-gold hair with an even better pussy. Not even honorable Lord Stark could resist. Then he felt the guilt. Why else would Lord Stark spend time and coin on a whore’s son? Theon Greyjoy. He still remembered the pain from breaking his right hand on the Greyjoy’s jaw. Jon flexed his right hand to dissipate the tension in his knuckles.

“No,” Jon Snow said coldly. He took a breath to master his emotions and then turned his gaze on the two beauties before him. “My father never spoke of her. Neither did Lord Reed though I know he knows who she is. So, unless you can tell me anything of substance then I think this conversation is at an end.”

The blonde woman leaned back in her seat. Mirth on her face was plain. Her eyes glimmered in the light. “Half a boy and yet he speaks like a man should.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “I am of age.” Six and ten though no one could tell him his exact birth date. Still, by the laws of all the Seven Kingdoms he was a man.

“Yes, I think you are.” The blonde eyed him up and down. She loosened her outer robe and her neck was revealed along with her elegant shoulders. Jon failed to place either of their ages, they were older than him perhaps close to Lady Stark’s age with features that would draw every eye in every court in the realm.

The raven-haired beauty swatted her friend’s thigh. “Don’t tease him.” Then with a smile she said, “Not now at least. Tell us Jon Snow, what have you heard of the war?”

“War?” Jon questioned. “The skirmishes in the Riverlands are being called a war now?” Father’s men failed to put an end of the Mountain that Rides?

“I am afraid they are more than a skirmish.” The blonde spoke. Her brow furrowed. “Has Lord Reed truly kept you so blind and deaf on this moving castle of his?”

“My father is Hand of the King; any war will be short-lived, and the realm will be returned to the King’s Peace.” He insisted.  The look of sympathy on both their faces was unsettling. “What is it?”

The raven-haired beauty reached across the table to take his hand in hers. Such contact was startling, but Jon fought the urge to flinch away. “Your father is no longer Hand of the King. He is dead.”

Jon shook his head in disbelief. Father can’t be dead. Tears threatened to sting his eyes. “Arya? And Sansa?” Sansa was to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Arya… fierce little Arya. Everyone knew she was his favorite and he hers. “Tell me!”

“Sansa remains a hostage of the Lannisters. Arya has not been seen in months. Robb Stark came down from Winterfell with an army.” The blonde answered smoothly. Her eyes watched him, hawk-like, as if she was committing his every reaction to memory.

Jon took a breath. “The Lannisters you say. Are they the ones who killed my father?” He could feel the rage stirring beneath the surface. Calm yourself Snow.

“They are,” The blonde replied.

Jon nodded. His rage had cooled to ice in his veins. “And my brother Robb, how goes his war?”

“They call him the Young Wolf,” The raven-haired beauty said. She still bore her look of sympathy.

A smile touched his lips. “Like the Young Dragon, Prince Daeron.” She nodded. “I take it he is winning?”

“For now,” came the blonde’s voice. She arched an elegant eyebrow at him when he frowned. “There are forces at play that your brother has no control over. No means to stand against.”

“Have you heard of Stannis Baratheon?” The raven-haired beauty asked him.

“The King’s brother,” Jon answered. “What of him?”

“He has a witch whispering in his ears and I fear she means to curse Robb Stark along with all the others who stand in the way of Stannis’ path to the throne. Already Renly Baratheon lies in the ground at the hand of Stannis. If a man can order the death of his brother, what makes you think he will have any reservations about killing a Stark?” Her mismatched eyes seemed to peer into his soul.

“Do you mean to scare me?” Jon questioned. He leaned forward so she could take stock of his face. And his lack of fear. “I grew around men descended from the Children of the Forest. Magic flows in my veins. Ghost to me.” The albino wolf was at his side in an instant. Sitting on his haunches, Ghost was eye level with the women. “Let Stannis’ witch curse my brother. I will cut her heart out and make him eat it.”

To his frustration the blonde woman merely smiled. “I like your fire Jon Snow, but you speak boldly and mean to act swiftly yet you have no plan.”

Jon stood. He grabbed his spear from the corner of the room and let the steel tip catch the light. “I will join my brother’s army and avenge my father.”

“And you will die.” The blonde’s voice was deadpan. Bored even.

Jon glared at the beautiful woman. “Valar Morghulis.” Let me die with my spear in hand. Let them say Lord Stark had four sons not three.

She chuckled, ignoring her friend’s pointed looks. “What is it with little boys so eager to answer the call of war before their lives have truly began. Have you even gotten your cock wet?”

Jon faltered for a moment. It was enough. Her smile turned predatory. “Oh? Not even a simple lay? And here I was sure the girls would be beating each other with a stick to get to you. You’re as pretty as Daemon was.”

“His father was the same way.” The raven-haired beauty added.

“You knew my father?” Jon questioned.

She nodded carefully. “And your uncle.”

“Benjen?”

She shook her head. “Brandon.”

Jon swallowed. Her answer through his mind for a loop. The only story he knew of Brandon was the Tourney of Harrenhal. Lord Stark did not like to talk about his brother nor his sister. “Who are you?”

“You should sit,” She said.

“I think I’ll stand.”

“Sit,” The blonde commanded.

Jon found himself in his seat, his spear leaning against the wall. A fog clouded his mind. Ghost’s sudden growl cut through the confusion. Ghost never growls.

“Quiet wolf.” Ghost grew silent once again.

“Do not be alarmed, Jon.” The raven-haired beauty said gently. She smiled at him reassuringly. “I said I knew your father and while I knew Ned only briefly, I spent many years with your real father. He was my brother’s best friend.”

“You aren’t any sense. Ned Stark is my real father.” He stressed the word in mockery.

She shook her head. “No, while that may be your truth. It is a truth that was fabricated to protect you. Your real father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“No,” Jon Snow bit out. “I don’t know why you came all this way to lie-”

“You believe we came all this way to lie? That we found a moving castle in the middle of a swamp to lie to a bastard that he is the son of a dead prince? You were so ready to run off to war with your brother… sorry cousin but now you run from the truth? Are you a coward Jon Snow?”

Jon’s temper flared fiercely. He stood in indignation.  A curse was on his lips. The room darkened momentarily, pitch black save for the moonlight that came through the porthole. Then he found himself up against the wall the blonde woman pressed against him. A dagger was at his throat. She’s fast. Jon thought with a mix of excitement and fear. He hadn’t seen her move.

“Sheira!” The raven-haired beauty exclaimed.

Ghost’s snarl was far louder this time. His hackles raised and the direwolf looked ready to leap across the table.

Rather than fear, Jon found a playful smirk on the blonde’s face. “Call off your wolf.”

He met her with a smile. “Kill me and Ghost will rip you both to shreds.” His words carried the weight of a promise.

Her brow arched. “Kill you? I only just met you, Jon Snow. Consider this a test of your reflexes.” She waved a finger in front of his face. “Unfortunately, it seems you failed.” He made to catch her wrist, but she twisted away from him. Through his third-eye, Jon felt Ghost crouch. His wolf calculated the best trajectory to tackle the woman without bringing Jon down with them. 

“Now Ghost!” Jon ordered shoving her away from, her knife nicked his neck as he shoved her elbow toward her.

The blonde was just as quick. “Ashara!” She called out. Before Ghost’s feet could leave the ground, a cloud of powder hit the wolf full in the face. Ghost sneezed violently, he fell back into one of the shelves of books lining the walls, knocking several books loose. Ghost sneezed once again, and another wave of books hit the floor. Their spines split on impact and papers were thrown about. To Jon’s surprise, Ghost snapped at the paper and the air as if he had lost his wits.

“What did you do?” Jon snarled at the raven-haired woman.

His attention was wrenched away as his head was slammed against the wall. Dazed, Jon barely registered the feel of the blonde-haired woman’s tongue swiping at his neck. He shuddered and this close to her the smell of her filled his nostrils. She smelled like an ocean breeze with a hint of sweetness he could not identify. His cock stiffened. This time his shove was successful in separating them.

The blonde glared at him haughtily. Blood was on her bottom lip. My blood. Jon realized. He felt his neck, but the wound was already dry. Ghost still snapped at the air, his pupils wide and unseeing. He looked for his spear, but it was at the opposite corner of the room.

“Calm your wolf, warg.” Her outer robe fell away baring her arms to his eye. Her undershirt wrapped tight around her torso, showcasing her full bosom and small waist. She was slender with enough muscle to lend a grace to her body.

“It is merely dream powder. Ghost is merely having a waking dream.” The raven-haired woman spoke. She too stood, her expression wary. Jon decided the blonde was more of a threat, but an eye should be kept on the raven-haired woman as well.

He tensed his body to alertness while reaching through his third eye to Ghost. Rabbits bouncing through a field graced his vision. In response, Jon sent Ghost his own mental image of the room, the women and the wolf snapping at air. Sense returned to the animal and Ghost’s ears perked. Jon went to stand by his wolf, a table between them and the two strange women. “Who are you?” He demanded once again. What are you? He thought when he looked at the blonde. That predatory look in her eye had a new meaning for him.

“Who are you is the better question?” The blonde grinned.

Jon scowled. “I am tired of your evasiveness. I say I am Jon Snow, bastard of Eddard Stark. You name me Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard. So, who is to say?”

“Who said anything about a bastard?” The raven-haired woman questioned. “Rhaegar married Lyanna in front of a heart tree. You are trueborn Jon Snow.”

His heart sunk. Lyanna…Lord Stark abandoned me here not because I am his bastard but because I am his sister’s rape child. Everyone knew the Starks went to war because his aunt…his mother was stolen.

The emotions must have been plain on his face for the raven-haired woman was quick to clarify. “The wedding was not under duress. Your mother married Rhaegar willingly. I was there at the wedding as was my brother. If the lies the Usurper spread were true, then we would have never consented.”

Jon could not believe her. “Uncle Brandon marched down to King’s Landing to save his sister. The Mad King killed his friends and held him prisoner for half a year. Rhaegar Targaryen stole my-” ‘Mother’ caught in his throat. “Lyanna. And then he raped her. Raped her and made me. What else would make sense?”

“That your Uncle Brandon was a fool,” The blonde said flippantly. “That your grandfather, the sane one, cared more for his family’s ambitions rather than his daughter’s happiness. Lyanna made a choice to break away from Robert Baratheon and Prince Rhaegar was that choice. Her father knew the length of his daughter’s will. And you can be damn sure her brothers knew of Lyanna’s unhappiness. The truth of the matter is that Lyanna made a choice that women are often not allowed to make.”

The raven-haired woman smiled sadly.  “Lyanna chose love and Brandon could not accept that. He rode to the capital to bring his sister back. So, she could do her duty and wed her betrothed.”

The blonde woman stalked to the edge of the table. “And then he challenged the Crown Prince of the Realm to come out and die. Even a sane king would have had his tongue for that and Aerys was far from sane.”

Jon’s temper brewed. “Why are you telling me this? And this time answer the fucking question. Who are you?”

“We are telling you this, Jon Snow, because your mother named you Prince Daemon Targaryen. Second son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, named for two of the most formidable warriors the realm has ever seen. She was certain that you would one day be spoken of in their company.” The raven-haired beauty’s smile was reassuring.

“As to who we are.” The blonde pointed to her friend.

“Ashara Dayne.” The raven-haired woman spoke. His eyes widened. “You should be dead,” he insisted.

The blonde laughed. “Well, I suppose if we are counting then I should be long dead. Yet here I am. As beautiful as ever. Go on and say my name. That should be hint enough.”

Jon racked his brain. He took a long glance at her perfect features. Her long silver-blonde locks and beautiful eyes. Some might have labeled the mismatched eyes an imperfection, but he found them the opposite. It can’t be. “You would be well over one hundred years old.” Sheira, Ashara called her.

The blonde smiled. A flash of perfect white teeth and canines that were strangely sharp. “Who is counting?”

“Sheira Seastar. One of Aegon the Unworthy’s Great Bastards.”

Sheira’s nose wrinkled. “How great of a deed does one need to perform for their name not to be associated with their lecherous father’s prolific…” She struggled for a word. “Lechery.” The woman shrugged. “Very good nephew. And most promising it seems being raised in this shithole has not stunted your wits too much. I take it you can read?”

Jon’s face twitched. Greywater Watch was small and simple compared to the outside world, he had seen so little of, but it was still home. “I can.”

“Who taught you? There is no Maester here.”

“Lady Jyanna.” She had taught him before she passed and made him promise in front of the Weirwood that he would read from a book every day. It was a promise Jon had kept.

The two women nodded. “Can you fight?” Lady Ashara questioned.

Before Jon could answer, Sheira spoke. “Not very well it seems. There is no Master at Arms here. No knights. I bet you were gifted that spear, but you haven’t used it for much more than hunting.”

“I’ve spared with many here.” Mainly Meera but these two need not know that.

Sheira’s laugh was musical and infuriating. “The Crannogmen are many things but they are far from warriors. They are small and well suited to attack from the shadows, unseen and well suited to bleed back into their bogs. You would find no true challenge here on strength alone.”

“Did you spar at Winterfell Jon?”

“I have.” He had. Ser Rodrick had looked down on the use of his spear. Naming it a peasant’s weapon. Instead, Jon held a sword in hand and was set against the other trainees. Quickness and strength earned him many wins against the green boys, but it had all been a ruse to make him overconfident when he spared Robb. Their bout had been quick and embarrassing. I would be better than him if I had the same training. There was no master of arms in Greywater and Winterfell would never be his true home. Neither Stark nor Snow… Targaryen seemed too alien.

“He has much to learn,” Sheira told Ashara. Ashara nodded in agreement.

“Did you two come all this way with no purpose other than informing me that I am not Lord Stark’s son?”

Ashara cocked her head. “Ned Stark loved you as much as his own sons even if he was not allowed to often show it. Rhaegar and Lyanna would have loved you as well.”

He shrugged. Not knowing how to react to her words. Rhaegar and Lyanna were dead. Their love meant nothing to him. Father is dead too. He clenched his fist and the tears dried before they could fall. Steeling his voice, he asked, “Do you expect me to announce this to the realm? How many Great Lords will support a silver-haired bastard who claims he is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen? The son no one knew about?”

“Not many Jon. But that is not why we are here,” Ashara spoke.

“You said you wished to help your brother. To avenge your father and save if your sisters if possible?” Sheira questioned. Jon nodded measuredly. “Your brother does not need your spear, there are two dozen warriors surrounding him at all times that are all better than you. He may need your wolf, however. Ghost would be better served as eyes at Robb Stark’s side.”

“And you would have me sit here and do nothing? I am no coward.” Jon bit out.

“No, but have you stopped to think why news of the war has been so absent? Lord Reed has already sent a detachment of men to defend the causeway to the North. Why weren’t you made aware?” Sheira’s barbed questions only served to fuel his annoyance.

“I will have answers from him soon enough.”

“I have your answer,” Sheira stated. “You are too brash. The drive to prove your worth and make a name for yourself makes you reckless. Jon Snow wants the world to know that he matters and that makes Jon Snow his own greatest enemy. Robb Stark nor his sisters do not need Jon Snow. The sum of your contribution to his cause would be minimal. It was doomed to fail as soon as he sent the Greyjoy North. Now Ironmen run amuck in the King’s homeland while he is a thousand miles south.” She sat in her seat and crossed her long legs. “Your brother will die, and his war will be lost.”

“You said Robb is winning,” Jon insisted.

“Indeed, he has won every battle, but wars are not merely fought on the battlefield. They are fought at court, in conversation and they are won with alliances and decisive political actions.” Ashara spoke. She too sat, and Jon found himself sitting. A welcoming smile touched her full lips. Longing stirred in Jon’s chest.

“And Robb has done none of those?”

Ashara shook her head. “I fear not.”

“I won’t sit idly by while my family dies,” Jon spoke. Robb and Arya were no longer his brother and sister. Nor Bran and Rickon, or even Sansa. But they were still his kin.

“We are not asking you too. In fact, quite the opposite. Tell me, Jon, if you had the ability to bring a hundred thousand men to your brother’s aid, would you?” Sheira questioned. The playful smirk was back on her lips.

Jon scoffed at the absurdity. “If there were a hundred thousand men who would fight for the North then I would do so in a heartbeat.”

Sheira nodded. “I thought so. I cannot promise the men, but we believe there exists something even better.”

“Better than a hundred thousand men?” Jon’s brow arched. “Now you’ll tell me that there is an ancient and forgotten dragon somewhere in Westeros waiting for a rider.”

Sheira laughed. “I think we will get along very well nephew. Very well indeed.”

Ashara shook her head good-naturedly. Her deep violet eyes affixed to Jon. “If you want to save your brother’s life and save your family a lot of pain and misery then you must come with us.”

“Yes, Jon.” Sheira purred. “It is time to kill the boy and let the dragon be born.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

“Are you sure you want to do this Jon? I fear this is a path you cannot walk away from once you set foot on it.” Lord Reed’s mud brown eyes were as serious as Jon had ever seen. By the time Jon was twelve he had surpassed Howland Reed in height, but he still looked up to the short Lord as much as he did his father. What the man lacked in height, he made up for in wisdom.

Jon nodded carefully. All the rage he felt at being lied to had dissipated the instant he came into Lord Reed’s presence.

“We made a promise to Lyanna to keep you safe. Giving you a Northern name and leaving you here with me was the only option available to us.” Howland Reed had explained. “The rumors your father spread about your mother were meant to give some plausibility regarding your appearance. I think Ned had hoped the lies would be widespread and believable enough that you could make a life for yourself without fear of assassination. Perhaps the south of the Neck would have never been truly safe but the North…”

Lord Reed sighed. “The gods were too cruel taking your mother from us at such a young age. I see much of her in you. Please forgive me that I could not tell you the truth. The vow of silence I swore to your uncle was not released, even in death.”

Jon clasped the smaller man’s shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive, my Lord. I would not be alive if were not for the kindness of you and your family.” He bowed his head in respect. “I will be eternally in debt to your house.”

Their exchange had been over a week ago. In that time, he gave a final goodbye to Ghost who he had released on the dry banks shouldering the marsh lands. To his shame, Jon had shed tears then. Ghost was his closest friend and it felt wrong to be separated from the wolf.

“I will see you again boy. I don’t know when, but I will,” Jon whispered. He hugged the wolf fiercely and then watched from their crannog as the albino wolf slipped through the trees. Running west.

“Direwolves do not fare well on ships. And he would draw far too much scrutiny,” Shiera had explained. The beautiful woman was strangely sympathetic and did not comment on his tears. Ashara was even more so. She pulled him into a warm embrace and did not release him until his blood was set a boil at their prolonged contact. Jon had pulled away from her in embarrassment and sat in silence at the corner of the crannog until his erection subsided. 

She is old enough to be your mother. Jon reminded himself. In fact, Ashara shared the same birth year as Lyanna Stark. Jon wondered if his mother would look as timeless as the two beauties before him if she still had lived. Does Lady Ashara not age like Shiera? The women shared a strange connection. Often, they seemed to communicate with just looks alone. He was not sure if their connection was magical or simply one bred out of decades of familiarity.  

The weeks on their moss and wood isle passed quickly. Marsh lands in the neck stretched from coast to coast if one knew how to navigate and Jon had explored these lands with Meera and Jojen for hundreds of miles. They passed other Crannogmen who knew Jon by sight, even the ones who lived more than a hundred miles from Greywater Watch. Simple folk looked at with scorn by the rest of Westeros. The perfect people to hide a dead prince’s son amongst. Often the Crannogmen would approach to touch his hair or stare at him in wonder but none had ever questioned his parentage nor looked down at him for his bastardy. They were better people than most.

Their crannog was well sized and provisioned for the journey. It was Lord Reed’s final gift; one Jon would return once they reached the coast as the vessel was not built to sail the sea. There was a curving hut built to withstand the winds. Atop of it sat square sails and the base of the crannog was made of wooden stilts built on a floating bed of mud and reeds.

Lady Ashara seemed most impressed by his ability to navigate the marshes. He moved to adjust the sails, measured the changes in the wind by instinct and experience, circumvented sand bars and deceptively shallow pools as Lord Reed had taught him. Meera was better but Jon was a close second. She sat with him most often through the day, wearing her robes and hood despite the heat and humidity. Her mask was left in the two large trunks that held all ladies’ possessions.

Jon found her a most pleasant company. She was fond of questioning almost every detail of his life. His childhood, his relationship with his cousins, Jyanna and Meera and Jojen. Lady Ashara took particular interest in the latter once he mentioned Jojen’s greensight.

The boy’s dreams were often confusing and could be misinterpreted but they leant him great wisdom. Jojen was held in high respect by all the Crannogmen for the gift of greensight was rare but welcomed.

“Is he the one who trained you to learn how to use your gift? How to warg?” Ashara asked.

Jon nodded. He looked at her, waiting for some sign of trepidation or even fear. Wargs were rare in the neck but skinchangers while uncommon were not unheard of. Even for a people so closely connected to the Children of the Forest regarded many who possessed the gift with suspicion. For good reason. Stories spoke of the Marsh Kings who once claimed dominion over the Neck. They were cruel men whose power was fueled by sorcery. Legions of lizard-lions under their thrall would fall upon any who opposed them until finally, the Old Kings of Winter fell upon them with Fire and Sword. Slew the last Marsh King and all his sons and took his daughters as wives. The rest of Westeros had their own stories, most of them not positive. The gift could be a weapon lent to a privileged few.

There was no fear he could detect in Lady Ashara. Only intrigue. “Jojen taught once he heard of my wolf dreams. Now he and Meera are heading North to teach Bran and Rickon.” The last bit he had learned just before his departure. Jon had thought the two’s absence was due to them visiting the Blackmyres or the Boggs as they often were prone to do. More secrets held from me. Jon flexed his right hand. If he had known, then he might have joined them.

“Is Ghost your only familiar?” She questioned. Her head tilted and the way the sunlight caught her violet eyes nearly made Jon spill the whole truth. He stopped himself.

“I had a hawk once, but it died.” Fyrewing he had named it for it had dark wings with a strip of red on the undersides of its wings. Jon had found the bird half drowned in marsh and pulled it from the water before a pack of otters could make a meal of it. Nursing the bird back to health had formed their bond. A strong one, there were few things more exhilarating than soaring in the skies under the power of your own wings. Nothing more devastating than a hunter’s arrow through the heart. Jon’s wrath had been fierce. Ghost had caught the hunter’s scent and tracked the man back to the hovel he called a home. He could still remember the man’s screams… and the flow of warm blood on his tongue. And the man’s wife…

Shiera was a different sort of company than Ashara. She spent the sun lit hours in the long hall, avoiding the rays of the sun like a plague. Yet Jon was not sure she slept, at least not deeply. Her eyes found his when he entered the hall. The reed mat that served as their doorway swayed behind him. A black sheet had been hung up over the cot of sheets and furs that served as bedding and Shiera pulled the back the sheet to regard him. “Jon, have you come to keep company?” Her tone remained perpetually playful.

He frowned at her, wondering if she was playing a trick. Why did I come in here? His original intent was lost to him. Before he could make his exit, Shiera smiled a disarmingly. The bit of light that slipped through the dark sheet and elsewhere where the boards of the hut were not quite flush made her eyes gleam. Silver-gold hair spilled in an elegant mess about her face.

“Lose the boots and come join me,” She curled her finger at him in invitation. Jon sighed and kicked his boots off his feet. He padded across the wood floor barefooted to Shiera. The woman pulled back the curtain allowing him entry. His breath nearly hitched at the sight of her. Her robes had been traded for a sleeping slip that was nearly sheer. The smooth fabric stopped above mid-thigh, showcasing the near entirety of her long legs. Thin straps were all that held the fabric to her shoulder. With every movement he could see the bounce of her full bosom.

Jon stilled at the sight. It took a long moment for him to master himself. Weeks spent with these women had not lessened their effect on him. He made to sit but Shiera pulled him till he lay next her on a pillow. She snuggled against him, pressing her nose into his neck. Jon’s arm wrapped around her waist while she draped a long leg across his waist. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Did you get bored of sweet Ashara?” Shiera purred.

“No,” Jon said truthfully. Lady Ashara was wonderful company. While their conversation was a more than adequate entertainment to combat the tedium of traveling, Ashara remained evasive of her past. She was fond of learning all that she could about him but his questions as to why she faked her death or what she had been occupied for the near two decades Westeros thought her dead either went unanswered or were deflected for some other topic. He threaded his fingers through Shiera’s long locks. “You two hold your secrets as if they were made of the finest gems.”

She grinned. “What would you like to know?”

“A great deal of things. First, why do you avoid the sunlight like the plague?”

“Perhaps I am merely nocturnal,” Shiera replied quickly. Her fingers traced a pattern across his chest.

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Nocturnal would imply that you sleep during the day. I don’t think I have seen you sleep at all.”

“Does that alarm you?” Shiera pressed. Her caress of his chest had not stopped. She is trying to distract me. Jon realized. He grabbed her wrist to still the motion.

“No,” he denied. He knew such knowledge should alarm him. Shiera’s very presence seemed overflowing with the promise of hidden power and knowledge. More than a hundred years of youth would grant her time and opportunities that few could match.

Her pink lips curved upward. “If it helps you sleep at night then you should be glad to know that I do need to rest. Let us call it a waking a sleep. I need less of it than you do but I still need it all the same.” Then in his ear she whispered, “There are other things I need as well. With much greater frequency perhaps, you can help me with those too.”

Jon swallowed heavily. “I’m not sure if I should believe half the things you say or write them off as teasing.”

She shrugged. “I do like seeing you blush. You are even cuter when you do. So innocent but with so much potential. Exciting really. You remind me of-” Shiera stopped for a moment to reconsider her words. “Never mind that. Grow used to the teasing, it is not likely to stop.”

She has her secrets as well. “How are you alive?” He asked her for what must have been the tenth time. Every answer was slightly different. Every answer left him with more questions.

“Through concerted effort and great sacrifice.” Once again, her nose nuzzled against his neck and then her lips were pressing against his pulse. “You’ve already asked me this. Think of something else.”

Jon made an effort to ignore the effect she was having on his body. “Where are we going?” Questions he had certainly answered both her and Ashara even before their departure. The two remained frustratingly evasive. Perhaps I am a fool for going with them. The thought of helping his family drove him onward but he had no idea how this journey would in anyway help Robb. Robb fights for his people in the Riverlands and we mean to sail the Narrow Sea.

“When you need to know then you will. Not sooner nor later.” Shiera replied as her words were in anyway satisfactory. Sometimes the journey is more important than the destination. Had been Ashara’s answer when he put her to question. I am a poor interrogator.

“I am not a child. Nor do I see the purpose of omitting any detail of importance from me. How am I supposed to plan and prepare?” His appeal did little.

Shiera cocked a brow. “I could be your grandmother more than thrice over. If I name you a child then you are one and do not worry your pretty head my child, we will take care of you.”

Jon glared. “You don’t look old enough to be my grandmother and like I said, I should be prepared for any trials to come.”

“Oh, if Rhaella still lived I have no doubt that she would still be quite beautiful. Valyrian blood tends to grant longevity.”

This woman was most skilled at ignoring his inquiries. She was so skilled at turning the topic of conversation that Jon might have labeled it magic. Don’t let her distract you. “If you won’t tell me our destination or even our purpose then at least tell me this, why me? Why did you decide to come to Greywater Watch instead of going anywhere else?”

Shiera pouted. “Why Jon, you know our purpose. You want to save your family and we mean to help you. Is that so hard to understand? As for why we are helping you, who else would we help?”

“Robb. He is a king with an army and clear lineage.”

“I bear no relation to the Starks. Helping you, helps them and that is enough for me.” Not your purpose. Jon realized; he would store her answer as a piece of an unclear puzzle.

“And what makes me so special?” Jon pressed.

“You are Prince Daemon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne. I’d say you’re the most special man in the Seven Kingdoms.” Her eyes glimmered and her flattery threatened to overwhelm him.

Jon took a breath to regain his wits. “As I recall, Viserys Targaryen was forced across the Narrow Sea as a child. If being a Targaryen is what makes me so special, then why not help my uncle or aunt? I think they could have used your help more than I.”

Her smile was almost predatory. “We are all merely sailors on the seas of fate, Jon. Would that I could have spared those two poor souls from all the horrors in the world. But the trials have made your aunt stronger than she ever would have been if she lived a life of comfort. You too, I suspect would have had the strength to face what the world threw at you, but your guardians took the promise they made Lyanna Stark too literally. They sought to protect you, hide you at the threat of your very potential. That could not be allowed.”

This time Jon cocked a brow. “My potential? How can you be so sure that I will amount to anything meaningful? I might be trueborn but who will believe it? Who will care that I am Rhaegar’s son?”

Shiera stroked his face. “More than you would believe. Especially when they have the chance to gaze upon you. Daemon won friends with his looks alone.”

Daemon Blackfyre. It was strange to speak of someone who died so long ago with such great familiarity. He did not like the comparison. “I have no intention of being the next Blackfyre.”

Shiera laughed her musical laugh. “The king that sits the Iron Throne is no true king. Daemon rebelled against Daeron the Good and split the realm apart. Is there anyone other than his mother who believes Joffrey is a good king? No, when the realm hears of the return of Rhaegar’s son they will cheer.”

“Robb already has the love of his people,” Jon countered. They may have been raised in different castles and seen each other only a few rare occasions but Jon knew his cousin was a good person. What trueborn son will kneel to a bastard anyways?

Shiera’s eyes gleamed. “Fortunately, your cousin will be in your debt when you save his life. Let that be your source of ambition and clear your doubts.” Her thumb brushed his lips. “You need to have more confidence in yourself. Men always question the worth of those in command but to have any sort of success those that lead must they themselves believe that they are worthy.”

Unable to resist he kissed her thumb. And then her palm and then her wrist. Shiera cupped the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss. The taste of her. Jon moaned as her tongue slipped past his lips to play with his own. They curled against each other; her one leg wrapped around his waist while they lay on their sides. If his cock could get any harder, then he knew not how.

Shiera’s eyes were playful when they finally parted. She rolled him onto his back and straddled his waist. Jon gasped as their sexes came in contact through the fabric of their clothing. Her nipples were hard studs pressing insistently against the fabric of her slip. Silver-gold hair hung like a loose mane from her head, mixing with his own when she leaned down to kiss him again.

His hands found her thighs and he delighted in caressing the soft and smooth skin. Some form of dark magic extended Shiera’s life force but she felt just as real and alive as any woman could. More so even for every brush against her skin sent pinpricks rushing through Jon’s own.

Her heady scent filled his nose, threatening a descent for him into a lust fueled madness. She grabbed at his thread shirt and pushed above his head so that his torso was bare. To his utter delight, her slip was soon to follow. He drank in the sight of her body. Shiera’s breast were full, tear dropped shaped and caped with pale pink nipples. Her belly was toned, her waist thin and her hips well rounded. She was nude save for an exotic pair of smallclothes made of dark Myrish lace that concealed her pussy from his hungry eyes. Somehow the obstructing garment made Jon’s want for her even greater.

She rolled and bucked her hips in a dance atop his cock. The look she gave him was so seductive that Jon nearly spilled in an instant. Shiera recognized his plight, delighted by the intensity of his reaction she dragged out of him. “Careful Prince, we are only just getting started.” Her fingers found his nipples and gave a twist. The sudden pain was enough to pull him back from the edge.

In response, Jon kneaded the cheeks of her bottom then laid a harsh slap. First one cheek and then when he saw the sudden flash of desire in Shiera’s eyes he repeated the contact on the other. “Fuck,” Jon muttered as her cunt dragged back and forward on top of his cock. His large hands gripped Shiera’s bottom tightly, aiding her motions.

The bounce of her breasts as she rode him was too tantalizing a sight for him to ignore. He rose onto his elbows and tipped Shiera forward, so he could suckle on her nipples. Her buds stiffened under his tongue.

“Play with them as you suck.” Shiera ordered. He did his best to comply. He cupped her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palm. They were large though not outrageously so without sag or blemish. Jon stroked the undersides and kissed and licked around her nipples as Shiera instructed. Even the taste of her skin was intoxicating. There was the saltness of her sweat that left a delicious after taste on his tongue every time he kissed her.

Shiera then cupped her heavy breasts and fed him each nipple one after the other. Feeling mischievous, Jon teased the nips between his teeth. She hissed and pulled on his head, so he was all but smothered by her bosom. Still, Shiera rode him.

She gave a shove and Jon found himself on his back once again. The haughty, beautiful smirk she gave him set his blood to boil, his seed churned in his balls.

“You’re ready to burst, aren’t you?” Shiera reached between his legs to grip his turgid cock. Jon’s hips stuttered as she stroked him through his pants. “It would be such a shame to make such a big mess in these pants.” Deftly her fingers undid the laces and Jon lifted his hips, so she could push his pants and smallclothes down his legs. They tangled at mid-thigh but Shiera’s attention was devoted to his cock. Released from confinement, it slapped against his belly with an audible smack. Precum leaked from his tip. One elegant hand encircled his base while the other played with his tip. She was smirking again. “No wonder you are still a virgin. I don’t think this would fit in these tiny crannogwomen.”

Jon could hardly believe his eyes at the sight before him. Nude and kneeling before him with her hands wrapped around his length, Jon fully understood why Bloodraven and Bittersteel went to war over this woman. Her breasts shook with every stroke of his cock and the words that left her perfect lips were of the highest caliber of filth. “Cum all over my fingers so I can taste you.” She bent over and placed a chaste kiss on the crown of his cock. Jon cried out as her lips enveloped his crown and her tongue teased and played with his slit. He squirmed as the tip of her tongue wriggled inside. Shiera smirked around him and suckled lightly while her hands pumped up and down his cock.

It was impossible for him to last under such ministrations. To his light disappointment, Shiera pulled away before he could spend in her mouth. Her palm caught his heavy blasts of seed. She stroked him with her soiled hands while he came. It felt as if his balls were doing their best to give Shiera a year’s worth of cum. The feel of her cum streaked fingers gliding up and down his cock was well worth the mess.

Jon groaned as she continued stroking him even after his climax concluded. “Sensitive,” he muttered but Shiera was not to be denied. Instead she slipped his softening cock back between her jaws and proceeded to clean him of his seed. Her mouth bobbed up and down his cock. With nary a breath she took him deep in her throat. A shudder worked through his body as she repeated the action again and again. Her wet mouth worked up and down his shaft, her tongue caressed the veins that lay on the underside of his cock. She pulled back to suck up the puddle of cum pooling at his base then proceeded to lick her hands suck her fingers clean of his seed, all the while staring directly at eyes.

Hard as Valyrian Steel once again, Jon could only thank the gods for his luck.

Shiera smirked once again. “Oh, am I a god now?”

Dazed and still wanting Jon asked, “Did I say that out loud? I would not be surprised if you were.”

“I think I prefer goddess,” Shiera purred. She licked her lips clean and then crawled up his body with feline grace. Jon welcomed her embrace. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He could smell her arousal in the air. His founds found her bottom once again. Impatient he tugged aside her small clothes. This time it was Shiera who lost her composure when his cock nudged against her nether lips. Her wetness spread across his cock and they glided against each other with even greater ease.

His cockhead slid past her lips for a moment but slipped out with her opposing motion. Jon gripped her hips tighter and made to roll her on her back. Shiera’s eyes caught his before he could commit to the motion. They seemed to flash, blue then green and then red but only for an instant. It was enough. His body went limp, but he could feel every sensation.

Shiera’s eyes were heavy lidded as she herself were in a waking dream. Driven by instinct. She turned his head to the side to bare his neck. Her nose pressed against under his chin and she took a deep breath of his scent. Her lips kissed across his skin before settling on his pulse. Lightning seemed to race through his veins at such contact. Her tongue licked his flesh and then he felt the pinprick of her teeth against his neck.

The pleasure was exhilarating. His paralysis was terrifying. A war raged inside of Jon. Half of him wanted to welcome Shiera to her feast. His other half, the part of him driven by self-preservation and logic raged against the bonds she placed upon him. Jon tried to call out to her, but his lips would not move. A pleasurable haze invaded his senses and Jon decided it would be a sweet death…

Then Shiera was tugged away from him. She gave a snarl, a feral sound that awoke him from his haze. Ashara stood between them. A fire raged in her violet eyes and the scorn on her face was plain. “You would jeopardize everything for a meal?” Her voice rang loud in their small hut.

Bloodlust still drove Shiera and when Jon looked at her again her true form was revealed. Her canines had lengthened into needle like teeth and the blue and green irises of her mismatched eyes were as red as blood. Beautiful and deadly, he decided.

“Shiera,” he called to her. Slowly but surely the bloodlust seeped away from her. When gone, Shiera had the grace to look abashed.

“Are you well Jon?” Ashara questioned. Without regard for his nudeness she checked his body herself. Her hands pushed aside his neck length hair to check for bites he presumed. Frustration still evident, Ashara snarled at Shiera once again. “What were you thinking?” The raven-haired beauty pulled Jon into her chest as if he were a frightened child.

“I wouldn’t have drained him,” Shiera denied. Yet she could not meet Ashara’s eyes.

Sensing a brewing argument, Jon interrupted the two before they could begin. “Enough. I am alive and unhurt. Thanks to you, Lady Ashara.” He smiled at her reassuringly. Her face softened. “And I am sure you didn’t mean to drain me.” Shiera nodded measuredly but by the look on her face Jon could tell that she was not even sure if that were the truth.

“However, this is a perfect reason as to why I need more answers. You both ask me to trust you and I have taken a leap of faith in doing so but now it is time for you both to return the favor.” He kept his voice firm and affixed his face into a stern mask to properly convey that he would no longer be swayed.

The beauties shared a look. Both were clearly reluctant still to tell him more. Frustration grew in his chest.

“Jon-” Ashara began. By her tone he knew she meant to dissuade him still.

Jon stood, momentarily forgetting that he was still nude. His cock swayed and slapped against Ashara’s brow. Ignoring how much he wanted to repeat the contact, Jon stared down at the two women. “Either you start speaking or I will go join my brother and to the Seven Hells with both of you.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

He settled sat against the walls of their small hut, still amongst the furs and pillows that made their bedding at Lady Ashara’s urging. Still nude, Jon felt a measure of self-consciousness, but he shoved the feeling away. Shiera had done more than see his body in all its glory and there seemed little point of hiding from Lady Ashara now. The raven-haired beauty settled between he and Shiera. He could not help but smile at her protectiveness. Shiera in contrast lounged amongst the furs. She made no move to dress and Jon still drank in the sight of her body stretched long across the furs. Her long silky thighs were crossed, and she tucked a fist under chin to support her head. Pink nipples were just visible through the strands of her silver-gold hair.

Jon put Shiera to question first. “What are you?” His eyes narrowed. “And no half-answers this time. Or I walk.”

Annoyance flashed across Shiera’s face. The clearing of Ashara’s throat seemed to make her reconsider the hasty reply on her tongue. “It depends on who you ask and who you believe. There are many names for what I am and a thousand different rumors and myths as to what I am. Succubus, Bloodless, Vampyre, Demoness and perhaps a thousand others depending on the religion. Most of them evil but as a warg yourself you should know those rumors can either be overblown or the absolute truth. It all depends on the individual.”

He nodded measuredly. “Are you the same as her?” He asked Lady Ashara. She inclined her head, hiding her face from his eyes behind her raven locks.

Shiera answered for her. “Ashara is a baby compared to me. Practically harmless if that sets you at ease.”

It did not. His face turned stern. “You two have been lying to me the entire time. No, I have to question whether the purpose of our journey is a lie as well. We move in the exact opposite direction of Robb yet you two insist that at the end of this road we are on will lead to me helping him. How do I know this isn’t just some elaborate journey meant to make a meal out of me?”  

Ashara’s look of hurt at his accusation gave Jon pause. “After the time we spent together do you really think so little of me?”

He grimaced. Their departure from Greywater Watch had not been too long ago but Jon had developed a great deal of affection for both women. Ashara especially. It was hard not to enjoy their company. Damnit I am the one who was nearly eaten. I shouldn’t feel guilty.

“Howland Reed is many, but he is no coward. If he had thought you were truly in any danger from us then he would have never let you leave with us,” Shiera added pointedly.

“I bet he did not know you wanted to drain my blood,” Jon responded dryly. His words drew a pout from the blonde.

“Do you think so lowly of me?” She asked, the tone of her voice remarkably similar to Ashara’s.

“I don’t know what to think of you.” His words were honest. From the moment he met them Jon knew their offered journey would be far from ordinary. How could it be with companions such as these? Even after his brush with death, Jon did not regret agreeing to travel with them. I needed to leave Greywater Watch soon anyway. Still, he would no longer follow the beauties blindly. He sighed. “What did you mean Ashara is a baby compared to you? How does that make her less of a threat?”

Shiera pushed her hair over her shoulder, baring her breasts to Jon’s eyes. Focus. He told himself and forced his gaze back to her mismatched orbs. A knowing smile was on her lips. “Well, I am old enough to be her grandmother as well. With my kind the older one is, the more powerful she is.”

“And the greater her weaknesses become.” Ashara was quick to add. Shiera stuck her tongue out at the other woman.

“Weaknesses?” Jon thought aloud. “Sunlight?” Shiera nodded. He thought of the old children tales Lady Jyanna used to tell he and Meera before bed. “Will you burn?”

The question drew a laugh from both of the women. Jon frowned but Ashara patted his shoulder in apology before his anger could get the best of him. “Like Shiera said there are many stories about what we are. Some truthful and others mere fantasy.”

His eyes narrowed. “What is this weakness then?”

Shiera rolled her eyes. “Best just to show you.” She rose from the furs, nude and perfect, and pulled back the thick curtains to step directly into the rays of sunlight that filtered through the window of their hut. He tensed, anticipating something violent. The change Shiera underwent was immediate. Her skin went from its lovely pale tone to a light grey. Her irises went from blue and green to entirely red while the whites were shifted to a silver that nearly matched the color of her hair. Fine claws replaced the nails on her elegant fingers while her canines were long enough to slip past her teeth. Equally beautiful and frightening, staring at Shiera was like staring at a shadowcat or some equally magnificent beast. One that had the power to rip you to shreds. Or fuck you to death. Jon mused.

Her change in appearance was not the only consequence. A pale smoke seemed to emanate from Shiera’s skin wherever the sunlight was most direct. By the wince on her face it appeared painful. She tolerated the sensation long enough for him to full take sight of her before rushing back to their bed of furs and the comfort of the shade. Instead of returning to her original resting place, Shiera crawled over to him to rest between his legs.  Ashara made a sound of protest but Jon was already wrapping his arms around Shiera. Where the sunlight had touched her skin felt uncomfortably hot, like a dark rock that had been left in the sun too long. Her skin however was unblemished, pale and pink now instead of grey.

“So, you don’t burn but sunlight is uncomfortable?” Jon asked.

“Painful,” Shiera mumbled against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his torso and snuggled deeper into his embrace.  

“Is the same for you?” Jon asked Ashara. He had thought it odd that Lady Ashara wore her dark robes during the day but never questioned the quirk to any great detail. You know nothing Jon Snow.

“Less so. The older we get the more debilitating the sun becomes. For me it is a mild discomfort, I can tolerate it for minutes if need be. For Shiera it much worse.” Ashara smiled at him hesitantly. “I am sorry for the deception, Jon. I know this a lot to take in and I can understand if you have lost trust in us. Know that we have your best intention at heart.”

Her voice carried such sincerity that Jon found it impossible not to trust her. Still, he could not allow himself to be so blind. “Is sunlight your only weakness?”

Shiera smiled up at him. “Such a strange question. Are you planning on harming us, Jon?”

“I’m not the one with giant retractable fangs,” Jon countered smoothly.

Ashara laughed and leaned against his arm. “He has a point, Shiera. To answer your question, Jon, sunlight is debilitating but hardly the greatest danger to us. A well-placed sword thrust, or a swing of an axe will bring an end to us far quicker than the sun.”

Shiera traced a finger across his skin. “If they can hit us that is.” Her words carried a boast.

“Your speed,” Jon said, remembering just how quickly Shiera moved the first night he met her. Afterwards he had taken care to observe both women. Each seemed to possess a certain grace to every movement they made as if they possessed a lightness of limb not commonly found in normal people. And now I know why.

She nodded but it was Ashara who spoke. “A bit of her speed and a bit of illusion. Physically Shiera and I are not much different than normal women… well longevity and healing factor aside… what I mean is we are far from the creatures of stories who can tear apart men with our bare hands.”

Shiera snorted. “Ashara sells us so short. Why would I need to kill men with my bare hands? Am I cave bear or some other wild beast?” Jon shook his head with a smile. “Beauty and grace and a bit of sorcery make us far more dangerous or lovely depending on your perspective. Wouldn’t you agree Jon?”

“I would,” he admitted. Lovely is an understatement.

There was a dozen more questions on his mind begging to be asked. First, “But the stories of the blood drinking are true. By Lady Ashara’s reaction I take it they can sometimes be fatal?”

Shiera’s smile lost some of its luster. “I wouldn’t have drained you.”

Ashara made a sound of disagreement. “It looked like you were poised to drink him dry.”

Sensing an argument, Jon decided to interrupt the two beauties before their ire could escalate. “I’m assuming blood is your main form of sustenance?”

Ashara shook her head. “No. We still need food just like you Jon.”

“But blood is necessary as well.” Shiera interrupted. She shifted, rubbing her belly against his still hard cock. “I eat and drink just like you, but I need blood to keep my gifts, without it…” She trailed off, preoccupied with tracing a vein on his forearm.

Ashara rolled her eyes. “She means without blood we essentially starve. And starving bitches tend to grow desperate.” The three of them shared a laugh.

“Is that why you..” Jon paused, struggling for a word. Attacked, came to mind but did not seem appropriate. He thought back to how helpless he was after Shiera committed to drinking his blood. “Overwhelmed me?”

Her eyes caught his and there was a flash of guilt in her mismatched orbs. “Another gift of mine. Why would I need to be stronger than a man when most would give themselves willingly to me? Even if it meant their death. No struggle, less of a mess. Simple.” Jon’s heart quickened at her tone. She has killed before.

“The older we are, the more blood we need and the more powerful our urges become. Shiera would not actively try to hurt you. At least not now.” Ashara added with a small smile. “But instinct is a powerful thing to ignore. Sometimes too powerful.” The back of her hand stroked his cheek. “And you are too precious to lose.”

“It does not help that you smell like you do,” Shiera added with a touch of annoyance.

“Smell?” Jon asked. “Do I stink?’ The waters of the marsh were still to briny and filled with lizard lions from him to take a bath, but he had been sure to gather and boil water so that they could sponge themselves.

Ashara shook her head once again. “Quite the opposite. You smell fantastic to us. Especially when you a bit sweaty.”

“Yes, good enough to devour,” Shiera said with a chuckle. She ignored Ashara’s glare.

Curious, Jon asked, “Do I smell any different than other people?”

They both nodded. Shiera spoke, “Smell is a misnomer, but it is hard to describe it in terms you would understand. Our senses are more acute than yours. Attuned to find the most desirable prey. Smell is part of it but Ashara and I can almost taste the air around you. We can hear your strong heart beating in your chest, pumping warm blood through your veins. Age, health, strength and vitality, you are perfect in every category. And then there is your bloodline. The blood of Aegon the Dragon and the King’s of Winter; it makes for a tantalizing mix.”

“I don’t know whether to feel a measure of pride or fear. The way you describe it I sound like a steak on legs.”

Shiera’s nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t invite a steak into my bed. Bad comparison.”

Ashara wrapped her arms around him. He returned her embrace, wrapping an arm around her back to grip her waist and pull her close. If he was a sane man, then he would have run as soon as he saw Shiera’s fangs. Yet, the more time he spent with these women the less he ever wanted to leave them. After a moment of comfortable silence, he asked, “And how did you become what you are?”

Ashara stiffened in his arms. Jon peered down at her, but her expression was guarded. He looked to Shiera. Her eyes were sympathetic. “After Bryden was sentenced to the Wall, Westeros had nothing left to offer. East, I went.”

“Why?” Jon questioned.

Shiera leaned back against his chest, tracing the muscles of his right thigh with her nails. “Knowledge and adventure. I am sure you have heard some tales about me. A vile sorceress that bathed in the blood of virgins?” She arched her brow in question. “A waste of blood if you were to ask me. The sorceress part was true at least. Under Aerys, the first of his name not the mad, Bryden and I were free to practice our craft freely. Maekar was grudgingly tolerant, purely out of respect for Bryden of course, but Aegon was a different sort of king. So, I bought a cabin on a ship headed out of Old Town. First to Volantis and then Slaver’s Bay, Qarth, and beyond. Where better to learn the secrets of the arcane than a city so old the name of the people who built it has been lost to time?”

“Asshai?”

She nodded. Her fingers played along his inner thigh, sending a rush of pleasure straight to his cock. Red and angry, his shaft rubbed against her muscled belly. Shiera fondled his sack and to his surprise, Ashara’s soft hand encircled his shaft. Jon hissed when she swiped her thumb over his cock head.

“Are you two trying to distract me so you don’t need to finish your story?” Jon squirmed under their combined touch.

Ashara gave him a sultry smirk that was far too similar to Shiera’s. “Is it working?” She gripped him tighter, pumping his cock.

“Nearly,” Jon growled out. He patted Shiera’s bottom. “Finish your story.”

Ashara pouted but did not release him from her pleasant grip. Shiera kissed his belly. Jon thought she would ignore him but then she looked up, her eyes playful. “I will give you the abbreviated version. Asshai is a city of wonder and horror. No act is forbidden in Asshai, no matter how decadent nor cruel. Yet even the Asshai’I do not dare tread up the river Ash. I did. Now I am what you see now. Several decades later I found this one in Qarth, at the mercy of their warlocks.” She nodded at Ashara. “I saved her by granting her the gift. Now we are here.”

Ashara bit the lobe of his ear. “You can hear the rest of the details at a later time.”

Shiera nullified any potential protest of his by taking his cock into her mouth. His hips jerked at the sudden sensation. The blonde gave a moan of approval and sucked him deeper. Ashara turned his chin so he faced her before claiming his lips.

Jon delighted in the sweet taste of her mouth. Her full lips parted for his tongue and they shared languid kisses. All the while, Shiera lay on her belly between his spread thighs, inhaling his cock. Up and down she bobbed on his throbbing length. She took him deep more often than not, his cock head bumped against the back of her mouth. The base of his cock coated in the saliva that slipped past her lips was captured by her dainty fist. She stroked him as she stroked him.

Ashara allowed him no reprieve from the pleasure. Her kisses turned from soft and exploratory to intense and demanding. She dragged his bottom lip between her teeth while her hands roamed across his nude body. Jon swallowed her pleased moans when her fingers traced across his abdomen.

His own hands were far from idle. He fondled Ashara’s voluptuous body through her robes. Unsatisfied with just that, Jon worked to strip her.

She chuckled at his impatience. Jon nearly voiced a protest when she pulled away from his lips. “Let me help you.” Smooth olive skin was revealed to his eyes, along with full breasts capped with light brown nipples. Her belly was flat, her thighs supple and thick. A dark thatch of fur was between her succulent legs. His desire must have been evident for Ashara’s smile grew wide.

The raven-haired beauty stood so he could inspect the entirety of her form. Where Shiera may have been made as a living avatar for lust and sex, Ashara was surely an avatar of fertility. Her hips were wideset, her breasts full and round and heavy, though they hung high on her chest. Ashara turned so he could admire her luscious backside. Throwing her long black locks over one shoulder she flexed her calves to stand on the balls of her feet while arching her spine.

The curve of her ass was mouthwatering. Wide, round cheeks greeted his eyes. Ashara was muscled enough that he could see no hint of fat but soft enough that her bottom jiggled when she sat back on her heels.

Shiera suddenly dominated his attention as his cock breeched the sleeve of her throat. He grunted when she swallowed the entirety of him to nuzzle her nose in his pubic hairs. With a lewd slurp she pulled back halfway up shaft before plunging down in a single motion to swallow him entirely once again. His hips jerked in surprise but that only seemed to embolden Shiera. She sucked and slurped his cock with wild abandon.

His hands found her silky silver-gold locks, caressing her scalp as she pleasured him. Periodically, Shiera would look up at him with loving bedroom eyes.

Ashara settled next to him once again, her nude body flush against his. A hand of hers found Shiera’s locks as well but instead of holding the strands as Jon did, his raven-haired lover tugged on Shiera’s long hair to pull her off his cock. “Don’t finish him too soon, greedy,” Ashara said playfully.

Lips slick and swollen, Shiera pouted. “He is young, I am sure he can go again.” Her hand took up where her mouth left off, stroking his slick shaft with a firm grip. “I’m correct aren’t I, Jon?” 

At this point Jon would have likely agreed to anything. He nodded his head. Appeased, Shiera gave Ashara a triumphant look. Instead of inhaling his cock once again, Shiera shared another look with Ashara. Wordlessly both women tugged on his wrists, guiding him from leaning against the wall to laying in the middle of their nest of furs. Ashara bent down to kiss him, obscuring his view of Shiera. Jon caressed her curvy body. He palmed her breasts, his thumbs brushed over her erect nipples. The raven-haired beauty was far from shy in instructing him on how to touch her.

She guided his hands to the undersides of her full breasts, had him lightly pinch her nipples till they were nearly as hard as his cock. Soon she was feeding him her breasts and Jon suckled from her mounds as an infant would its mother’s. Her violet eyes peered down at him, full of affection. Heat rose to his face as shameful thoughts came to the forefront of his mind. He could not ignore that Ashara was the same age as his mother would be had she lived. The way Ashara cradled his head and stroked his hair only added fuel to his taboo thoughts. If possible, his cock stiffened further.

“Good boy,” Ashara whispered to him with a mischievous smile as if she knew his truths. Her laughing purple eyes were unnaturally bright.

Shiera was far from idle. Her nails teased his cock, tracing the veins. Her touch was feather light and fleeting. Hard as Valyrian steel, Jon bucked his hips. Ashara pulled her breasts away from his lips so they could watch Shiera mount his hips. With a smile, the beautiful woman gripped his cock. Jon thought she would tease him; such was her nature but the sinfully beautiful chewed her lip and angled his turgid cock into her tight pussy. She dropped her hips, taking him inside of her inch by inch. They both gasped when she bottomed out. “A virgin no longer,” Shiera said with a grin. She rolled her hips, testing the feel of him inside of her.

“Slow,” Jon pleaded. Already he could feel the heat churning in his balls. He had cum once to Shiera’s skilled hands, but nothing could have prepared him for the sensation of being inside of her. Even her lovely mouth could not compare to the sheer warmth of her cunt nor how each roll of her hips brought a clench of her core that drove him nearly mad. Best of all, was the sight of Shiera. Her full tear-dropped shaped breasts bounced and heaved with each breath she took. Her eyes were both playful and dominating. The woman very well knew the effect she had on him. Knew that her pussy would be filled with his seed anytime she wished.

“How does finally being inside a woman feel, Jon Snow? Or should I call you Daemon? You are a man now, not a boy.” Her smile was imperious. Reveling in the power she had over him, Shiera braced her hands against his stomach and pumped her hips. Her bottom clapped against his hips as she rode him.

“Fuck!” Jon moaned and then Ashara was kissing him once again. The combination of their combined affections was nearly too much to endure yet he did his best to rise to the challenge. He caressed Ashara’s body, stroking the lines of her back before finding her full bottom. Roughly kneading her cheeks, he tried to commit the feel of her body to memory. Ashara let out a pleasant gasp when he spread her cheeks.

The heady smell of female arousal filled their hall. Shiera dropped her wet pussy on his cock, over and over again. Her walls clenched and fluttered around him and Shiera cried out. Her nails bit into his chest. Jon grit his teeth and clenched the muscles behind his cock, desperate not to spill.

Inspired by the pleasure Shiera’s mouth brought him, Jon palmed Ashara’s buttocks and hauled her atop him. Her laughter descended into a gasp of surprise when he pulled her up his chest to straddle his mouth. Violet eyes stared down at him, filled with lust.

“Naughty boy,” Ashara scolded playfully. She dropped her hips, dragging her wet cunt across his lips and chin. He breathed in deep, delighting in the direct smell of her arousal. “Oooh,” she groaned as his tongue split her nether lips. With a long lap, Jon was introduced to the succulent taste of her juices.

More. His grip on Ashara’s wide bottom tightened. He held her in place over his mouth, both pleasuring his lover and sating his thirst. She squirmed atop of him, grinding her cunt against his lips and tongue.

“Higher,” Ashara commanded. Before he could interpret the order, she shifted. Rather than his tongue splitting her lips, she directed it to the button just above her core. “Suck my clit,” her words were half an order and half a plea. Jon gently sucked on the nub and was both surprised and delighted by the shivers of pleasure that reverberated throughout her body.

From then on, the women all but used Jon’s body to chase their pleasure. Ashara gently rode his face, pausing every so often so he could tongue between her lips or suck her clit. Despite his inexperience, Jon’s ministrations seemed to bring her great pleasure. She would quiver atop his face, crying out in passion as her juices became a flood.

Shiera rode him roughly. She rolled her hips, taking him deep so his tip brushed the very ends of her cunt before rising and falling in a demanding rhythm. Every so often she would slow to tease her clit with her fingers before starting once again.

Jon’s only saving grace from not filling her immediately was his focus on Ashara’s pleasure. Soon however, Ashara rolled of his face, sated and grateful. Regardless of her juices coating his face, she kissed him deeply. She showed no reservation in tasting herself and Jon was left breathless when their lips finally parted.

“You’re a natural at that.” She grinned at him. The affection in her eyes brought a warmth to his chest.

Shiera interrupted by clenching hard around his cock. She leaned forward as she slapped her hips down. Jon met her lips with his own, not surprised in the slightest when her sharp fangs nicked his lips, drawing blood.

“Fill me up,” Shiera demanded before sucking on his injured lip. Fully at her mercy, Jon could not last long. He gripped her hips and thrust upwards as his balls emptied. Shiera’s kisses turned softer as he filled her. She mewled against his lips, like a pleased kitten.

“Perfect,” she muttered. Jon shuddered beneath her as his cock unloaded heavy spurts of cum into her slick cunt. Her walls milked him, greedily pumping his shaft until he had nothing left to give.

She lay against his chest, sucking on his injured lip till the wound dried. Ashara nuzzled her nose into his neck. She took a deep whiff of his scent, kissing his pulse point. To his surprise, Ashara nipped at his collarbone. The resulting wound was small, but she drank the blood that welled from it with an almost desperate haste.

Drained, Jon struggled to keep his eyes open. Shiera’s eyes were heavy as well. She lifted off him, cupping a hand against her cunt so his seed could not escape. The women settled on either side of him. Her curled an arm around each of their shoulders, holding them close. Ashara stroked his face and laid a chaste kiss on his lips. “Sleep Jon.” That he did.

When he woke the sun had fled, plunging the hall into darkness. Jon’s pupils widened but he could only discern shapes in the dark rather than the fine details.

“You’re finally awake,” Ashara purred.

“You can see me?” Jon questioned.

Ashara laughed lightly. “Yes. One of the perks of being what I am is excellent night vision.” She tweaked his nose. “You’re cute when you sleep.”

Jon lifted a brow. “Cute?” He moved quickly and rolled Ashara on her back. Rather than fight him, she laughed beneath him. Her thighs spread in welcome.

“Yes cute,” Ashara said between bouts of laughter. “Even cuter now.” She gripped his arms and used the leverage to lift herself so she could kiss him. Her arms wrapped around his back to pull their torsos flush together. Jon relaxed his arms so that he rested on his elbows atop Ashara.

Jon slipped his tongue past Ashara’s full lips, tasting her sweet mouth. It did not take his cock long to grow hard, pressed flush against Ashara’s body. She felt his need for her and angled her hips, so his cock rubbed against her slick. They shared a gasp as their sexes came together. He pressed his hips down, but the angle was off. Rather than sink inside of her, his cock glanced off her clit. When he lifted his hips, Ashara reached down to help. She angled his cock so he could sink inside of her in one smooth motion.

“Gods you’re beautiful,” Jon said as he bottomed out.

Ashara chuckled. “You can’t even see me.” Her thighs settled around his hips, opening her body so he could slide in deeper.

“I have not forgotten what you look like.” He slid out an inch or more before plunging forward. “Not in the slightest.” Ashara cried out as he fucked her. Her hands found his back and ass, digging her nails into his skin. Jon tilted her neck to the side, kissing her neck. Filled with passion for the beautiful woman beneath them, Jon kept her pinned. Their hips danced and crashed together. Ashara was both his lover and his guide, directing him when needed and praising him when correctly applied her instruction. She joined him in oblivion as he coated her walls white.

Their passion did not end there. Shiera returned to their sleeping area with a knowing smile and entirely without clothes.  Come that morning, Jon had been in his lovers half a dozen times. His cock was sore and almost useless, but his mind was clear.  

Time on their crannog passed quickly. Shiera and Ashara kept him far from idle. Jon spent much of the day steering the crannog or drilling with his spear. Shiera had added, rather cryptically, that Jon would be best served best served to be in top martial form for their journey. So, everyday he woke and trained for more than hour through spear forms. During bouts of inactivity, Jon dedicated himself to vigorous exercise.

Ashara would join him on the deck, her skin protected from the sun’s rays by her hood and dark robes. She was a fountain of cheer and encouragement, pushing him to test his body’s limits. At the end of the day, Jon’s muscles would ache from the exertion, his legs made unsteady from squats, lunges, and a variety of hops and skips. His back and arms burned from a mix of press ups, dips, weighted lifts and pull ups done on branches that hung over the waters. Shiera and Ashara would ease his discomfort at night with massages that led to an almost dizzying haze of pleasure. He even sparred regularly with Shiera when the sun set below the horizon. While she was untrained and uninterested in weapons, the woman had learned to defend herself in her long years of unnatural youth. So much so that she was incredibly skilled in unarmed combat. Paired with her supernatural reflexes, Shiera was more than a match for Jon even with his superior strength. Humbled, Jon strived for both victory and self-improvement.

Their journey by water ended nearly a month after their departure from Greywater Watch. They traded their crannog for three mares and an ox to carry the giant chest the ladies brought with them. While Ashara provided the coin for the exchange, Jon did the speaking. His silver-gold hair made him immediately recognizable as Lord Reed’s ward while both ladies donned their masks due to their arrival at daylight. He did his best to ease the villager’s wariness.

“Where to?” Jon asked as he mounted his garron. It was a slim spotted mare with a gentle temperament. Tied to the horse’s saddle were the entirety of his worldly possessions. The rest he had gifted to the residents of Greywater.

“We make for the coast. There is a village and ferry on the bite we can charter to the sisters,” Shiera responded. Her lacquered mask shone bright in the sunlight. Her hair was hidden by its veil. Ashara was dressed the same, even their hands were gloved. In contrast, Jon wore a simple pair of shorts and shirt made of hemp with a wide straw hat atop his head to protect him from the sun and straw sandals held to his feet by a cloth thong.

“And then?” Jon questioned. Despite their increased familiarity, the women were still not entirely forthcoming with information nor their purpose and intentions. Shiera shared more details of her life prior and after the Blackfyre rebellions with him. He learned more details of Bloodraven from her than any book about the man could possibly match. She never voiced it, but Jon was sure the two of them had been wildly in love. Her journey from Volantis to the east was shared with him. He was not entirely sure she was serious in her tale of a slave ship adjacent to her own vessel being pulled down to watery grave by a kraken nonetheless when they were sailing near the Smoking Sea. Her time in Asshai however remained a great mystery to him. Ashara was similarly both selectively forthcoming and secretive.  Treated to a great deal of stories about her older brother, Jon came to know Ser Arthur Dayne. A swordsman nearly without peer, Rhaegar Targaryen’s greatest friend and ally, and briefly Jon’s own Kingsguard after the death of Mad King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar. Yet details concerning her time in Qarth or even the reason as to why she faked her death and abandoned Westeros remained a mystery.

“To help your brother we must go North,” Ashara replied. The trail they were on was wide enough for the three of them to ride side by side. Marshland gave way for wind swept plains dotted by drying bogs that could swallow man and horse if one was not careful. Skinny, crooked trees dotted the landscape and the wind carried the scent of the Sea. “By Sea is the quickest way to White Harbor and Sisterton is the only major port where we can find a ship.”

Jon nodded measuredly. White Harbor, he thought. What do we need in White Harbor? The city was the largest settlement in the North, ruled by the Manderlys who had undoubtably sent men to answer Robb’s call to war. He could not think of anything of import that could be found in the city, save for the port of the city itself. “White harbor is not our final destination?” Jon questioned, already knowing the answer.

Shiera and Ashara shared a look. “You are a vary inquisitive man, Jon Snow. I suppose its too much to ask for you to trust us?” Shiera asked.

Jon scowled. “I do trust you both, but I don’t like being left in the dark. I’ve trusted you two enough to believe that going in the exact opposite direction of Robb’s war will somehow help him win it. I’ve trusted you two enough to let you both drink my blood, trusting that you won’t drain me dry. At least trust me with something.”

Ashara sighed. Her shoulders dipped. “He deserves to know, Shiera.” Even with the mask she bore, Jon could discern Shiera’s disapproval. He kept his resolve firm and Shiera finally relented.

“Very well.” She commanded her mount to a halt and swung from her saddle, landing lightly on her feet. Their ox was led by a rope tied to her horse and the beast stopped as well. Curious, Jon dropped from his own horse and watched as Shiera unbuckled the heavy chest from the ox’s back. It dropped to the ground with a thud, its weight causing it to sink slightly into the mud.

Ashara stood by Jon’s side and pulled him closer as Shiera reached into the chest. Her hands came back clutching a dark horn. It was massive, more than six feet long, gleaming black and banded by red gold and smoky steel. Belatedly Jon realized the steel bands were in fact Valyrian Steel. Runes and glyphs were etched into the metal, twisted markings that made little sense to his eyes. They seemed to shift and swirl as he tried to discern their end and beginning. The surface of the horn was polished to a sheen and reflective though the reflections were twisted somehow. Jon stared at his reflection in wonder. Horns sprouted from his head and shadowy wings emerged from his back. Most sinister of all were his eyes. Glowing black bloodstones.

“What is it?” Jon questioned. Shiera offered him the horn and he took it from her gingerly, aware of its priceless value. It was warm to the touch as if it had emerged from some pyre minutes prior.

“Dragonbinder,” Ashara answered. She traced the runes across one of its gold bindings. “A hellhorn forged by the sorcerers of Old Valyria.”

Jon took a deep breath at the implication.

Shiera laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ashara liberated Qarth of its stolen treasure and for that she earned their eternal enmity. Now you know the reason for our secrecy. Only the most powerful of the Dragonlords had such horns in their possession, in the wrong hands it could cause untold calamity.”

Jon stared at his twisted reflection. “What dragons can this horn bind? They are all dead.”

“No, not all of them,” Ashara said. He stared at her, wondering if she took him for a fool.

“The Targaryens lost them all in the Dance. I know my history,” Jon protested.

“Our ancestors bred their dragons for war and fight and die in war they did. Save for the dragon that never submitted to a dragonlord.” Shiera’s voice turned playful. “I believe his name was Cannibal.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

He drove his spear through the pirate’s throat. Yanking the weapon back, a gush of blood spilled across the deck before Jon kicked the body backward. Overboard it went, crashing into the black water below. Beneath his feet the deck rose and dipped at the mercy of the winter seas. The sky offered no reprieve and a light misting of cold rain reduced their visibility.

Another pirate sought to clamber over the railing. Jon stabbed forward, a deflection from his cutlass saved the pirate’s eye from being skewered but Jon followed with another swift thrust, burying the tip of the blade in his shoulder. The man seemed to hardly feel the pain, driving himself further onto the spear’s tip while swinging wildly with his sword. Had Jon not been wearing armored gauntlets, he would have lost a finger. Instead, the sword scrapped up the steel.

Jon pressed with his strength, driving the man backward and the spear deeper. The blood that splattered on the deck was quickly washed away by the spray of the waves and fall of rain. Up against the railing the man panicked and abandoned his weapon to grip the spear haft. His grimaced reveal a row of bloodstained teeth. A groan left his lips. “Please no.”

Ignoring the man’s pleas, Jon grit his teeth. In the corner of his eye, he could see another pirate clamber over the rail. Short of men, with the crew occupied with invaders from both the stern and bow, the ax-wielding pirate was free to wreak havoc. Acting preemptively, Jon abandoned the spear and charged the ax-wielding pirate.

He swung his weapon, but Jon ducked under it and answered with an armored fist to the ribs. Jon caught the wrist of his ax-wielding hand and the two wrestled for control. Their struggle ended when Jon headbutted the pirate with his bucket helm. The man’s mouth exploded with a well of teeth and blood. Jon ripped his dagger from his belt and drove it into the pirate’s heart.

A dagger whistled by his ear, followed by the last breath of a dying man. Jon whipped his head around and saw the robed form of Shiera. Hooded, her mask was absent revealing the terrible beauty below. Anger swirled in her red eyes. The tips of her fangs appeared just beyond her lips. Behind him, the pirate he had impaled, fell dead to the deck, a dragonbone dagger through his eye.

Jon nodded at her in thanks and picked up his discarded spear. Around them, the battle raged. Their attackers had been spotted on the horizon at dawn. At first, the captain had mistaken them for an Ibbenese wailing vessel and paid them little heed. That had been a mistake.

The Ibbense wailing ship sailed at a greater speed than their smaller ship. The pirates swarmed their vessel from all sides by way of skiffs and grappling hooks. Pinned under a hail of bolts from the pirate vessel’s scorpions, the crew had been slow to respond to the attack. Now their ship floundered in the waves while they desperately tried to repel the boarding party.

“Where’s the captain?!” A sailor yelled over the clang of battle and crash of the sea against the hull. The cut on his brow bled profusely, staining his brown beard black and red. There were seven men including Jon at the prow of the ship. There had been twelve at the beginning, two had died to scorpion bolts, the others from arrows loosed by the pirates before the churning of the waves turned the prow of their ship out of range the pirate’s ranged weapons.

More pirates poured forth from the stern of their ship, their weapons stained from the blood of the crew. Wishing Ghost was beside him, Jon moved to join the battle again. Shiera halted him with a hand on his shoulder. “This ship is nearly overrun. It soon will be. We need to go.”

His face twisted in confusion. “Go? Go where? We’re in the middle of the fucking sea. We need to fight.”

Shiera did not release him. “This fight is not important enough to die over. When these pirates win, they will kill every man on board and rape every woman. You are too important to die here.”

He wanted to argue with her but could not against her logic. Still, they were not the only passengers on board. Jon had felt truly a fool when they arrived in Sisterton. While he had been entirely ignorant of the War of Five Kings, the rest of the world had not been. Streams of refugees escaping the bloodshed found in the Riverlands had traveled up the Kingsroad to the coast and then on to the ferry to Sisterton. Over the past few months, hundreds if not thousands of Riverlanders had traded the calamity of the Riverlands for the peace of the North. Jon, Shiera and Ashara had chartered a ship carrying more than fifty smallfolk from Sisterton to White Harbor. The women and the boys too young and too old to fight were below deck in the hold. Jon knew none of them, yet it still felt wrong abandoning them to their fate.

“They will die anyway. It is your decision if you want to join them.” Shiera’s voice was harsh.

Jon clenched his fist. “We need to find Ashara.”

“She’ll be guarding the horn. We need to move quickly and get out of here while we still can.” From prow to stern, the fight on the deck was fierce. Blood and seawater slickened the wood and dying men from both sides were drawing their last breaths. As if nature was having a laugh, the rain had stopped, and patches of blue sky were now visible amongst the grey. At least we will not need to paddle our way through a storm. It was a small victory.

They picked their way carefully through the carnage, avoiding the pockets of fighting. The truth of Shiera’s words was revealed to Jon now that he had a degree of separation. Once on the deck, the pirates were far more coordinated than the sailors. Better equipped as well.

“Focus,” Shiera whispered into his ear as he fixated on a pirate slicing gold teeth out of a still struggling sailor’s mouth. Jon recognized the rat brown hair of the sailor. Andrew was his name… or had been his name. Andrew Snowden. The sailor had an unhealthy obsession with Ashara, prone to long interrupted stares as well as palming his cock openly on the deck when Ashara passed by. Not even his fellow crewmates could avert his perversion. Jon struggled to find sympathy for the strange man in his gruesome fate but found he could not. He turned his head away.

Their path into the lower decks of the ship was mercifully unimpeded. Shiera proved correct once again though the black-haired beauty still surprised her companion. Instead of barricading herself in their cabin as they had expected, Ashara stood vigil over the entrance to the hold. Like Shiera, Ashara’s fangs were extended. Her lips were bloodstained and her laughing purple eyes were wild with bloodlust.

Their footsteps against the stars drew a series of whimpers and cries from the passengers hidden in the shadow of the hull. Guilt twisted in Jon’s chest. Blind against the darkness, Jon could not discern their features, but he remembered a few of the faces who had boarded the boat in Sisterton. His shirt of ringmail suddenly felt heavy.

“Where’s the chest?” Shiera questioned.

“Here,” Ashara kicked just behind the doorway. The sound of her boot hitting wood echoed in the hull along with the rattle of its heavy locks and chains.

“Grab it, Jon. We need to leave now.” Jon shared a look with Ashara. Her lips thinned.

“Leave? Where do you think we can go? We are in the middle of the ocean. We should help them fight.” The raven-haired beauty curled her palms into fists to emphasize her point. Jon felt his heart stir at the sight.

Shiera’s gaze turned feral. In less than a moment, she had Ashara pressed against the wall, hand wrapped around her throat. Ashara struggled fruitlessly. “Have you forgotten why I changed you? Have you forgotten our purpose? Do you think I’d risk Jon for fucking meat? Think with your head, not your heart. They’re already dead or will be made slaves. Nothing we can do about it.”

“Shiera, release her,” Jon ordered. The blonde turned her crimson gaze to him. Rather than flinch, Jon stepped closer. He held his spear before him, his threat clear. She released Ashara’s throat and stepped away from the raven-haired woman. Jon gently gripped Ashara’s chin so he could inspect her neck. A deep breath was needed to calm his anger. “You will not do that again.” He ordered.

Shiera snorted. “We don’t have time for this. Grab the chest so we can leave before ten of them come barreling down the stairs.”

Jon continued to glower at her. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.”

Shiera’s gaze sharpened. Flashing a deep crimson as if she wanted to test the issue but Jon stood firm. Ashara observed their standoff quietly, she squeezed Jon’s fingers in support. Their blonde companion’s jaw tensed and then released. Finally, she relented. “Fine.”

The commotion of the two vampires (as Jon had taken to calling them) argument had set the passengers into a panic. He heard a scuffle of feet against the wood as the shadowy figures scrambled away from him. With a heave, he lifted the chest over his shoulder. Ashara passed his spear to Shiera who took point while she took the dagger from Jon’s belt.

He did not look back at the hold as they ascended the stairs, but the whimpers and cries were impossible to ignore.

They emerged from the dim of the hold to the sounds of muted fighting. Shiera led with his spear with Ashara following close behind, dagger in hand. Jon brought up the rear. He saw Shiera flinch from the bright sun, now shining unimpeded from a great break in the clouds. She paused to pull her hood tighter across her face.

“We need to make for the skiff,” Shiera whispered. They nodded in response. The captain maintained a small vessel with a single sail docked at the starboard side of the ship near the aft. A blood slicked deck was their walkway. Littered with arrows and a few dead sailors. The mess of sailing equipment and general disarray of the ship provided them the cover needed to sneak to the back of the deck.

Jon carefully lowered the chest into the boat. Ashara was first to climb aboard while Shiera lingered.

“Get in the boat, I’ll lower it,” he said.

She shook her head. “Enough of the bravado. You know damn well that it is a lot harder to kill me than you. Get in the boat.”

“I’m the one wearing armor,” Jon began but the sudden flight of an arrow smashing against his chainmail shirt interrupted him. He yanked the spear from Shiera’s grip and sent it soaring at the attacking pirate. The spear pierced the man’s belly before he could loose another arrow. His grip slipped, and the arrow sailed wide.  

The dying man screamed, “Help! They’re escaping! Help me!”

“Get in the boat, Jon,” Shiera hissed but he ignored her. He rushed over and yanked the spear from the dying pirate’s belly. Not a second too soon for he had to jerk away from the ax aimed at his face. The cheek plating of his open-faced helm saved him from injury but the blow of the ax-head against his helm rattled his teeth.

Jon faltered backward. The shaft of his spear caught the swing of the ax. He bashed the pirate’s shins with the butt of his spear to create distance, to no avail. A gasp of pain escaped his lips when the pirate answered with a vicious swing that bit into his side. The shirt of ringmail and arming shirt he wore beneath slowed the blow, but it robbed him of his breath.

Stumbling backward, Jon fell knocking over a barrel of salted fish. The ax struck again, colliding with his steel vambraces when he brought his forearm up in defense. Silently Jon thanked his two companions for insisting he was fitted for armor before they left port. He rolled to his feet and stabbed forward with his spear before the pirate could pursue with his ax. It was a weak thrust and the pirate parried it with ease, but it gave Jon the distance he needed.

Movement at his peripheral alerted him to the arrival of more pirates. Jon jerked his spear to the side halting a flank. Five pirates stood in opposition. They forced him backwards as they advanced, all were wary of his bloodied spear tip.  

Impatient, a pirate jumped forward to hack at his side. Jon anticipated the action and stabbed at the pirate’s thigh. He yanked the spear back and brought it down in a wild slash that left an ugly ride line across another pirate’s cheek.

“You fucking cunt!” They cursed and screamed at him. Jon did his best to ignore their vitriol. Focusing instead on their movements. Yet beneath all the noise, they made he could hear the cries of women and children.

The pirates noticed his scowl. “Your sister under there?”

“How bout your mum?” Another one taunted. He flashed a row of cracked teeth.

“Gunna fuck em till their dead.”

Before Jon could react, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a sharp tug on his cloak.

“Next time I tell you to do something, do it!” Shiera yelled, right before she shoved him overboard.

The cold sea swallowed him whole. Jon sank like a brick. Saltwater stung his eyes, saturated his cloak, soaked his arming shirt. The protective layer of steel he wore made swimming all but impossible. It seemed the more Jon fought to reach the surface, the faster he sank. He clawed at the water as seawater was rushed down his throat into his lungs.

The spear that had been a gift from his father, slipped from his grip. A need to breath made him ignore the rapidly sinking weapon. Jon released one last desperate gasp before the darkness swallowed him.

Lord Reed had told him of a Skinchanger’s second life. Those who walked the earth in skins other than their own could live again, one last time. The knowledge provided Jon with a small measure of comfort. He knew when his time came that if Ghost still walked the earth then they would end their lives as one. Still, he had not expected his time to come so soon. Jon was not ready to die.

For the briefest moment, Jon was in several places at once. Life and consciousness were bright stars in the pitch black of death. He felt the collective curiosity of a pod of whales drawn to the commotion made by the battle, the ravenous hunger of circling sea birds eager to feed on dead flesh, and the amusement of a cackling crow perched on it's master’s shoulder.

The next moment the wind whistled through the trees to ruffle his white fur. A light rain dampened the earth beneath his paws. It turned to mud as he kneaded the ground. Beside him, his pack-sister loosed a mournful howl. Their little cousins joined their cries to hers and half a hundred howls echoed across the flooded hills of the Riverlands.

Ghost allowed Nymeria to lick away the deer’s blood from his muzzle. Her smaller body rubbed against his own. Their small cousins watched warily. A few of the males growled at their closeness. The white wolf did not need to make a sound to quell their protests. Baring his teeth was sufficient.

The moment between him and his sister was abruptly ripped away. Jon awoke to fierce purple eyes staring down at him. They filled with tears and relief. His chest burned. As he coughed, seawater poured from his throat. Ashara slapped his back when he doubled over, aiding the purge of water from his lungs.

Jon shivered as the cold set into his bones. Torso bare and bruised, he struggled to gather his bearings. The chainmail and arming shirt he wore had been removed. His skin was all gooseflesh, cold and clammy but he felt alive. Sore but alive and rapidly rising to clarity of mind.

“You saved me,” Jon whispered to Ashara with reverence. She smiled at him and pulled him into a tight hug. Her soaked robe clung to her like a second layer of skin. She smelled of the sea, further proof of her rescue. Jon ran his hands over her body, both to remind himself that he had hands not paws and to memorize the feel of the beautiful woman before him.

The cloud layer had peeled back even further, and the gloom of the day was replaced by a bright sun. Their little ship rocked beneath them, turning in the churning sea. Had he not spent much of his life on water, Jon was sure he would be sick. In the distance, their ferry sat atop the waves. Beside it was the whaling vessel. Twice the size of the ferry with a grey hull and crimson sails slashed with black. The boats were tied together now. Ladders led from the top deck of the whaling ship to the ferry. We lost. His very first battle and he had lost. Badly. “They did not come after us?”

Ashara shook her head. “They think you are dead and did not see me dive in the water after you.”

“I was dead,” Jon whispered. Ashara laid a gloved hand atop his chest. “Not anymore.” She cupped the back of his head and pulled him into a deep kiss. Jon’s lips parted for her tongue and for a moment all the pain in his body was forgotten. The raven-haired beauty nuzzled his neck when they parted. Her nose brushed his pulse point before her lips pressed against it. “I just need a taste.”

Jon tilted his head and soon after her fangs pierced his skin. She sucked at his neck for a few seconds before licking his wound closed. A shudder worked through his body and despite his condition, his cock stiffened. He ignored the reaction, instead, Jon turned his gaze back towards the ferry. “Shiera is still there?”

Ashara grimaced. “If she jumped after you, they would have followed.”

“We cannot leave her,” Jon insisted.

Ashara tried to reason with him. “She would want us to. We have the horn with us, Jon. Shiera would call that more important.” Ashara’s words were gentle but he could not help but glare at her.

“I don’t care what Shiera wants or what she would do. I am not leaving her.” He knew she would be weakened considerably by the sunlight, even if her skin remained covered. What will they do to her if they discover what she is? Jon gritted his teeth as pain erupted at his side. Ashara released his still bleeding the wound. Around the ax wound, the skin had turned black and blue. Jon touched it gingerly. Fortunately, his ribs felt whole but the whole area burned. The numbness that followed a short death was quickly fading.

“How?” Ashara’s brow arched. “Will you fight off an entire ship by yourself? Did you forget how I just brought you back from the dead.”

“You won’t help me?”

Ashara frowned. “I will not allow you to risk your life for an impossible task.”

Jon stared directly into her haunting violet eyes. “Impossible no. This is necessary.” Lady Ashara stared at him as if he was mad. Perhaps I am. He stood, maintaining his balance with a careful step forward. “If I fall, try to catch me,” He told his companion before probing outwards with his consciousness. Searching.

The pod of whales had not moved far from where he remembered. There were more of them than he expected. Fifteen in total. Seven males and eight females. Beneath the waves, they hunted a school of tuna. Their intelligence was made obvious by their coordination of the hunt. The whales communicated in a high-pitched series of sounds, akin to whistles, that formed a language entirely alien to his mind. They recoiled from his mental probing, naturally wary of his imposing presence. Jon persisted. It was far easier to command a beast when in visible range. Near a hundred feet beneath the surface and several hundred yards from the boat, extending his will over such a distance came at a cost to his body. He gritted his teeth and curled his fingers into fists.

The whales’ alarm grew, and they abandoned the hunt. Jon knew he had to act quickly before they could flee. He struck, seeking to dominate not negotiate. It was a brute force method, lacking any sort of elegance. The largest male was his target, the bull of their pod.

Such a shift in perspective was disorienting. He went from the size of a man to a body near the length of their ferry. Beneath his blubber, massive muscles flexed and seized in panic. Jon tried to calm the animal’s panic even as he extended his will to assume control over the massive body.

His body was on fire. Certain skins were simple to slip into, even for beginners. A dog was like a boot, comfortable and familiar. The same could be said of a horse. Domestication made beasts a measure more comfortable to a human’s touch, even one not bound in the physical world. Wolves were more clever creatures than most, Ghost especially. One could never truly master such an animal without maintaining its respect. This whale was intelligent as Ghost, perhaps even more so with a mind entirely alien and hostile to Jon’s presence.

Their struggle ended in minutes. The whale was a proud and powerful creature, but the blood of the Kings of Winter flowed through Jon’s veins. There were few bloodlines more powerful than his own and he had trained under Howland Reed, a student of the reclusive Order of the Green Men. With their struggle ended, Jon reassured the creature that he meant it no harm.

You need a name. Tilikum. He decided, named after the smith at Sisterton that had sold Jon his armor. The beast offered no opinion on the matter. Gradually he ceded control to the massive creature while he belayed his orders. It was far easier to allow the animal to control its motor function while he provided direction than to maintain entire control. It would take months to master the spotted whale’s movements and he would never have the same degree of dexterity as the whale itself.

Jon conveyed his orders to the whale and Tilikum translated the commands to his pod. He needed all of them.

He tightened his grip on the bull whale as the entire pod dove. They raced under the ferry and the whaling ship. Then Jon and Tilikum led the ascent. The whales moved into formation, more than a thousand tons at full sprint. They slammed into the hull of the whaling ship with a thunderous crash. Their reinforced skulls worked like battering rams and even from his great distance, Jon could hear the wood of the ship split with his human ears.

The startled wails of the sailors of the pirates set the whales to excitement. They were hunters just as much as men. Only blood was a more powerful agent than fear. Blood they would soon have.

From his leash he had on the whale, Jon learned the animal lacked a sense of smell. Instead, the whale released a series of low-frequency sounds that created a three-dimensional image of its surroundings. A truly superior sense. From the whale, Jon could discern the weak points that had been created in the bottom of the hull. Already water began to seep in through cracks, the pressure slowly forcing the wood to split.

His whales attacked again and again. Under his direction they targeted the weak points in the hull, ripping away planks of wood with their sharp teeth. The seawater forced its way into the bottom decks of the whaling vessel. The first of the panicked crew were sucked out into the sea. He saw the whales hesitate as they came upon the humans desperately seeking the surface.

They don’t have a taste for human flesh. Jon realized. There was a trace of fear that surged through the creatures as the humans swam by them, the swiftest of the pirates breaching the surface. Twenty tons and they are afraid of us. Had it been anyone else, Jon may have let them live. Floundering in the middle of the cold ocean was not a pleasant fate but it did leave for the possibility of salvation. However, these men made a living off the suffering of others. Why should he grant them mercy if it was not in them to do so?

How many women had they raped? How many men had they killed? How many more had been sold into slavery? His right fist clenched and his control of Tilikum tightened. The massive whale crashed into three tightly grouped pirates from below. Tilikum’s entire body erupted from the water, a display of savage grace and power, the men were tossed more than sixty feet into the air. When their bodies hit the water, they exploded under the force of impact.

A spray of red interrupted the black and blue of the sea. The other whales followed Tilikum’s lead. Bones broke under the power of the whales’ teeth and flesh was torn asunder. The whaling vessel moaned and creaked as it sank. Jon watched from Tilikum’s eyes as those aboard the sinking vessel climbed over each other to escape from the rising water. Such an effort was futile. He would let none of them live.

Jon directed Tilikum towards he and Ashara as the other whales were set to slaughter. His body slumped into Ashara’s arms; the power needed to stand long since having left him. She had her arms wrapped around his torso and pressed her lips to his brow.

“You’re back,” she whispered. The concern in her voice was clear.

Jon smiled tiredly. “Worried about me?”

Ashara’s fingers traced his chest. “Remind me to never underestimate you.” Across the water shouting on the ferry reached them as the pirates left on the captured vessel watched their comrades die in a sea of red. Tilikum’s dorsal fin breached the surface of the sea. A black sail.

“Can you help me stand?” Jon asked his lover. His appreciation of her grew as she righted him and then looped an arm around his waist to stabilize him. Now his legs felt like jelly. The art of skin-changing was far from effortless.

Tilikum’s head lifted from the surface. Man, and beast regarded each other. Jon let his approval flow across their newly forged bond. Something similar to satisfaction was Tilikum’s response. At his order, the whale dipped beneath the surface.

“Where did he go?” Ashara questioned. Then she gave a squeak of surprise as their ship began to move.

Jon grinned at her. “I don’t think I’ve heard you squeak like that before.”

“Maybe tonight,” she purred. As they drew closer to the ferry, Jon let the humor slide from his face. Ashara held him tighter so there was no possibility of him stumbling. He needed to appear unbeatable.

Tilikum gave an order and the other whales formed abandon the slaughter to swim formation. Jon gave a shout when they reached the ferry. “Surrender and you’ll face a kinder fate than your shipmates!”

No answer came immediately.

He shouted again. His frustration grew when the pirates remained silent. “Are you afraid?” He taunted. “Raiding is no longer fun when someone can fight back!”

Finally, there came an answer. “We have your demon whore!” Three pirates peeked their heads over the railing. Jon recognized them amongst those he had fought before Shiera had thrown him overboard. The one who spoke had dealt Jon his ax wound and beside him was the pirate whose face had been cut as well as the cracked teeth pirate with dirty blonde hair.

The last man held Shiera roughly by her hair. Her hooded robe had been shredded and she was bound tightly. Most concerning was her skin. The bright sun beamed down on it unprotected. The grey flesh was set to burn, and flakes of dead flesh were carried into the wind.

Jon had to clench his teeth hard not to shout. He felt Ashara flinch. The cracked tooth pirate grinned. “Not so confident, now are you?”

“Listen here-” The pirate began.

Jon interrupted. “No, you will listen. Either surrender now or the only mercy you will find is the one the sea gives you.”

They scoffed. The scarred faced pirate laughed openly. “Is that supposed to be a threat, boy? We have hostages on this ship, including your demon bitch. The way I see it you can’t kill us without killing everyone else on this ship.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. “You are the one who is mistaken. The term hostage only applies if I care about the people aboard that ship. I will kill every single soul aboard and then walk over your cold dead corpses to claim her. My demon bitch can survive a drowning. Can you?”

The three hesitated, sharing a glance with each other. Jon ordered Tilikum to lift his snout above water. His pod followed after Tilikum shared the command. Fifteen whales stared at the pirates. All seemingly under Jon’s command. Their resolve broke.

When he finally set foot on the ferry, the survivors of the crew and the passengers gave him and Ashara a wide berth. Ashara leaned him against the wall and marched over to cut the binds from Shiera. She threw a tarp over the burned vampire and led her to the shadows of the hull.

The remaining of the ferry had accosted the pirates of their weapons and held them at sword point. There were eleven of them remaining in total. Hard men, fierce and foul. They stared at Jon with hate. He did not flinch from their gazes.

“I nearly killed you, boy.” A dark scraggly beard covered his face. His flesh was tanned and hard like leather. Dark blue eyes stared intently at the wound on Jon’s side.

Jon turned so the pirate could have a better look. After a time, he smiled darkly. “Nearly.”

*

It was several hours before Jon allowed himself to return to their chambers. The pirates needed to be secured and he had not trusted the others to do so without supervision. Unfortunately, he had to break his promise guaranteeing the pirates their safety. Shiera needed to feed to heal her injuries and there was no possibility of her not draining whoever became her meal bone dry. Jon granted her a single pirate, the man with the cracked teeth. The rest would face justice at White Harbor.

He had to delegate roles to the surviving sailors and assign passengers to fill vacancies. Normally this would be the captain’s task, but the man had been killed during the boarding, along with the first mate. For some reason, the command had defaulted to him. Rather than shy away from the duty, Jon did his best to rise to the responsibility; Ashara approved.

Jon leaned against the railing of the window. The shutters were thrown open allowing a sea breeze passage into the cabin. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, replaced instead by the light of countless stars and a pale silver of a moon.

Gentle fingers traced along the lines of his back, sending a shiver down his spine. His torso was bare save for the bandage around covering his wound, held in place by tight bindings around his midsection. “You should be asleep,” Ashara all but purred into his ear.

His lips curled upward. “I wasn’t tired.”

He heard her snort. “Really? You were dead on your feet for most of the day. Where has this sudden energy come from?”

Jon shrugged non-committal. “I can’t sleep would have been a better choice of words.”

Ashara tugged on his arm to turn him to face her. For a moment he was arrested by the sight. With the night upon them, Ashara had shed her thick robe and wore instead a thin sleeping slip that did little to preserve her modesty. Her thighs were mostly bare and the thin straps on her shoulders showcased the entirety of her collar as well as the top of her heavy breasts. Even in the dim of the light, Jon could discern the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric. By far her most captivating feature was her eyes. The violet orbs seemed to glow dimly in the dark as if Ashara had stolen the eyes of some shadowcat.

She tugged on his wrist and lifted his hand to kiss his fingers. Her eyes were inquisitive, but her question remained wordless.

“How many men do you think I killed today?” Jon asked.

Her reply was surprising. “As many men as necessary. Every soul aboard this ship is indebted to you, Jon. Do not allow such an achievement to be forgotten.”

“I could have let them live.”

“And run the risk of a mutiny?” Ashara shook her head. “No, they sealed their fates the moment they attacked us. It was either kill or be killed and they made a mistake of underestimating you.”

He frowned. “Then you do I feel guilty if what I did was right?”  

Ashara cupped his face. Her thumbs smoothed over his lips. “Because you are a good man. This isn’t an easy path we’ve set you on and these won’t be the last lives you take. My brother used to say that the better trained the soldier, the easier killing was for him but it made no matter who you are, the Sword of the Morning or some peasant conscripted to fight by their lord, the faces of the slain stick with you. Guilt is only natural.”

He stared at her. “Is it the same for you and Shiera?”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Shiera kills without hesitation. When we gave her that pirate, she looked at him as no more than food. Not a person. Not a living, breathing, human being but meat and blood. When we see her next, she will have drained him dry and wear a smile on her face.” His hands rested on her broad hips. “If I did not know her, I might think her the work of some devil. Yet…” He trailed off, lost in thought.

They were quiet for a long moment before Ashara spoke. Her voice was gentle. “It chips away at you, piece by piece. Every year, your grow colder. I’ve killed a dozen men since my turning, and I can hardly remember their faces. Shiera has killed hundreds. She is old compared to you and I but practically an infant compared to others of our race. The further we age, the more monstrous we become.”

Jon was surprised. He knew Shiera could not have been the first of her kind but both women remained evasive of their histories. He knew nothing of Shiera’s turning. Not the circumstances, nor who had given her the gift of immortality. “Have you met any more of your kind?”

“No. Just Shiera. We are a rare breed and the gift is not something passed on easily. Most humans die painful death when we inject poison into their veins. Especially men.” She stared at him strangely as she spoke. Jon’s heart hammered in his chest when she pressed their chests together. Her nose nuzzled his neck. “If there was a guarantee that you would survive the changing, Shiera might have turned you the night we shared you. It’s a tempting thought even now. To have you till the day the sun consumes us all. You have a different fate.” She stepped away.

It took a moment for him to gain his bearings. Ashara sat on the edge of their bed. The hem of her slip rose scandalously high on her thighs, nearly baring her core to his gaze. She spread her legs for him with a sultry smile.

His pants grew tight. Ashara’s pleased smile and beckoning finger had him standing before her in an instant. Her fingers deftly worked at his laces and soon the garment was at his ankles. Freed, his cock bounced against his belly. As her purple-eyed gaze passed over his body, Jon tightened his abdomen. Lady Dayne licked her lips.

A voice nagged at the back of Jon’s mind. “You said I had a different fate? What is it?”

She smiled playfully. “Really? I am about to suck your cock and you ask that now? You have a strange mind, Jon Snow.”

A blush tinged his cheeks. Somehow her teasing was more embarrassing than standing nude before her. Ashara gripped the base of his length. For a moment, Jon thought she would ignore his question, especially when she kissed away the bead of precum leaking from his cock head. With her other hand, Ashara pushed his thighs to create space so she could sink to her knees.

“You saw how they looked at you out there.”

“Afraid?” He questioned.

He groaned as she began to stroke him.

“No. They fear Shiera and me but every single one of them knows that you saved them from death and slavery. That was respect in their eyes and hearts. Respect that only grew you took command of the ship without any prompting. Once you deliver them to safety, they will never forget you. You chose to be their protector. Just as you were born to be.”

He knew where this was leading. Jon had suspected as soon as Dragonbinder was revealed to him.

“King Daemon Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. The man you were born to be. When we leave this ship, Jon Snow, Bastard of Eddard Stark must be left in the past. Help your brother and claim what is your birthright.” The beautiful woman gave him no opportunity for argument. Her tongue teased the head of his cock, the tip teasing his slit before she traced the vein running along the underside of him. Soon she slipped her mouth over him, bobbing swiftly to take half of him in a single plunge. Jon gasped as he felt the sleeve of her throat enveloped his shaft.

Ashara made a pleased sound and while she sucked him, her hands caressed his body, gliding over his muscled abdomen before finding his buttocks. Her nails bit into his skin as she beckoned him forward. Ashara swallowed his shaft, the entirety of his length disappearing down her throat.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed. He ran a hand through her raven locks. Ashara pulled back and repeated the action again, drawing a buck from his hips.

She pulled away. Dazed from the pleasure, Jon tried to apologize. Ashara ignored his words.

“Sit on the bed.” He followed her direction and was delighted when she took her place between his spread thighs.

Elegant fingers curled around his slick cock. Jon shuddered as she stroked him. “Do you like that baby?” Ashara purred. She rubbed his wet cock on her face, spreading the mess.

“Yes,” Jon groaned.

“You like when mama, strokes your cock?” More blood surged into Jon’s cock till he was so hard that he ached. She kissed his stones. “And how about when mama does this?”

“Fuck, Ashara.” Her tongue roved over his sack.

“Not Ashara, mama.” Her mouth hovered over his cock. Beautiful eyes stared at him intently till he muttered the word, “Mama.” Pleased by his descent into further depravity, Ashara sucked him back between her jaws.

His fingers tangled in her soft hair as she pleasured him. Their cabin filled with the sound of her sucks and slurps and Jon alternated between closing his eyes in bliss and watching the enticing sway of Ashara’s bottom. She was on her knees before him, her hands stroking whatever didn’t fit into her mouth with her back arched, bottom in the air.

When she took him deep again, hands cupping his balls, Jon found it impossible to not fill her throat with his seed. Ashara coughed in surprise. She pulled back and swallowed the rest of his spend. Her hand stroked out the stubborn last drops of his cum while she slurped at his cock head to drink the last of what he had to offer.

Jon pulled the beautiful woman from her knees and claimed her lips. She squealed in delight as their tongues dueled. There was the slightest after taste of his spend but it was overwhelmed by the sweetness of her mouth. The desire he had for her burned in his chest and he rolled her beneath him. Ashara’s eagerness was on full display. She squirmed as he kissed down her neck and held his head in place when he reached her breasts. Every time she whispered, “Mama likes that,” his desire surged. He kissed her big breasts and sucked on her nipples, till Ashara shuddered through a climax.

He was stiff as steel by the time Ashara allowed him to descend between her thighs. The tantalizing smell of her flower made him grind his cock into the bedding for some relief. Too impatient to tease her, Jon slurped from her wet pussy. His tongue split the furrow of her cunt, lapping at the slightly sweet juices. By now Jon was well practiced in pleasing the beautiful woman, he suckled on her clit while slipping a finger inside of her. First one and then two.

Ashara cooed as he fucked her. Jon pounded her cunt, stretching her for his cock. She was rough with his hair, tugging painfully on the strands while her thighs squeezed his head. She bucked against his face, spreading her juices across his nose and lips when she came. Her grip on his hair relaxed as did her thighs around his head. Jon rolled her on to her belly and hiked up her hips. Round bottom high in the air, Jon could not help but smack it.

Ashara wiggled her hips in delight as he reddened her cheeks. She pressed her face into the bed, arching further. His cock throbbed but Jon ignored the incessant appendage for another taste of his lover.

“Jon,” Ashara squealed in surprise as he spread her cheeks. A small sigh escaped her lips when he traced her rosebud with his tongue. He gripped her cheeks roughly, holding her open as he feasted. His tongue breached the crinkled flesh and he fucked her ass with his tongue. Briefly, Jon would dip down to drink from her greedy pussy, but he would soon return to tease her bottom.

He eased his grip on her ass to slide a finger into her cunt. Ashara shuddered in delight, fully submitting to his ministrations. Jon added another as he traced her rosebud with his tongue. Her bottom gently rocked against his face, encouraging him even further. Jon slid his slick fingers from her cunt and pressed them against her rosebud.

The crinkled flesh yielded for the slick digits. Ashara buried her face further into her bed. Her bottom rocked back, and his fingers slid inside of her asshole until they were buried to the knuckle. Almost driven mad by impatience, Jon stretched Ashara’s asshole while he played with her clit with his other hand.

I need her. He rose from his belly and tapped his cock against her nether lips. Ashara rolled her hips and he heard he muffled gasp when his cock head slipped inside. Jon took a firm grip of her bottom with one hand, replacing his fingers buried in her bottom with his thumb. Impatience made him aggressive and he slid his cock into her with a single stroke. Her bottom clapped against his hips.

Jon fucked the beautiful Dornish woman roughly. He swatted her bottom with an open hand while he teased her asshole with his thumb. Ashara lifted her face from the bedding, crying out as he took her.

“Fuck mama, baby.”

He gritted his teeth as he fucked her. Burying his cock to the hilt and then pulling his hips back to drive into her. Her succulent bottom made a delicious jiggle with each impact of their hips.

Even with the cool sea breeze, their sex was hot and sweaty. Drops of sweat slid down Ashara’s spine and Jon felt moisture gathered at the top of his shoulders to roll down his back. The urge to fill the beauty with his seed was maddening and he nearly did when she clenched around him in climax.

With considerable effort, Jon dragged his wet cock from her body. Ashara cooed when he pressed his length against her rosebud. Her spine arched, bottom flexing to grant him access. His fat tip breached her tight hole and the considerable slickness of his shaft allowed him to slide in deep with ease.

Ashara rocked back while he eased out of her. Her rear passage was incredibly tight but greedy. Even a gentle press of hips seemed to sink him deep inside of her. Eventually, his hips and her bottom met again. He felt the tips of her fingers tease his balls as she played with her clit.

She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes blown wide with pleasure. “Ruin me.” Her elongated fangs teased her lips and the lust in her eyes seemed almost dangerous. Jon rose to the challenge; he gripped her hips roughly as he took her. On a normal woman, his grip would have left bruises but Ashara was far from normal.

She gave as good as she got. Her ass rocked back, meeting his hips with a clap. The heat around his cock was intense and his balls boiled as they smacked against her cunt.

“Fill me, baby! Fill mama!” Ashara cried out as she came on her fingers. Her asshole clenched around as cock. So hard it was almost painful. He came with a rush and a cry filling her bottom with his hot seed. Pain erupted along his side and Jon fell to the bed, exhausted. Ashara turned to curl against him but her satisfied smile morphed into worry as she saw the blood staining his bandage.

“It’s fine,” Jon tried to assure her but Ashara batted his hands away. She cut away at his bandages with surprisingly sharp nails to gaze at his wound unimpeded. Dark blood spilled from the cut along his side accompanied by a slightly sour smell.

Her nose wrinkled. “It’s infected. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jon shrugged. “How was I supposed to know? I’ve never taken an ax to the side before.”

She frowned. “Humans have too a great a tendency to die from infection for me to leave you like this.” To his surprise, rather than rising to gather new bandages Ashara sliced her wrist with her nail. Jon stared at her quizzically. She ignored his silent question and forced her bleeding wrist to his lips. “Drink.” Her word came with a command. He nearly refused her on principle but lacked the energy to argue.

Ashara watched him closely as he tentatively drank from her lips. His brow raised in surprise at the taste. Rather than the bitter metallic taste that he had suspected, Ashara’s blood was far more pleasant. His thirst grew the more he drank, and he tugged Ashara closer by her arm. She made no protest as he drank. Her fingers caressed the back of his head. A warmth filled his body, followed by numbness. When she finally pulled her wrist away from his lips, Jon felt as if he was floating.

“Sleep,” she whispered from a thousand miles away.

He dreamed of blood and fire. A woman wreathed in red with the power of the sun behind her. Beside her was a tall blue-eyed lord. In his fist, a sword of bright steel cast an impenetrable shadow. Behind him, the shadows took the shape of soldiers. Sulfur filled his nose. Dracarys! He screamed. The sky cracked with the sound of thunder and a river of fire engulfed the heavens.

****

Ashara Dayne:

Shiera Seastar:

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

The further North they sailed, the colder it became. Snow fell for hours on end and they were forced to shutter the sails when they iced over. Their progress slowed to a crawl. More concerning were the chunks of sea ice, some more than a dozen feet wide floated by their ship. Jon was no sailor, but he knew the dangers of errant sea ice, especially without an experienced crew to navigate. The attack by the pirates had claimed the lives of most of the crew, including the Captain. Without a functioning crew, they would have been at the mercy of the elements or dependent on the good will of a passing ship.

Weary of leaving their fates to chance, Jon took action instead. He sat at the prow of the ship. A thick layer of furs warmed and protected him from the steady snowfall. Beneath the waters, Tilikum’s pod of whales swam as escort. Four held thick ropes that were anchored to the ship’s hull between their teeth, towing the ship with their immense strength. Maintaining control and direction of the whales stretched both his ability and stamina.

Fortunately, the whales were no ordinary beasts. They possessed a staggering intelligence with a language so well developed that it made coordinating the efforts of the whales significantly easier. Had he needed to control every whale of the pod or even several whales at once, Jon was sure he would have exhausted himself long ago. Instead, he operated through Tilikum. The great bull whale shared leadership of the pod with the eldest female, the pod’s matriarch and Tilikum’s mate.

Tilikum swam around the ship, issuing orders to the whales and keeping watch on the juveniles of the pod. His mate swam ahead, setting their pace and direction. There was no need for a navigator, the whales knew the waters better than any man.

A hand on his shoulder broke his concentration. Jon cracked his eyes open, adjusting to the dim light given by the waning sun. He was surprised to see mismatched blue and green eyes instead of the bright violet orbs that usually greeted him.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Shiera teased with a smile. She wore her hooded robes. Only her face and the tail of her long silver braid were visible. Jon took in her beauty. Indeed, he was surprised to see her. Shiera had been out of sight since the pirate attack. Recovering, as Ashara told him. Draining their prisoners dry one by one in other words. Ashara joined her whenever she was not with him. He had not seen Shiera in days.

“Are you well?” His voice was hoarse from disuse.

Shiera dropped to a squat. “I should be asking you the same thing.” She crawled across the deck to push aside the furs. Jon hissed at the rush of cold air, but she soon closed the gap between them. Like a giant cat, she crawled into his lap. Her arms and legs wrapped around him and her face pressed into his neck. He could not help but laugh as her nose tickled his neck. “Mmm,” she breathed. “How much blood has Ashara been feeding you? I can smell it in your veins.”

Every night and every morning, Ashara had been feeding him her blood. He could not say how much. It was hard to quantify when the taste of her was on his tongue, but she let him drink his fill. The blood worked wonders on his body. His wounds had healed spectacularly fast and each morning he woke with more energy than he could ever recall having.

Shiera stared at him pointedly, pausing in wait for his answer. Her pupils had grown wide, gathering as much light as possible in the growing darkness. “I can’t say exactly. Why don’t you ask her?”

She frowned. “Has Ashara told you the significance of sharing her blood?”

He blinked in confusion. “Other than healing me after I died?”

Her face softened. She had the grace to look abashed. “I thought she would get to you in time. You do know why I threw you in the water? They had to hear the splash; a man with full armor falling into the sea is usually a death sentence.”

“Unless he has someone like Ashara to revive him,” Jon grinned. She frowned in response.

Shiera traced his cheekbones, she paused at the fine dusting of hair on his cheek and along his jaw. “Weeks on the road and this is all you can manage, you’re just a fucking boy.”

His hands tightened in the folds of her robes. “A boy? Have you forgotten all I have done?”

To his frustration, she only giggled. “An impressive boy, I’ll admit but a boy all the same.  My brothers were impressive as boys too, remember? They were even more impressive as men. I think you’ll be the same.”

“You almost never speak of your family.” Shiera shrugged. “What is there to say that hasn’t been written in a history book?”

Jon frowned. More than once he wondered if Shiera was being purposefully evasive or if there was a specific reason why she never talked about her past. Ashara was little help in providing insight. She often aided Shiera in avoiding his questions, one way or another. “I think even the most ardent historians would agree that a firsthand account is better than any book.”

She turned in his lap, pressing her back against his chest. “Truth be told, I don’t remember much. Most of that was a hundred years ago. I was never close with my sisters or Daeron. Daemon was better than the books have remembered him. Kind, noble, and handsome. A bit boring to be honest. There was a time Aegor was not so angry. A short time but he had his moments of clarity.”

“And Bloodraven?”

Her nails dug into his thighs. “Brynden was my favorite of course.”

“Much to Bittersteel’s ire, I am sure.” Jon joked. Shiera flashed a smile over her shoulder. She relaxed further in his grip. He wrapped an arm around her midsection. The silk of her robe clung tight to her lean figure. The urge to grope her was too strong to ignore and a pleased purr emitted from her throat when he cupped her breasts.

“Brynden knew how to work Aegor into a rage better than any other and he enjoyed doing so as often as possible.” By now, the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon and it was too dark to see her face, but Jon knew she was smiling.

Shiera turned in his lap, facing him. Tonight, the moon was absent. The stars were concealed by black clouds from which snow still poured. “Now I have questions for you. But first-” She kissed him quickly. Jon pulled back in surprise but Shiera followed. Her kiss was hungry, dominating. He moaned in response and she nipped him lip, drawing blood with her sharp fangs. Shiera was quick to drink his blood.

His cock responded to her rough treatment. She ground down against him until he was as hard as a rock. His head tilted backwards under the control of her hands. She licked his neck, her lips pushed against his pulse point and then her fangs. Jon’s muscles tensed in involuntary anticipation. Sharp teeth pierced his skin, pain first and then a rush of pleasure.

Jon’s hands fisted in the silk of her robe. He gripped her hips and kneaded her bottom. His hands pushed the silk up her legs, delighting in the feel of her smooth muscular thighs. Shiera’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, halting his hands from traveling up her long legs. She released his neck after licking his wounds closed. In the blackness, her eyes glowed blood red. “Do you know the common trait between the greats of our family? They wanted power and seized the opportunity to take it when presented to them. Aegon the Dragon did not wait for permission to conquer a weak continent. Neither did his son hesitate to break the faith when they sought to usurp his family. To be a Targaryen is to be one who wields power as comfortably as another would breathe. That legacy of power and might flows through your veins just as it does mine. The question is, will you be strong enough to seize the power that me and Ashara bring to you?”

“Dragonbinder?” He guessed. Not much had been said of the horn since they first showed it to him but even with just a glance, he knew it was an artifact of immense power. The two vampires never shared the specifics of the horn but they each treated it with the upmost reverence. So much so that he was sure neither had ever blown the horn.

Shiera nodded. “The horn does not give its power freely. And not just to any man. The Valyrian Sorcerers ensured that. You must be exceptional to wield Dragonbinder and all the power that it entails. If you are found lacking in any manner, then it will destroy you.”

“Do you find me lacking?” Jon asked her. He expected honesty. Shiera could deliver it brutally if needed.

“When I walk off this ship, a bastard boy cannot accompany me. Instead, I expect the man who will be king.” She held his gaze for a long moment before the sound of footsteps against the deck broke their concentration.

Jon blinked against the sudden light. A girl held a candle whose flame danced precariously in the wind. Beside her walked Lady Ashara, her footsteps silent in contrast. His lover had a pleased smile on her lips and her ebony locks were braided about her brow before following loose past her shoulders and down her back.

“I’ve brought dinner,” Ashara squeezed the peasant girl’s shoulder. “This is Liya.” In Liya’s hand was covered plate. She lifted the lid for Jon’s inspection. Salted fish and lentils. As plain a meal as any.

“When is the last time you have eaten?” Sheira questioned. He could not remember exactly. It had not been today. Once he was occupied with the whales it was difficult to focus any other manners. Tilikum had eaten his fill of seal and the beast’s contentment was enough for him to ignore his own hunger.

Shiera made a sound of discontentment before rising from his lap. “You need to eat.” Her tone left no room for argument. He felt his ire rise all the same.

“She’s right, Jon.” Ashara added in a far softer tone. Her smile was disarming, so much so that he felt his anger evaporate. She helped him to his feet and secured the furs around his shoulders. Their faces drew close and Jon took the opportunity to claim her lips. Ashara squeaked in surprise but accepted his kiss all the same.

Shiera lead the way to their cabin. Not for the first time Jon was mesmerized by the way she moved. Grace personified, Shiera seemed impossibly sure footed. He had never seen her stumble or so much as falter. Paired with her beauty, it only added to considerable allure. While Shiera was far more abrasive than Ashara, his affection for the silver-haired beauty grew all the same. She sent him a flirty look over her shoulder, aware of his heavy gaze.

They passed three crew members who had been assigned watch. The men gave them a wide berth, but their eyes followed them closely. Curious or suspicious? Whispers of Shiera’s and Ashara’s inhuman nature had permeated the ship along with Jon’s own strange powers. Had they been discovered prior to the pirate attack; he was sure they would have had to fight to avoid being thrown overboard or worse by the passengers and crew. The crew had been decimated by the attack and the passengers were both too fearful and too grateful to act against them. Still, Jon remained cautious.

Reprieve from the cold was found in the captain’s chambers. His eyes blinked into focus as Ashara lit the candles spread throughout the perimeter of the room. A large bed dominated most of the space, tidy even after the passions at dawn. The second most beautiful woman he had ever seen, Ashara was also the neatest person he had ever encountered. Minimalist to her core, Ashara had already discarded or gave away all the captain’s possessions they had not put to use. It gave the formally cramped room far more space. The room was comfortable rather than claustrophobic with three inside.

Jon’s eyes blinked to focus in the dim candlelight. Both Ashara and Shiera watched him closely as he regarded the newcomer. She was a very pretty girl with a shy smile. Her skin was clean, and clear, and colored a rich olive from southern skies. Her hair was not quite blonde but too light to be simply labeled brown. Liya, he remembered though with some uncertainty. “You’re no northerner.”

She shook her head and her eyes dipped to his feet. “No, my lord. My family hails from the Dornish Marches.”

Jon blinked in surprise. Her origin certainly explained her accent. Full and rich with a timbre that gave her voice a certain huskiness. “Is the war that bad you travel so far and to the North nonetheless?”

She nodded. “The crownlands have seen the worse of the fighting but my nuncle said our lands would bear the brunt of Lord Stannis’ fury come the winter. Judgement for not supporting his claim.”

“Last I heard, Stannis is the king with the smallest army and with not one of the seven kingdoms support.  Does your uncle know something the world doesn’t?”

Liya shrugged. “My nuncle was with Stannis’ during the great siege. Would have been with him on Dragonstone had he still more than one leg.”

“A fanatic supporter then?” Jon gave her a smile in jest.

She suppressed a giggle. “Perhaps.”

“I’m glad you two are getting along,” Ashara squeezed his shoulder. “Now I know you both must be hungry.” She raised a hand before Liya could voice a protest. “Shiera and I do not eat many fish. Our desserts will come later. Eat.”

And so, they did. The two mortals shared a meal over the late captain’s knife gouged table. Jon could barely taste his food. Even after a month of traveling with the two women, he felt unease under the weight of their gaze. Liya seemed oblivious.

He locked eyes with Shiera. The silver haired beauty leaned against his shoulder. Her hand gripped his thigh. “Eat, you’ll need your strength.” Cool breath tickled his ear. Ashara mirrored Shiera’s position; she was pressed against Liya. The peasant girl looked tiny and delicate next to the tall dark-haired beauty.

There was a deep hunger in both women’s eyes. A red tinge to the color of their eyes that gave them a deeply predatory look. Jon’s hackles rose; not out of concern for himself, he had been in this situation many times before and emerged with no permanent harm, but he was not sure the two vampires would hold the same restraint with Liya.

“Tell me Liya, have you ever seen a man so magnificent as our Daemon here?” Shiera pressed her lips against his pulse point. Liya smiled at him shyly and shook her head.

“Do you want to see more of him?”

Liya bit her lip. She hesitated and looked to him. Jon locked her gaze and sent a hungry look in return. The peasant girl nodded.

Shiera stayed molded to his back so Jon extended a hand to the peasant girl. Liya squeaked in surprise when he pulled her into his lap. Jon silenced her with a kiss. She was inexperienced but made amends with a wealth of eagerness. He quickly dominated their kiss, opening her lips with a gentle swipe of his tongue.

There was another squeak of surprise from the girl when Ashara’s lips graced her neck. Jon tilted the girl’s head backward to join Ashara. Liya shuddered in his lap. Her nails dug into his bicep.

The two vampires worked quickly to free them of their clothing. Once nude, Jon gripped Liya by her buttocks, lifting her with ease. Smallest of the four of them, Liya felt positively tiny in his arms. The tip of his cock kissed her labia prompting her to bury her face into his neck. Jon hooked her legs over his arm, spreading her wide for him.

A grunt escaped his lips as his cockhead forced its way inside of her. Vice-like and slick, her cunt made it impossible to slow his pace. Jon snapped his hips, burying half his cock in one go. Liya’s cunt tightened almost painfully in response, impeding his progress. She cried into his neck, a muffled plea he ignored. Jon pumped his cock in and out of Liya. Each thrust widened her channel until his was buried all but the last two inches inside of her.

He stilled for a moment offering her respite. Liya’s eyes were wild, her expression a mix of pain and pleasure.

“Slower please,” She pleaded. Jon flexed his cock, prompting her to tighten around him. He claimed her lips once again. He nipped her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The sweet aftertaste was invitation to suck harder. They meandered to the bed. Slight thrusts from his big cock kept Liya on edge.

Her legs locked tight around his waist when he laid her on his back. Jon eased her trepidation with shallow thrusts. Slowly growing used to him inside her, the peasant girl bucked against him. He angled his hips to slide in deeper. Her nether lips clung tightly to his shaft on every backstroke. The wet squelch they made as he slanted back in was music to his ears.

“Fuck her harder.” Shiera goaded. Her bare breasts pressed against his back. She wrapped an arm around him and stroked his abdominals. “You’re a king. Not her lover. Use her.” The elder vampire’s words stoked his passion even further. His cock turned to steel.

Jon pulled back and pressed Liya’s legs to her chest. Folded in half, the peasant girl was at his mercy. She cried out, half in alarm half in pleasure as his cock sank to the root. With a grip like iron bonds, he held her in place and ravaged her. He was not the only one who took advantage.

Ashara kissed the girl’s jawline, calming her slightly. Liya stared up at the beautiful woman mesmerized by her glowing violet eyes. Her entire body tensed when Lady Dayne sank her fangs into the delicate skin of the Liya’s neck. Two lines of blood rolled down the girl’s neck. Liya shuddered beneath him, her cunt clenched around his cock. Jon drove into roughly, riding out her climax until she lay limp beneath him.

Shiera gripped his hips and pulled him away from Liya. The elder vampire flashed a grin before taking his cock into her mouth. A primal grunt left his lips and Jon could not resist thrusting into her mouth. She gripped his buttock and pulled him deeper into her gullet. They both paused for a moment as his wide cock head threatened to invade her throat. Shiera turned her head side to side, working her throat around and down his cock till her nose kissed his navel.

Intrigued beyond belief, Jon gripped the back of her head and held her in place. He thrusted his hips, slow at first and when she did not protest his pace quickened. Soon he was using her at his leisure. The grunts and gurgles that escaped her lips only made him harder. Shiera’s beautiful face was a mess. Slick with copious amounts of saliva that dripped down to her chest. Her pink nipples were diamond hard from Jon’s pinching.

Shiera was far from passive. She slurped his cock lewdly; her full lips formed a tight seal that never fully left his shaft. When he pulled back till just his cock head was in her mouth, she would tease his slit with her tongue and when he slid in deep, his balls on her chin, Shiera would use that same tongue to massage the base of his shaft.

As the night wore on the human visage of his women bled away. Grey skin and bright red eyes replaced violet and mismatched blue and green. Their fangs lengthened past their lips and in Shiera’s case Jon was surprised to see small horns grow from her brow. Beautiful and fearsome the pair were, their inhuman nature undeniable.

The peasant girl was too far enthralled to register the change. Her body was all but an instrument for their pleasure and her blood a fuel for his women. On her hands and knees before him, Jon fucked her roughly. His grip on her hips would surely leave bruises but the pressure in his balls was so high, all concern for her well being was lost. No matter how well Shiera throated him or how great it felt when Ashara stroked his manhood between her breast while sucking on his cock head or how hard he fucked this peasant girl, Jon could not cum.  His pleasure grew to heights never experienced but a peak could not be found.

Frustrated. He pulled out of the peasant girl. She collapsed to the bed with a soft sigh. Bite marks covered her neck and thighs, dried blood stained her skin where the vampires had gotten careless. Her womanhood was swollen, puffy lips still twitching in the absence of his thick cock. If she was not drained entirely tonight, then she would certainly walk with a limp on the morrow. Still, the peasant girl had enough energy to stare at him over her shoulder. She hiked her leg higher, a tantalizing offer of her abused cunt and firm backside.

He ignored her. The pressure in his balls reduced his mind to a singular focus. His cock was harder than steel, straight and long it pointed like an arrow to the two inhuman women. Both Ashara and Shiera had reduced him to a begging mess, riding out their pleasures on his turgid cock while he raved and pleaded for release beneath them. While one rode him, the other drank from his vein. Sometimes at his wrist, others at his neck, or his thighs. Ashara bit him so hard on his hip, he was sure her fang scrapped bone. Shiera lessened his pain with a tightening of her cunt. She nipped at her own wrist and fed him a drink of her blood from the quickly healing wound.

Whatever peculiarities that flowed through their veins was even stronger with Shiera than Ashara. It tasted richer; the metallic flavor so strong that it almost overwhelmed him. Still, Jon drank from her whenever offered. And they offered.

Both grew fond of nipping the other’s breast near the nipple. Then they would feed him as if her were a nursing infant. Ashara fully embraced the maternal role. “My sweet boy” She would whisper in his ear as his cock twitched inside of her, his tongue slurping away the blood on her nipple. “Give it to mama.” Shiera fully embraced the impropriety. “Fuck me, nephew. Fuck your auntie better than your mama.” The accuracy of the statement spurned him on even further. Shiera was his aunt no matter how many generations separated them.

Now he was done begging. The two who upended his life and expanded his world far beyond what he had once thought possible sat side by side. Their pale grey skin, slick with sweat and drops of mortal blood shone in the candlelight. Deep shadows made by the flickering light brought a sinister edge to their sultry appearance. Their nipples were hard and flushed with blood. Four crimson-colored eyes with pupils as bright as stars preyed upon his vision.

His hair had grown long during the journey and ran loose down his back. Every muscle in his body had been exerted tonight and they bulged with every vein visible. He stroked his thick cock as he met their predatory stares. A smirk played across Shiera’s lips and Jon knew an order was soon to follow.

“Come here auntie” Jon beat her to the punch. Whatever snide remark waiting to be voiced was lost as Jon hauled Shiera across the bed and tossed her on her back. A grunt of surprise left her lips instead. “What are you- “he silenced her with a hand around her throat. Claws bite into his wrist but Jon ignored the pain as he positioned himself between her long legs.

Powerful thighs wrapped around his hips, but he was already driving into her before she could gather her defense. Shiera’s face contorted as he forcibly mounted her. The pressure around her throat increased as he battered her cunt. This time Jon did flinch as her claws raked across his shoulder. His pace faltered and Shiera nearly unseated him with a buck of her hips.

Ashara was at his side in a flash. She caught Shiera’s wrist, pining them flat against the bed. Aided by the dark-haired beauty, Jon regained control. His grip around Shiera’s throat grew so tight that if she were mortal, he was sure he would have strangled her. She rolled against his thrusts, fighting to unseat him from her cunt. Even then her cunt clenched so tightly around him that he might have feared permanent harm to his manhood had it no been so hard.

“You’re all mine auntie” He all but snarled. Jon fucked the immortal beauty as hard as he could. Pulling out almost entirely before sliding all the way to the back of her cunt. “Mine to fuck. Mine to conquer.” Her legs parted; toes pointed. Flexible she laid them across the bed, surrendering to his conquest. The pace he maintained threatened to make his heart burst from his chest. Yet his energy felt endless.

The squelch of juices and slap of skin against skin had to be heard by everyone still on the deck. He wondered what his shipmates would do if they saw what lay behind the captain’s door. A prince and his two demon brides. Would they cast him into the sea after he saved them from rape and slavery? Would they beg to join the debauchery? More cattle for his bitches to feast upon.

A gasp of equal parts agony and relief sounded from his throat. Finally, his cum boiled over and his cock surged repeatedly. Heavy shots of his seed sprayed against Shiera’s walls. So much of it that it backfired and coated his navel. He rode her through his climax ensuring that every bit of her cunt was coated with his essence. Minutes or hours later he pulled from her. Heavy and slimy his cock spread more of his seed across her cunt. Shiera cooed in appreciation when he released her throat.

Jon fell back, out of breath but not quite spent. The bed they had commandeered from the dead captain was nowhere near big enough for the four of them. He rested against the back of the sprawled peasant girl.  Shiera lay somewhere beside him, recovering from his onslaught.

He hummed in delight as Ashara’s lips enveloped his length. She pulled half of him into her mouth with one plunge. Her tongue encircled his cock, and then traced every vein on the underside. Ashara made sucking cock an art form. She rubbed the sensitive spot just under his cock head with her thumb while she sucked lazily at the tip of his cock. At times she took him deep, swallowing hard so he breached throat. Then she would hang there, working her throat in a corkscrew motion until his fingers found purchase in her ebony locks to fuck her throat.

Ashara moaned with wanton delight as he used her. She stroked his midsection, memorizing every muscle. When he tired, she led once again. Delicate fingers tipped with claws cupped his balls. Her cool palm massaged them, coaxing them to build more seed for her greedy gullet. “Cum for your mama, baby” She cooed. “I want to taste you.”

Jon grunted in agreement. Ashara bobbed her head aggressively. Saliva wet the silver hair at his navel. Sloppy and wet. Just as he liked it. “Please baby, fill mama’s mouth” She whispered between sucks. They locked stares. The love present in her crimson gaze sent him over the edge.

Ashara shuddered in delight. She pulled back so he sprayed directly onto her tongue. That wicked appendage of hers coaxed every ounce of his seed from him. Even then her lips did not leave his cock for long. She slurped away any traces of his cum and then sought to revive him.

Cognizant of his sensitivity, she was very gentle. Kisses and gentle strokes of her hand prevented him from softening. “Don’t you want mama’s ass, baby? I miss having you in my bum.” His cock twitched with interest. Ashara chuckled. “You want my ass baby. Want to fuck me deep with that big cock? Put your seed in that juicy rump.”

It did not take him long to fully harden. Once again Ashara straddled him, this time facing his feet. Jon’s eyes widened at the view he was provided. Gripping his ankle with one hand for balance, Ashara pulled apart her luscious cheeks to reveal her perfectly pink rosebud to him. That little hole kissed the tip of his cock before the rest of his cockhead slide inside a moment later. Ashara watched his expressions from over her shoulder as she slowly sank the rest of his big cock into her juicy bottom.

They grunted simultaneously as she swallowed all of him. Her thick bottom was flush against his hips. His eyes feasted as she rode him. She held his ankles while rolling her hips. The sensual motion of her hips, paired with the clap of her bottom, and the sight of her rosebud clinging tightly to his length would be seared into his mind until the end of time. Even her feet were beautiful, her soles sat atop his thighs while fucked her ass.

Shiera watched the debauchery with him, her head atop his chest. She was uncharacteristically subdued, rubbing his skin but doing nothing else to draw his attention.

One of the perks having Ashara this way was that he could ascertain her climax so much easier. The telltale flutter of her asshole around the base of his cock was unmistakable. Ashara would pause her riding, seated on his cock to the base. The moans and whimpers and babbles of delight stoked his passion even higher. Twice she came undone on top of him while her succulent butthole tried its best to milk him.

Passive no longer, Jon positioned the raven-haired woman on her hands and knees. Ashara arched her back without his prompting and put her ass high in the air. He bit his lip as he mounted her. Her bottom was well lubricated, and he slid inside with ease. Ashara’s meaty bottom penetrated by his big cock provided such a beautiful view that he oft had to pause and revel in the debauchery.

She would wiggle with impatience. “Please baby, mama needs you.” Ashara gripped the sheets and snapped her hips. Her asshole swallowed his cock. Jon let her work, loving the sight and feel of her working that perfect ass on his cock. While she fucked her ass back on to his cock, he liberally spanked her bottom. Color came to her pale grey cheeks and Ashara delighted in the punishment.

“Punish me baby,” She breathed. Her eyes were wild, her hair a mess from the sweaty sex. “Punish your naughty mother. Fuck me with that big dick while you slap my ass.”

Jon gritted his teeth and yanked her head back with his hand in her long locks. Ashara arched her back further for him. Offering that sweet rump for plunder.  Loud moans left her lips as he fucked her ass roughly. Once again, her asshole fluttered around him. At his mercy, Ashara all but screamed into the night. Jon’s seed lashed out, near as intense as his two climaxes though he had a lot less seed to give.

Tired beyond reason, Jon mumbled a thanks as his two women rearranged him into a more comfortable position on the captain’s bed. He felt a cool cloth wipe away sweat and other fluids from his body. Before his dreams could take him, a bloody wrist pressed against his lips. Too tired to ascertain if it was Ashara’s or Shiera’s, he drank from the wrist until the wound closed.

A horn sounding roused him from deep sleep but the cry of “LAND!” had him sitting up in bed. Jon blinked in surprise. The candles burned low in their scones; he was alone in the cabin.

The bed had been stripped; all signs of last’s nights debauchery gone. Jon blinked in surprise. He was still nude, Shiera had thrown an extra cloak of hers on him for warmth. He slid to his feet and shrugged into the borrowed cloak, tying it at the waist for modesty.

Today the sun was so bright it was blinding. Not a cloud in the sky. Jon gripped the seal of the captain’s doorway as he squinted against the too bright light. For weeks northern storms painted the sky grey and black. Now the sun was in its full glory, its rays reflected off the frigid water of White Harbor’s bay. Jon squinted against the bright light eager to take in his first sight of the city. Of any city truly.

Tilikum and his pod did not dare venture any closer to the city and had abandoned them sometime before Jon. Whale blubber was a delicacy in this part of the North and Jon did not fault the whales for their fears. He felt them, a great distance away taking a well-deserved rest. A smile touched his lips. Now they approached the city under the power of wind and oars.

They sailed into the shadow of a massive stone that hung over the water. It was crowned by a great ring fort. More than a dozen crossbowmen peered down at them and he could not help but shiver with nerves as two scorpions tracked their boats movement. The iron stakes visible in the metal quivers beside them were as long as his leg.  The city grew as they drew near. The sounds of tens of thousands of people living their lives drifted over the water.

A sudden gust of wind battered them from the north. It howled against the cliffs above the harbor so loud it seemed to carry with it a woman’s wail. The ship lurched violently, sending those not secured to the deck. Jon held onto the captain’s doorway. A cry of alarm swept across the deck. His eyes scanned for danger. The ship spun in the water under the weight of its sail. They tilted towards the cliffside, gaining speed with the frigid wind propelling them.

The remnants of the crew were the first to spring into action. They yelled against the wind to the oarsman. Their orders were lost against the wind, but Jon understood their intent. Soon the oarsman caught on, passing the order down the line. Their pace towards the cliffside slowed but only slightly. Across the waters he could see a mass of people gather at the harbor, watching in horror as they bore towards a cliff. At least we will have an audience for our deaths. He thought morbidly. These waters were too cold for rescue.

“Cut the sail!” The sailor’s voice aided through a horn cut through the howling wind. “Cut the sail!” the rest shouted. Jon struggled to find his sea legs on the violent deck. A crew member worked his knife against one of the ropes holding the main sail to the mast of the ship. Jon heard a crack and watched in horror as heavy barrel broke loose from its binding. It bounced across the deck of the ship and caught the sailor across his shoulders. The force of the barrel crumpled the man and sent his body overboard.   

Jon reacted without thinking. He stepped across the deck as fast his balance allowed him. His back and arms bulged as he took hold of the tiller. Steering under such a load was a task for several men but he made do. A crack grew from the base of the mast as he opposed the force of the wind, rotating the tiller so that their ship sailed parallel to the cliff.

He fought against the force of the wind and weight of the sail. The drag of the ship became greater and they slowed. The leader of the oarsmen called for full tilt and they slowly but ever surely began to move away from the cliffs.  The wind died as suddenly as it came. Its harsh howl ceased with a second’s delay.

Jon slumped to the deck in triumph as the sail was cut away. He sat there for a long time, resting as soreness began to creep across his back and legs.

“You have the strength of the warrior within you, boy.” A rough hand slapped his back in thanks. That same hand helped haul him to his feet.

Jon regarded his helper. They stood at eye level which made them both taller than rest of those on the ship. Black bearded and barrel chested, he was powerfully built. He had a receding hairline and wore a pair of trouser stained with sea salt. His shoulders were red with the beginnings of a sun burn. His name was lost to Jon.

“Negan. Twice you saved our lives, I thought I’d owe you at least a name.”

Jon smiled. “I think that was a bit of all of us this time.” A collective relief worked its way through the oarsman and those still on the deck. Panic murmuring was still audible from those beneath.

Negan shook his head. “Humble you may be, but I think even The Mountain that Rides would be hard pressed to steer the tiller by himself in that wind.” He stared at Jon for a long moment. “Who are you?”

He felt the presence of his women even before he turned around. They were both covered head to toe in large robes. Gloves covered their hands and lacquered masks were their faces. He felt the weight of their gazes behind the masks.

I am a bastard boy no longer. No longer did he need to live in the shadow of his uncle and his trueborn brother. The world would never forget him. “I am Daemon Targaryen.”

Chapter Text

Daemon Targaryen

The shores of Skagos appeared and dissipated under flashes of lightning, while deeper in the island a massive fire raged engulfing an ancient forest. Daemon and his crew stared in abject horror. The fires carved jagged lines across the island’s western face. Smoke columns coalesced into dark clouds whose height was still dwarfed by mile-tall mountains.

“What hell has Stannis brought forth?” Daemon wondered. He gripped the haft of the weirwood spear tighter. The wood felt as hard as iron in his hands. Dried and treated it was nearly as strong, more than thrice as expensive as well.

Word of Stannis’ fleet sailing to Skagos had spread throughout White Harbor. Even with most of his ships being burned wrecks at the bottom of Blackwater Bay, Stannis’ fleet was still fielded more ships than White Harbor could hope to match. The navy Robb Stark commissioned at the start of the war was still months away from any true fighting force. Thankfully the Stormlord left White Harbor unmolested, sailing at the front of a powerful storm to Skagos.

It was not the only news he heard in White Harbor. Winterfell was a burning husk and Bran and Rickon were slain. Ironborn raped and pillaged the heart of the North because of Theon Greyjoy. Robb treated Greyjoy as his brother and in some ways, Greyjoy was more Stark than Daemon. After all, he grew up in Winterfell and spent more than a decade living in its halls. The Starks showed him kindness, treating him not as a prisoner but as a kinsman. Their affection had been repaid with Stark blood. If Robb fell in battle, the male line of House Stark was extinguished.

Daemon raged but there was nothing he could do. Refugees flooded to White Harbor in mass. They came with stories of Wildling raiding parties rampant across the gift and Ironmen pillaging as deep as Torrhen’s square and all along the western coast of the continent. Robb might win every battle in the south, but he left the North ripe for slaughter.

The deck rolled beneath his feet. The waves frothed and churned around them; seafoam pooled onto the deck. Daemon widened his stance; his boots crunched the crushed stone between his sole and the ice. Traction was oft hard to find during their long journey. They sailed in coastal waters as much as possible, but the heavy winds and ice battered their galley every minute along the way. Twice they nearly capsized. More the half a dozen men had gone overboard never to be seen again.

Ashara and Shiera stood beside him. The latter held Dragonbinder. It was longer than she was tall. Curved and black, and banded with gold and Valyrian Steel it was once the horn of a centuries-old dragon. Each night the glyphs carved into the bands had been bathed with his blood. Now every rune along its surface glowed faintly red.

“It is time, Daemon,” Shiera shouted. The wind carried her voice over across the sea lending her its power. He exchanged the weirwood spear for the dragon horn. The light emanating from the glyphs pulsated with his touch. Only the blood of the forty can blow the horn without dying. They wanted no one else to harness their magic.

He blew the horn. The glyphs flashed white-hot. Bright as a lighthouse beacon. A thousand voices screamed in agony. Their tortured cries left no doubt of the foul magic used to bind the magic of the horn. Blood magic of an untold scale. Briefly, it seemed as if the world had been robbed of all sound as the horn went silent. Even the sea calmed its fury.

They glided to a rocky beach under steady winds. Daemon jumped from the deck of the galley and landed in ankle-deep water. The vampires landed on the dry land far behind him. Dragonbinder was strapped across Ashara’s back. Both women had traded their robes for armor and cloaks.

The crew formed before him. Thirty men. Older, grizzled. Most were veterans of Robert’s Rebellion. There was a palpable energy in the air along with the taste of smoke. Daemon could not remember feeling so energized.

“We need to get to get Daemon to the mountains.” Shiera stepped forward. Her hair was pulled back into a long tail, she bore no mask and her eyes had an otherworldly glow to them that bewitched the attention of every man on the beach. She pointed to jagged peaks crowned in snow. The tree line grew sparse in the high country and the large patches of snow covered the ground. “Defend him with your life. Remember your contract.”

The men nodded slowly in almost unconscious compliance with her order. They would be compelled to lay down their lives in Daemon’s defense.

He frowned at the display of Shiera’s power. It was only from watching how quickly others fell under her glamour did he realize how formidable Shiera could be. How much of this journey was predicated by the beautiful vampire’s ability to manipulate him? The thought brought about a wave of self-doubt. If I am to be a king, then I need to resist her. I will be no one’s pawn.

“We move with silence. Lord Stannis brought war to this island, and I see no need for us to participate,” He addressed the men. None of Shiera’s glamour was needed as each man focused on his words. Leading men was an unfamiliar experience, but he was quickly becoming accustomed to it. “The treeline or whatever is left of it will be our refuge until we reach the high country. No fires.” Daemon stared at each man, doing his best to commit their faces to memory. He nodded at Negan. The sailor recruited many if not most of the men on the beach.

They appeared more akin to a hunting party than a fighting force. The men wore more furs and hides than iron or steel. Skagos was notoriously cold, as winter never truly left this place. It made Daemon wonder how Stannis and his southern army were faring. The steady feedings of vampire blood granted him greater resistance to the cold than ordinary men. He wore more steel than any of them.

“It must be the Stark blood in your veins,” Daeren commented on his attire.

Ashara hiked by his side. With their expert night vision, the two vampires led from the front. Daemon’s night vision had been improved substantially as well. The men followed their step with a guide rope. Single file they marched across barren windswept lands pocketed with permafrost. The only thing that grew on these plains was a thick luminescent moss that crunched beneath their feet. Its glow ranged from red to purple.

“Do you feel that?” Ashara questioned. He nodded. There was an oppressive, almost foul presence that circled about them, unseen but impossible to ignore. “Something terrible has been happening in these lands.” Shiera shared a grim look with them over her shoulder.

Daemon pulled on his shoulder straps, tightening his pack to his back. His spear served as a walking stick. He kept his gaze on a swivel, determined to be not caught off guard in the dark. They hiked through the rest of the night and into a few hours of the early morning. The shift from day to night was almost imperceptible. The cloud cover was thick enough that they missed the dawning light entirely.

They made camp beneath a tall rock outcropping, shelter against the strong gusts of wind that were oft to roll in. Shiera and Ashara lay on either side of him. They used their cloaks for bedding and the women laid their heads on his chest. Their sleep was peaceful but short-lived.

Waking before sunset, they began their march again. Hours later the rocky terrain gave way to softer soil. More plants flourished in this richer soil. Ferns and bushes, and moss and moss and moss. Their only company was the occasional small mammal that reared its head from its hovel before darting away. The mountains grew closer, and the grade increased sharply. Below them, the forests of Skagos burned. As far as the eye could see fire touched some area of the land. Their smoke created an ominous-looking cloud cover.

“Stannis must have similar goals as us,” Daemon told Ashara. Shiera scouted further ahead. He suspected she was frustrated by the pace of their march but long hours of marching and the rise in elevation heavily taxed the men. They would not survive at a faster pace.

“I find that unlikely. If any lord even suspected the possibility of a dragon on Skagos then this island would have been invaded long ago.”

“Then how else do you explain a southern lord traveling across the world for this?” He motioned towards the barren landscape. Far below them, the sea smashed against the shoreline. “There are no castles here and the Skagossi make poor vassals. Stannis did not come here searching for allies.”

Ashara’s pace did not break. She was silent for so long he thought she was ignoring him. “Shiera spent the better part of a century learning all that she could of dragons and the spells to bring them back. As both a human and a vampire. This is not knowledge some lord stumbles upon.”

“And his Red Witch?” Daemon pressed. “What if she is like you and Shiera? You’ve heard the rumors.” Ashara gave him an incredulous look. “I know that you and Shiera are not the only two of your kind. There are others.” It had been impossible not to hear of Stannis’ Red Witch in White Harbor. Tall, beautiful, mysterious, and she was a sorcerous. None of the tales mentioned an aversion to sunlight, however. Not an exact match but close enough to raise his suspicion. “You warned me about her. That she will play some cause in Robb’s downfall.”

“If our paths cross with her then she will be dealt with. We shall see what this Red Witch truly is.” Ashara’s long braid whipped in the wind. Her face was fierce. “Even if Stannis and his Witch are here for the dragon, they do not have the last male heir of the Targaryen dynasty. Nor do they have a Dragonbinder. She fingered the mouth of the horn strapped across her back. “There were never many of these horns in the first place. And knowledge of how to craft them was lost when Valyria fell.”

“You both never anticipated anything such as Stannis and his army here.” Daemon accused. He had suspected as much as soon as they learned of the Lord of Storm’s End sail to Skagos.

Shiera landed in a crouch before Daemon. The men who witnessed her approach were shocked by her athletic ability. She leaped from a cliff edge more than twenty feet above their heads. “You need to follow me.” Shiera grabbed Daemon’s arm, tugging him up the slope.

Daemon did his best to follow Shiera up the steep slope. The loose rock made each step treacherous. He used the butt of his spear as a walking aid. Shiera moved with supreme grace, bounding up the slope with speed. They crested another ridge, and the slope began to flatten. He quickened his pace to a jog and then quickly a sprint to close the gap between him and Shiera.

Their pace slowed as they reached the tree line. There were no signs of fire here. Moss blanketed the ground thickly. Under the shadow of the trees, its luminescence glow pierced the gloom with violet light. They walked for another half mile under the trees until they came to a meadow. A massive weirwood tree dominated the meadow. Daemon’s mouth opened agape in horror. Black wounds marred the white bark of the weirwood. As he drew closer, he realized it was the moss eating through the bark. The contact with the weirwood had somehow altered the moss into black fleshy masses that wormed their way into the bark and stained the surrounding area a dark purple. The masses began at the roots of the weirwood and snaked their way up the length of the tree.

The leaves of the tree were altered as well. An inky blue instead of red. Oblong fruits burdened the branches. They were the same shade as the leaves marked with white veins. They looked less like fruits the larger they grew and pulsed in regular intervals. A heartbeat. Daemon realized. The face of the weirwood was twisted into a grimace. Tears of red leaked from its eyes.

Revulsion rose in him. All his life Daemon had been taught to respect the weirwoods. They were humanity’s connection to their ancestors… to the Old Gods. The foul presence grew sharply as they stood before the corrupted tree. The tree’s eyes blinked.

Daemon drove his spear into the flesh mass nearest the tree’s face. It exploded, spraying a sweet-smelling purple liquid across the bark. He pulled the spear back and stabbed another.  And another. Shiera dragged him away from the tree.

He screamed in frustration. “What is this?!” As a child, he had the green dreams of the war between the Andals and the First Men. Countless weirwoods were burned or cut down in the Andal’s conquest of the south. Somehow this seemed worse.

“I do not know,” Shiera admitted. Her eyes scanned the tree. With a great deal of hesitation, she plucked a fruit from its branches. The tempo of its pulsating increased. “It has a heartbeat.”

“That should be impossible.” Impossible seemed to be losing much of its meaning as he learned more of the world.

“It’s not natural but very much possible. There are flesh trees in Essos. Volantis has a garden of them in the Archon’s palace. They are a biomancers’ work.” She held the fruit to her nose. The smell of it brought her nose to wrinkle.

“A biomancer in Skagos?” Daemon dropped to a knee to examine the moss. It took a great deal of effort to uproot a handful of it. Its roots dug wide and deep into the soil. “There should be a greater diversity of plants here. All I see is this moss.” He crushed the moss in his fist. “Whatever this is, it is starving the rest of the island. Stannis must have set the island afire to kill it.”

“You don’t know that,” Shiera countered. “Stannis could be at war with the Skagossi. This-” She gestured to the weirwood, “may not have reached his attention.”

Daemon shook his head. “The Skagossi keep to the old ways more than any Northmen save for Crannogmen. What do you think happens to a people that pray to these trees when this happens?”

Shiera paused. “What are you suggesting?”

“I do not know enough of this biomancy to suggest anything.” Still… “When I stand in front of a normal heart tree, I feel something. You do not have to be a warg or have green-sight to experience it. Those are the old gods. This presence is not them.”

Her frown deepened. “Even the Valyrians grew wary of biomancy. Too many accidents. Too many casualties. The last of the biomancer guilds that were not culled relocated to Gogossos. Their arrogance led to the death of that city.”

“The Red Death?” He asked, remembering his history. Greywater’s library had been bolstered by gifts from his uncle from Winterfell’s stock.

“There’s nonalive to confirm the truth but it’s been long suspected the Red Death originated in the flesh pits. Biomancers have always had a habit of delving deep into science and magic they do not understand.”

Daemon stood. Purpose straightened his shoulders. “We cannot allow this to spread to the mainland.”

Shiera splattered the fruit beneath her heel. “Let Stannis burn the forest with torches. We will use dragon fire.”

Daemon opened his mouth to reply but a distant, tortured scream reverberated through the trees. He and Shiera moved to stand back-to-back. They stood at ready for several minutes, but the forest fell silent. “Let’s find the men,” They both said at once. They shared a nervous smile.

Sleep did not come for Daemon. The tortured eyes of the weirwood haunted him each time he closed his eyes. They were hungry pits attached to a thousand different faces. Skagos had many weirwoods and each one they came across bore the same corruption as the first tree. His outrage was shared by the other Northmen.

A severe storm a day and a half later forced them to pitch camp and shelter. When it passed, snowfall shin-high blanketed the ground. They strapped on their snowshoes and continued their climb. The foreboding presence seemed to sharpen as they ascended. Every man struggled with poor sleep. Falls were more frequent, and the injuries piled on.

“They are close to breaking,” Daemon whispered to his vampires. In this rare instance, they both agreed with him.

“It is too late to turn back,” Shiera's eyes grew determined. Daemon did not protest as she used her glamour more frequently. Under the influence of Shiera’s glamour and the oppressive presence of whatever governed the weirwoods, the individuality of the men eroded. There were fewer conversations. No more laughter and raunchy banter, only the shuffle of footsteps in the snow.

What monsters we make.

“Lord Targaryen,” Negan’s voice broke the silence. It was hoarse from disuse. The man pointed at a weirwood. Daemon followed his gaze. A Skagossi was crucified against the trunk. He was stripped bare, and his toes and fingers were black from frostbite. Weirwood grew around his forearms and calves, fusing him to the tree. The same masses of flesh that grew in the weirwood had altered the man’s abdomen. His whole stomach cavity had swelled to obscene portions and then popped from the pressure. The man’s stomach and abdomen were hollow as if something reached inside to steal his entrails and organs.

They marched single file through the snow and trees. Daemon’s focus on following Ashara’s footsteps was broken by a scream from the back of the line. Another scream pierced the air. He dropped his pack in the snow and raced to the source.

Fear seemed to wake the men from their stupor. Every single man drew his weapon. “It snatched him.” Daemon interrogated the witness, but he got nothing more. A full-grown man snatched without a trace. The snow bore no footsteps other than their own.

“We’ll slow our pace and walk in pairs. Go nowhere without another man beside you,” Daemon ordered. He looked to Shiera and Ashara for answers, but they looked as bewildered as he. “Shiera, I need you to bring up the rear. Ashara and I will take point.”

“We need fire,” Negan exclaimed. The others added their voices in agreement.

Fire might only bring more attention. Daemon did not argue. Even his enhanced vision had trouble peering discerning details in the shadows of the trees. Normal human eyes had to be nearly useless. The men paired off and armed themselves with torches.

They pressed forward. Their pace was slower to reduce the sprawl of the group. Daemon shivered as his legs sank deeper into the snow. Ashara noticed. “You need more blood.” He drank from them every night at sea to restore his body after his blood was spilled on the horn. This was the longest he had gone without it in weeks.

“I need food. Real food. No more of this dried shit.” Even the thought of the dried food in his pack made his mouth water. He finished the last of his water and then packed the skin with snow. They were in the mountains now and the spaces between the trees grew wider. The sky hung low above their heads, laden with dark clouds. Glacier-ridden mountains rose on either side of them. He stopped to take a breath. “How much higher do we have to hike before I can blow the horn again?”

“It’s the volcanoes. Not the elevation,” Ashara corrected. Her hair whipped about her face. His heart warmed at the sight of her pretty smile. They walked around a tree for privacy. She pulled back her sleeve to bare her wrist. Her nail sliced vertically across the vein. His aches and shivers evaporated as he drank from her wound. Ashara’s blood was not as potent as Shiera’s but every drop of it was precious to him.

“There are volcanoes here?”

“When the Skagossi still had ships, they were the main exporter of dragonglass in Westeros. Dragonglass or obsidian only forms in the presence of a volcano.”

“And if the source is ancient?”

“It does not matter. An adult dragon can burrow deep in search of the heat. You’ll soon see the caves in the Dragonmont on Dragonstone. We find the obsidian mines and no matter how deep the dragon has burrowed the horn will awaken him.”

It was still difficult for Daemon to suspend his disbelief. Learning that Ned Stark was not his father had been a shock but ultimately it explained so many mysteries in his life that the news was easy to accept. Rhaegar, Lyanna, and his status as the last male Targaryen was a more difficult reality to accept but he had weeks to come to reconcile his identity. A dragon was another story. Only the sight of such a creature would bring him to believe.

Robb is fighting to avenge our… his father. To save his sisters. And here I am chasing legends and rumors. His ladies had always been sure that Robb would need him. Only now did he believe them. Robb could only make such a self-destructive decision to allow Theon to return to the Iron Isles as a victim of a curse. They were brothers in all but blood. Daemon ignored the envy he still felt. The Starks were always the family he wanted but never had. Now their number dwindled each time he heard the news of the wider world. Would they all be dead before he could see them again?

Renly was already dead; killed by his own shadow or his lady at arms depending on which rumor was to be believed. There was no shortage of them in White Harbor. Balon Greyjoy’s throne was vacant, the details of his death lost to him. Joffrey Baratheon still sat on the Iron Throne, but two of four of Stannis’ rival claimants were gone. Is Robb next? Daemon wondered. If I kill the Red Witch is her curse broken? His mind returned to the questions repeatedly. He breathed in the cool mountain air to quell his thoughts.

Ashara yanked him to her by his wrist. Her surprising strength put him off balance for a moment. He looked at her in surprise but the expression on her face silenced him. “We are being stalked.” Daemon followed her gaze, but he saw nothing in the gloom of the woods. He dropped his pack and readied his spear. A whistle from him gathered the attention of the men.

“Do you see it? There. By that tree.” Ashara whispered. Her eyes glowed, her irises shifted from purple to red. Daemon almost shook his head but something about the tree shifted. Even his enhanced vision struggled to make out detail. Not for the first time he missed the presence of Ghost. His wolf’s senses granted him so much more detail about his surroundings.

“It’s camouflaged,” Ashara voiced. Shiera took position behind him. Both women drew Valyrian steel daggers and Shiera held an axe in her offhand. The men formed a rough circle at his urging. Eyes to cover all sides he decided.

“What are waiting for?” A man to Daemon’s left questioned.

“Quiet, fool,” Negan muttered. He stood to the right of Ashara. The stress of the past few days seemed to have aged the man by a factor of several years. There was grey in his beard where before there was none. Dark circles lined his eyes. He clutched a spiked mace tightly in his hands.  

Almost as if to answer his question an inhuman cry sounded through the trees. The cry reverberated, echoing, and then another cry joined it. Fear rushed through the men, instinctual and intense. He heard a whimper.

“They’re hunting us,” Negan voiced.

“I can’t see them!”

The slaughter started suddenly.  The only warning they received were sudden volleys of snow as something large charged through it. An agonized scream sounded from the men who guarded their rear. A spray of blood splattered across the snow as Emmet’s jaw fragmented under an enormous force. Gargling and choking from his own blood, Emmet reached for what was left of his face.

“What devilry is this?!” Deran screamed. His left side ripped open with violent force. A sudden fountain of veinous blood erupted from him before he collapsed.

The air before him shifted and Daemon reacted upon instinct. He shoved Negan aside and drove his spear forward. A disorientating screech shattered against his ears as the spear bit. The creature before him was almost translucent, hard to see and define where its form ended and began. A gaping maw appeared and disappeared as it snarled. Rows of sharp black teeth, a smell of sulfur and rotting flesh. A purple tongue lashed out.

The beast cut down two men in quick succession. It bit half a man’s face off. The other man fell in terror and shock then flailed and died when his spine was crushed. Yards away more men shouted as unseen terror wreaked havoc.

Daemon arrested his fear and shoved his spear forward. Negan jumped forward alongside him. He swung a great two-handed spiked mace with a great bellow. The mace crunched against something hard. The creature responded with a strike to the chest that lifted Negan off his feet.

It was fast. Daemon stabbed again before it could pounce on Negan. His weapon only found air. His eyes struggled to see the creature. Its skin or hide was a mirror to the environment. The delay between its shifts in color and the environment around it was enough for him to track it. A tear in its flesh marred the effect of its rabid camouflage. Dark blood leaked across a patch of pale skin.

A blow to his shoulder knocked him off balance. The creature was upon him in less than a second. Its weight was immense. Claws jabbed into his chainmail. The steel crunched its strength. Rows of sharp black teeth appeared before him; a long purple tongue dripped rancid fluid on his body. The steel hissed and smoked as it reacted with the liquid.

Negan’s mace smacked into the side of the creature’s head. Daemon was doused with blood and brains but still, the creature resisted. He brought the mace down before the creature could recover. Tough chitinous flesh dented under the immense force. Two more men rushed to join the fray. Their spears jabbed at the creature, but its flesh was tough and it shrugged off the damage. The creature snapped on the men’s spears in half and in another fluid motion drove the spearhead into Aron’s neck.

Daemon rolled away. His reflexes saved him from the creature’s grasping hands. It came at him again ignoring the others. An amber eye blazed with hunger, the other was a ruin of bone-white flesh and dark blood. A snarling high-pitched cry reverberated from its throat. On all fours, it raced across the snow. The Targaryen snarled in return and advanced to meet the beast.

It feinted to avoid the spear, but they were too close, and Daemon’s reflexes were too quick. His thrust was true. Steel found the devil’s eye. His triumph was short-lived. Blinded the creature lashed out. Daemon sidestepped but he could not create enough distance, rings of his chainmail were ripped away. He stumbled and fought without pause despite the sudden flash of pain across his abdomen. Negan and Bracks joined him. They fought the creature with steel and fire. Bracks shoved his torch against the beast’s side.  Negan hammered the beast’s back and sides with his spiked mace. Steel crunched against bone and flesh. Bits of blood and gore came away with every blow. It was Daemon’s spear and his speed that led their offense. His aggressiveness kept the beast on its heels and prevented it from targeting the others.

Its camouflage began to falter, revealing the true horror of the beast. It was nearly seven feet tall. Humanoid and incredibly muscular. Its head was wider than Daemon’s chest. Swollen and triangular the skull of the creature bulged to obscene portions.  An immense mouth dominated its face. Lipless the gaping maw seemed a doorway to hell. Slits interrupted the thin white skin stretched across its face where its nose should be. Veins decorated its pale flesh.

Spiked masses of black bone grew from its spine and spikes at its elbow. Claws the size of daggers were at the end of its five-fingered hands. Thick growths of bone protected its chest and upper abdomen. Blood leaked from its many wounds, but the damage seemed superficial at best.

“An abomination!” Negan growled.

There was another inhuman roar and Daemon turned to see Shiera mounted across the second creature’s shoulders. Her Valyrian steel dagger pierced its skull over and over again. It shuddered in pain and still fought to dislodge her. Ashara drove a spear into its thick neck, burying the enter steelhead and another foot of the haft into the creature. It reached for her but the vampire’s speed and grace kept her out of its reach. Their sellswords delivered punishing blows with swords and axes at every turn. Still, it resisted. Its pain tolerance was incredible.

The blind beast abandoned its focus on Daemon and sprinted to aid its companion. It plowed through the snow at blinding speed. Ashara dove to her side. She cartwheeled in the snow and was on her feet in less than a second. The beast pursued her by smell and sound. Its great clawed hands swung wildly. Ashara dodged the blows, but the beast was relentless in its pursuit.

Daemon surged into action and loosed his spear. It sailed for sixty yards and deflected off the bone protrusions on the creature's back. Ashara was caught by a wild upper-handed swing that lifted her off her feet. She landed hard several yards away, sprawled in the snow. Adrenaline surged through Daemon’s veins but the snow his snowshoes slowed his sprint.

Ashara was slow to gather herself and the demon pounced. It slammed her against a tree with bone-crushing force. She flailed, stabbing at the arm that held her, but the creature’s strength was insurmountable. It caught her arm and yanked. Bones and tendons popped audibly under the force. Lady Dayne screamed in agony. The creature crumpled Ashara with an immensely powerful hammer fist.

Daemon roared in outrage. He struck with a mental spike. The creature’s mental defenses crumbled under his rage. He smothered its consciousness under a powerful barrage of psychic power. Ashara’s body dropped to snow as its limbs came under his control. Daemon charged the other abomination, great serrated claws ripped into its flesh. They tumbled in the snow, tearing at each other. His wide jaw clamped on the other's neck. He muted the pain of the great rents tore across his back. Biting and shaking and tearing. His belly was torn open by clawed feet.

“Burn them!” Daemon heard Shiera order with his human ears. He was winning. The creature beneath him was weakening; its dark lifeblood stained the snow. His sense of triumph was short-lived. The unnerving presence returned tenfold. Daemon recoiled but it was too late. The creature’s mind became a prison. A black sky with a thousand eyes examined him. Their consciousnesses brushed against another. Daemon’s own being a ship against a vast armada. It was no single entity. No hellish beast; no unseen predator in the night. It was a god. A mind of many thousands. And it had a thirst. It struck. The force of it was akin to an avalanche. There was no fighting it and it took all his skill and focus to not lose himself in the tide.

It was a suffocating experience. Daemon was crushed by a violent tide. It probed his thoughts, viewed his memories, tasted his growing despair. He had no voice to scream. No body to feel pain. Yet the growing horror of his mind being examined for consumption was worse than any physical pain.

Pain. The realization sent a rush of relief through even as fire melted away his skin. The creature screamed and Daemon did not linger. He severed the connection between him and the beast. A harsh breath filled his burning lungs. It took his body several moments to remember how to breathe. Hot fluid leaked from his nose, Daemon wiped a hand across his face and saw blood. His side ached mightily each time the skin was forced to stretch.

Shiera crouched in front of him. Her beautiful worry ridden face dominated his vision. He did not have the energy or coherence of mind to voice his thoughts. She inferred his mood without conversation.

“See Ashara,” he said with great difficulty. Daemon nearly lost consciousness but he willed himself to remain coherent. After the thrill and chaos of combat, the devastation of their company was laid plain. Bodies both whole and in-pieces were strewn across the snow. Eleven men were dead. A third of Daeren’s forearm was gone and two of the sellswords had lost so much blood that they would not last through the hour.

For their efforts. The two creatures lay dead, their bodies several yards apart. The one that Daemon had possessed had tried to crawl to the trees, leaving a bloody trail of its innards atop the snow until the back of its skull was cratered by Negan’s mace. Negan battered the skull of the second larger creature until its skull and brain were little more than mush. A bloodlust-fueled cry left his lips.

The others wept or were shocked into silence. Ashara was unconscious. What Daemon could see of her neck was bruised and her right arm was broken. He winced in sympathy as Shiera set the mangled arm back into position. Ashara did not react.

“She needs blood and time to heal,” Shiera told him. The uncertainty plain on his normally confident lover’s face unsettled him.

“She can have mine,” Daemon offered. Shiera eyed his side. He clutched the wound in response. “You can look it over once we deal with her.”

Shiera nodded. “You don’t have the strength.” He understood. “He needs to still be living. Dead men are stale bread to us. Ashara needs meat.”

They carried Lady Dayne to the side of dying Daren. The focus of the men turned to them. He was delirious with pain and blood loss. Bones of his ribcage were exposed and through a gap in the flesh, Daemon was sure he could see a lung.

Daemon turned away to watch the reaction of the men. They stared grimly at the spectacle and their gazes hardened when Shiera sliced Daeren’s wrist, holding the wound over Ashara’s mouth so a steady drip of blood pooled on her tongue. Ashara remained worryingly still. Shiera massaged Ashara’s throat and forced an involuntary swallow. She force-fed Ashara till the vein ran dry. Shiera held eye contact with Daeran. Rather than the fear of certain death, Daeren’s expression was one of ecstasy. He bore a soft smile and fresh tears. Silent words danced on his lips.

“They are as bad as those beasts,” Bracks spat. Several others clutched their weapons tighter. Daemon’s eyes fell over Negan, but the bearded man’s face was unreadable. Shiera’s compulsion must have come to an end.

Daemon stepped between the vampires and the men. “Those beasts would have you cut you down before you knew what was attacking if it were not for them.”

“We would not be here if it were not for those witches,” Bracks retorted. Several grunted in agreement. Daemon met each of their eyes.

Shiera sneered. Her lips were dark with blood. Ashara’s head lay in her lap, Shiera’s bloody wrist pressed to her mouth. “Did you think we paid you all mountains of coin for fucking nothing? There are risks in this business. Risks that every single one of you accepted in the terms of the contract.”

“Fuck the contract! I thought we were here to make sure you three didn’t get raped and eaten by fucking savages. No one agreed to that!” He pointed to the bodies of the creatures.

“Your complaints are noted,” Shiera responded dryly. “Now, if you want to get off this island and see your bastard children again then fall in line.”

“Fuck that bitch! I’m not walking another bloody step with you,” A younger man behind Bracks shouted.  Jaxen, Daemon remembered. His eyes were wild with fear, and he gripped his axe too tightly for Daemon’s comfort.

“The way I see it you can take your chances with us or them,” Daemon gestured towards the creatures’ carcasses.

“Or we’ll go find King Stannis. He has fucking army,” Jaxen retorted.

“That’s assuming you find him. Stannis is on the other side of the island.”

“The side that’s on fire,” Shiera reminded. Her pale skin faded to grey, and her irises were now as red as the blood on the snow. Her otherworldly appearance startled the men. Daemon could see her exhaustion beneath the confident façade.

“I won’t try to stop any of you from leaving but you best do so in peace.” He stared at Jaxen and Bracks. Don’t do anything fucking stupid. The others shifted in indecision. To his surprise, Negan moved to stand beside him.

“I’d listen to the young king.” Negan bounced the shaft of his mace in his hands.

Eight men departed in the night. Daemon watched them from the ridgeline near the mouth of the cave they sheltered in. The forest was more alive deeper in the island. Daemon did not know if it meant whatever hell had taken the rest of the island had yet to come to this part but the sound of life in the trees was welcome. A quiet forest only promised danger.

Pain stitched up his side as he moved. His chainmail saved him from being maimed further but the serrated claws of the beast and its strength were enough to rip steel and bite into the skin beneath.

“You need rest,” Shiera called to him from the lip of the cave. He sighed and followed her into the cave. He settled beside the still unconscious Ashara the mouth of the cave. The rock wall at his back was far from comfortable but Shiera curling against his side combatted the discomfort.

She lifted his chainmail shirt. At first, he thought she meant to inspect his wound, but he arrested the motion when she made to lift the shirt over his head. “What are you doing? If those things come back-”

“We need you at your absolute best. If you wince every time, you move then how can you expect to fight?” Shiera’s red orbs were intense.

“And if those creatures attack again? How am I supposed to fight naked?”

“If we are attacked again then we run. We do not have the strength to fight. Do you understand?” Shiera did not wait for his answer. Her deft fingers stripped him with speed and efficiency. Daemon laid the armor plating in a neat pile next to them. Shirtless and in his breeches, he sat silently as Shiera inspected his body. Her fingers traced the cleaned wound at his side and the bruised flesh around it.

He was aware of the eyes on them. The men lay huddled together for warmth at the other side of the wide and shallow cave. A few watched with half-lidded eyes. They assumed the darkness concealed their faces, but he could see them clearly with his enhanced vision.

Shiera straddled his hips and stripped herself of her armor and then the clothing that lay beneath. The sight of her bare form drew an audible reaction from the men behind him, but they might as well have been a world away. Despite all his logic that told him otherwise, Daemon palmed Shiera’s buttocks possessively as she settled in his lap. Her skin was smooth, supple, and very cold. She stole his body heat wherever their skin touched. He did not mind.

He met her lips with a hunger of his own. Her sharp fangs cut his lip and Shiera sucked greedily at his bottom lip. Daemon groped her buttocks and pulled her close as she fell back in his lap. The more he kissed her, the more he wanted her. Shiera returned his passion and did her best to dominate their kiss. The taste of her drove him wild.

He felt her wetness leak on his breeches. His turgid cock strained against the fabric. Daemon gripped her hair in his fist and tugged. Her back arched and he greedily sucked her nipples. They grew hard between his lips and against his tongue. Shiera leaned back, separating his lips from her breasts. He gazed at her form in appreciation.

Shiera's breasts hung high on her chest, round and full and capped with hard pink nipples. Her belly was taught, and his eyes followed the lines of her muscle to her navel. She spread her long legs for him. His mouth watered at the newly revealed treasure. A devilish smile grew on her lips and Daemon knew he was in for a night to remember.

She was already wet for him, and she split her lips with her slender fingers, spreading her juices across her cunt. The slap she delivered to her clit was audible in the stilled silence of the cave. With one arm behind her for support, Shiera played with her clit. She smacked and rubbed it till it was engorged. Her lips spread for her fingers as she dipped into her depths. She pulled them back glistening with her juices and Daemon sucked on the digits greedily when she held them to his lips.

She continued to tease him, playing with her cunt, and making him taste her juices. Each time she seemed to grow wilder, fucking herself for longer with her fingers. Her cunt was so wet her whole hand was coated with her essence. He would lick her fingers clean and then suck her at palm. She could only be described as succulent, and his cock grew so hard that he almost feared it would snap.

Finally, he grew frustrated. Shiera let out a barely audible snarl when he reached for her, but Daemon ignored her warning. He gripped her buttocks and lifted her to pull her cunt to his mouth. Her claws dug painfully into his scalp. Held in place as she straddled his shoulders, Daemon feasted on her cunt. His tongue split her lips and he strained to place it as deep as he could. Shiera shuttered when he lavished her clit, pressing the flat of his tongue against her button drew a shudder of delight from the beautiful woman.

She made a fist of his hair and tugged not stopping till she was almost sitting on his face. To take the load off his neck, Daemon lifted her by her buttocks. Her toes still touched the ground and she laid a hand on the cave wall for balance.

“Hold your tongue out,” Shiera ordered. Daemon did as he was told to do. Shiera rode his face. Her cunt would sit on his tongue, luxuriating in the feel of it against her smooth skin before rising to drag across his face and against his nose. She coated him in her essence as she took her pleasure, and the heat of her gaze kept his cock as hard as the stone at his back.

Daemon groped her firm buttocks as she rode him. The intensity of their debauchery made him mad with desire. Shiera did not protest when his fingers explored between her cheeks. Mesmerized by the roundness of her bottom and her soft skin, he gripped her cheeks harshly. His fingers were wet from the juices that leaked from her sex. Daemon reached beneath her to touch her sex, her lips were swollen with need.

Shiera paused and stood over him, legs wide as his finger slide inside of her, and his tongue danced against her clit. He found a rough bundle of nerves at the top of her cunt and focused on stimulating it. Only after a short time did Shiera jerk so suddenly she almost dislodged his hand. Almost. Daemon extended her pleasure, rediscovered that special spot, and sucked on her clit till she growled. Sharp claws dug roughly into his scalp and even if he wanted to escape, he could not.

“Fuck!” She whispered. Shiera held in place as she came undone. She sprayed against his face, filling his mouth with the same sweetness that dripped down his chin and added to the run on his chest.

Shiera's tongue was inside his mouth and his cock in her incredibly tight cunt soon after. The beautiful inhuman woman rode his cock with the same dominance that she rode his face with. He could taste her blood in his mouth, recognizing through a haze of wild pleasure that she had bit her tongue. Shiera forced her blood into his mouth. The magic in her blood drew a response from his body immediately. Euphoria took him and his grip on her hips tightening. His cock surged and grew as large as it could ever be.

She held him there in passion-induced insanity. All he wanted to do was fill her cunt with his seed, so much of it he was sure it would drip from her for days. Shiera milked him without moving, the dexterity of her inner muscles on full display. They could not have fucked more than a few minutes until Shiera came undone on his cock. Almost as if released from a spell, Daemon’s cock flooded her slick with a river of pent-up seed.

The volume of his spend made his cock sore but he had barely lost any rigidity. Shiera’s cunt was a sloppy wet mess and she continued riding him long after he was done doing his best to fill her womb. They kissed tenderly this time and her pace slowed. She rode him gently and reached behind her to play with his heavy sack.

Daemon grunted and gathered her thighs in his hands. Shiera followed his direction, shifting until her feet were flat against the wall while he held her by her hips. She balanced with her arms behind and together they watched as her cunt slid up and down his cock. Her juices and his seed coated the sides of his cock while the silver tuft of hair above her nether lip was wet as well. The sight of their joining was obscene and beautiful.

“Cum in me on more time,” Shiera whispered into his ear. She wrapped her arms and around his back and took him to the root. Her feet found the cave floor and she bounced in his lap until he came in her once again.

Shiera kissed across his face before finding his lips. The tinge of her blood faded, and Daemon felt more relaxed than he had in days. “Sleep and I’ll wake you in the morning.” Shiera helped him into his clothes as exhaustion seemed determined to take him. Daemon wished for a soft bed big enough to hold the three of them and a bath with clean clothes waiting for him.

It seemed only moments passed when Shiera shook him awake. Daylight flooded the cave. He quickly checked behind and to his relief Ashara’s cloak covered her head to toe. Shiera called for silence as she woke the others. Daemon donned his helm, chainmail shirt, and boots before the sound of hooves made him abandon the rest of his armor. Instead, he grabbed his spear and took a position at the edge of the cave. Their camp was elevated, and any approaching enemy would need to climb a bed of boulders and rock crated from the continuous cycle of freezing and thawing.

To their surprise, mounted warriors sprinted down the precarious face of the hill on either side of their cave. Their mounts found stable footing at almost full gallop and jumped from rock to rock with their long muscular legs. A single horn rose from the crown of each beasts’ skull, decorated and curved inward. With their thick necks, Daemon had little doubt that they used their horn as a natural battering ram.

They were almost as tall horses with shaggy brown or black fur. The men that rode them were broad-shouldered with beards and manes of hair that surely had never been shaven or cut. They were clad in a patchwork of fur and crude iron armor. An unrecognizable coat of arms decorated some of their shields.

Their mounts were not the only beasts that rode with them. Two dozen massive wolf-hounds made their way down the slope of the hill. Hawks and great eagles circled overhead but the greatest number of the birds were the Ravens. Two armored brown bears stopped in front of the archers. Their necks bore great collars spiked with obsidian and even custom helms protected their massive skulls.

The bears roared in a challenge and the men beside Daemon shifted in uncertainty. The perimeter the warriors formed around their cave was absolute. Six mounted archers on either side had arrows out of their quiver while the big dogs crouched before the Skagossi, waiting for the order to attack. Their barking echoed off the rocks until it became difficult to hear anything else.

From their ranks emerged their leader. Under a silent command, his unicorn jumped atop a boulder. Daemon examined the man’s bone helm in wonder. Pale flesh still clung to the bone in places and the oblong skull had been fashioned into some sort of a gruesome crown. The bottom half of the jaw had been removed and serrated teeth were repurposed into jewelry around the Skagossi’s neck. Even from a distance, he looked big.

The warrior leveled a great axe at them. The haft of it was made from the same bone as his helm but the head of the axe was unmistakably steel. He shouted a challenge so loud that it silenced the hounds.

“What’s he saying?” Negan asked.

“He’s telling us to kneel and throw down our weapons,” Daemon muttered. He shouted back at the warrior in the Old Tongue. The Skagossi laughed at his response. Their laughter was like two stones crushing together. Daemon schooled his face to remain impassive.

“And what did you say?”

“That we will die on our feet. Weakness is not our way.” Daemon nodded at the grim smiles from his men.  He stepped forward and felt Shiera at his back. She was silent and watchful, trusting in him.

The two men stared at each other across the fifty-some yard distance that separated them.

“Warg!” The warrior yelled in surprise and the other skin-changers confirmed his deduction. Daemon scanned the Skagossi and could not help but be impressed by the number of skin-changers. Of the twenty he was sure that at least a dozen of them had the gift. It was difficult to tell exactly with them bunched together but they were the majority.

Howland Reed told him only one man in ten thousand was born with the gift, but these Skagossi were blessed by the Old Gods with much greater density.

“Yes, Warg!” He brought his voice down an octave and shouted across the rock field. “I am the blood of the Starks and the Dragons!”

His words drew a grunt from the warrior. “Dragons are all dead.”

Daemon laughed at them. He took another step and set his feet. At fifty yards he had a decent chance of killing the warrior before the dogs could reach him. “Starks are not, and you see two dragons.” Daemon pulled off his helm and Shiera stepped beside him. Their Valyrian blood was plain. “Alive and here to kill your enemies.” He touched his skull.

The warrior unbuckled his chin strap and lifted his helm. He had a low brow and a strong square face. His hair was fiery red, braided, and long enough to challenge Shiera’s. “We kill them-” He pointed to the helm. “Summer Kings.” He spat and his eyes grew harsh. “And Starks.”

The ravens above cawed in unified protest. They flew low over the heads of the men, berating the warriors under the control of some unseen guidance. A white raven landed on a dead branch above Daemon’s head. It was larger than its darker brethren. With deep black eyes. The bird spread its wings and called out with the voice of a man. “Stark. Live. Stark. Live.”

The bird cried out endlessly and the rest of the ravens joined it. They landed on the rocks around him and Shiera and their cacophony grew louder. Shiera squeezed his hand.

The warrior shrugged. “You live today, Stark.”

Chapter Text

Daemon Targaryen

Daemon and Shiera marched side by side at the center of the mounted warriors. Dragonbinder was strapped across his back, and he held the reins to the donkey to which Ashara was strapped. Even the morning’s commotion had not woken the vampire. Her rest seemed impenetrable.

The Skaggs’ great pack of wolfhounds roamed amongst the men. They all seemed of a similar breed. Thick, dark fur, with great square jaws that spoke of power. Some were as large as the wolves of Wolfswood; the forest that surrounded Winterfell but even the largest was not half the size of his direwolf Ghost. Each dog bore crude padded armor around its torso with thick collars that protected its necks. Many bore the scars of past battles.

His men grew nervous whenever a curious dog drew close. These were not furry friends easily swayed by pets and food, but beasts bred for war. Daemon met the eyes of each hound that drew close. He silenced the growls by baring his teeth just as Ghost would. None of the dogs could hold his gaze for long and scampered away to their various handlers.

Insight into their destination remained absent. They marched north through the island’s highlands but to where he could not say. He remained frustrated by his captors’ continuous silence. Even his questions in Old Tongue remained unanswered.

The smoke from Stannis’ fires was ever-present. Some of the men and Skaggs saw shapes in the smoke, figures moving in the distance, and sometimes multiple silhouettes. The wolfhounds were always first to investigate and each time they returned unbloodied.

The Skaggs had stripped him and his men of their weapons and robbed them of much of their armor. Many of the items they stole were an improvement over their own weaponry and armor. Instead of iron and steel, most Skaggs wielded stone clubs or spears tipped with shards of obsidian. The warrior who confiscated Daemon’s weirwood spear had a short fight with no less than three Skaggs to keep his prize. A grin of missing teeth greeted Daemon whenever he looked in the victorious thief’s direction.

He still possessed Ashara’s Valyrian steel dagger hidden in his boot and Shiera’s dagger had not been discovered when they searched her. Daggers were no match for a force such as this, but they were loath to be left entirely unarmed against the horrors of this island.

The Skaggs had stolen his armor and weapons but had been unable to take Dragonbinder from him. A wave of heat pulsated from the horn whenever a hand other than his own touched it. It grew more and more intense until the flesh of the palm of the offending Skagg began to boil. The agonized screams of the Skagg prevented the others from further attempts of taking the horn. Shiera and Ashara were successful in binding the horn to his blood. The spellbound horn knew its master.

Shiera wore her hood and lacquered mask to protect her skin from the sun. She had been unusually silent since they were absorbed into the Skagossi. The shadows in the smoke had not stirred her interest.

He desired her thoughts. “What do you make of this? I have seen more animals on this walk than the rest of the island combined.” The oppressive presence that lingered ever since they set foot on the beach was absent as well. He would have relished in the newfound peace if they were not captives. “I think this place is a bastion against those creatures. They can resist whatever force is contaminating the rest of the island.”

Shiera grunted softly in agreement. Her mind seemed far away. After a while, she said, “The ravens. They were of a single mind, were they not?”  He nodded. “There were two dozen at least.” The masked woman looked to the sky. There were a few ravens that still flew above them, but the rest of the large flock had dispersed in all directions. “Intelligent little spies. Each is as smart as a human child. And the birds are far cleverer. There is no better spy for a skinchanger…” For a moment she seemed lost in thought. She shook her head. “The magic is more concentrated here than in the south.”

“It is like humidity. Your body knows when the air is dry and when it is humid. I have not felt this way since I sailed from Asshai.”  Shiera spoke barely above a whisper, and he walked shoulder to shoulder with her to hang on to every word. “It’s the Wall. We should be north of it now.”

“How does the wall affect magic here in Skagos? It’s hundreds of miles away,” Daemon questioned.

“You see the evidence. How many Skinchangers have you met? There may be more here than all of Westeros.”

Even in Greywater where they still adhered to customs fallen out of practice by the greater North, magic was not so prevalent. Skinchangers were rare, revered, and sometimes feared where he grew up. Here the gift seemed common, and it was militarized more so than he had ever seen. Never had he seen so many skinchangers integrated into a fighting force. Wargs dominated their number and their number of wolfhounds ensured that the men could never be taken by surprise, even by mostly invisible creatures.

Daemon wondered what his late uncle would have made of the Skagossi. They were far from mindless brutes as the stories of them had many believe. He heard sparse snippets of conversation spoken in guttural Old Tongue. Their dialect had pronounced differences from the Old Tongue spoken in the Neck, which made it difficult for him to understand their whispered speech.  

The Skagossi did not respond to his questioning. They spoke were quiet, alert, and always scanning their surroundings and those nearest to him kept him under close observation. Daemon watched them as well and the longer he did the more he noticed the high level of synchrony between the men. When one man scratched his face, two or three others did the same. Several scratched their head or balls at the same time. Pack behavior.

The Skagossi maintained a swift pace without rest breaks. Daemon saw the wear the pace and elevation placed on his men but once again his requests for rest breaks were thoroughly ignored. Those that fell behind were nipped by the dogs. Daemon put an end to that, allowing two stragglers to rest their weight on his shoulders while they marched. Others followed his example.

“Save your energy,” Shiera said. “If we must fight our way out of this, I will need you at your best. The others are fodder at best.”

Daemon winced internally at her callousness. The more he grew to know the two vampires the more aware he became of their disregard for human life. Even Ashara, who was decidedly the gentler of the pair often held humans in the same regard as tools or food. Not him though. Even with the gifts his vampires’ blood and magic granted him, he was still a man.

Brunn squeezed his shoulder in thanks. “You’re a good man,” He whispered gratefully. “Don’t let those two change that.” His voice was quiet, but Daemon knew Shiera heard every word.

A dark blanket of clouds hung low above the land. Heavy winds greeted them as they ascended the side of a steep wooded valley that opened to the sea. Daemon’s breath hitched as he gazed across the expanse. A crude fortress was carved into the face of the far valley wall. It had none of the architectural mastery of Winterfell, but it was formidable, nonetheless.

On second glance it was less of a fortress and more of an interconnected system of caves, staircases, walls, and twisting towers carved and embedded into the valley’s face. There were murder holes and arrow slits, battlements lined with catapults and scorpions; and great boulders perched precariously on the edges of cliffs, ready to crush any invader on the road leading to the fortress.

He knew the name of the fortress only from the history he learned as a child. In the past, the Skaggs were fiercer raiders than the Ironborn, terrorizing the eastern coast of the North with such brutality that hatred of the Skaggs was bred into Northern blood. A Stark King destroyed the Skaggs’ power at sea only to lead a disastrous invasion of the island the following year. At the base of the mountain fortress, Kingshouse is where he saw two of his brothers slain in a single fortnight. The invading force retreated to the mainland and from then on House Stark forbid the Skaggs from any considerable presence at sea.

The fortress hung near a hundred feet above a large village that bordered a rocky beach. Parts of the village seemed hastily constructed and he could see where sections of the forest had been cleared for additional lumber. There were dozens of fishing boats out in the waters and bones so large they could only belong to whales on the beach.

Daemon was given a shove in the back to keep moving as he tried to pause to drink in the sight. The group descended into the depths of the valley. Their escort began to thin as they reached the basin of the canyon. Skaggs and their dogs broke away from the escort and went in different directions. They were still outnumbered more than two to one, but the odds were closer in their favor. If only Ashara was conscious. If only Ghost was with me. More than ever, he missed the might of his direwolf.

Powerful presences hovered at the edge of Daemon’s senses. He tensed for another attack, but it did not come immediately. The eyes of every weirwood they passed followed them as they passed. The weight of the Old Gods’ judgment felt enormous on his shoulders. They did not assault his mind, but Daemon sensed the ancient Greenseers disdain. Never had he felt the Old Gods so alert, so alive.

The Skagossi leader stopped their march with a raised fist. He dismounted from his unicorn and strode to stand before Daemon. He had to be an inch or two short of seven feet tall. His beard and long braid were fiery red, and his eyes were the same blue as a newly revealed face of a cracked glacier. Daemon met the big warrior’s gaze through the bone helmet. He refused to be intimidated.

The heat of their breaths hung in the air between them. Since their capture, this was the first time the big man acknowledged Daemon. “Stark,” he said in Old Tongue. He spat at Daemon’s feet. Daemon’s lip twitched but he fought the urge to react to the insult. Surviving was more important than satisfying his pride. The big warrior was the first to break their standoff and he issued a flurry of orders to his men.

Daemon, Shiera, and Ashara were separated from Negan and the rest. He protested as his men were shoved along a fork in the path. The trio was marched at spear point along another path that led deeper into the woods. Weirwood and Ironwood trees lined the path, bone-white trees with leaves neighbored by black barked trees with deep blue leaves.

The big warrior led their group on foot while four unicorn-riding warriors escorted them from either side with spears held at the ready. To his ire, one of the Skagossi wielded his own weirwood spear, the bent tip of the spear made it unmistakable.

Sudden dizziness came upon him as the end of the path became visible. Shiera gripped his arm when he stumbled. The croak of wood grew deafening in his ears as if the entire forest was shifting. Then came the whispering, hundreds upon hundreds of voices blending into such a cacophony that Daemon could focus on nothing but shielding his mind from an inevitable assault. At spear point, Shiera all but dragged him to a clearing.

Daemon collapsed to his knees on the frozen earth. Ashara was dumped beside him. A groan left her lips, but her eyes did not open. Shiera was forced to kneel with him. All at once, the whispering voices receded. Daemon lifted his head. A massive weirwood loomed over the clearing. Thrice as tall as any other tree neighboring it and so wide that its truck seemed a wall of white. The red leaves swallowed much of the light of the day. His eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Their escort of Skagossi warriors knelt in supplication to the figures that stood before the weirwood tree. Even their unicorns bent their necks.  There were four women. Three matriarchs in heavy robes of deep purple and moss green and dark red. They were old women, wrinkled from time but sharp green eyes behind their great headdresses beheld him with unwavering focus.

The fourth woman was unlike the rest. The first thing he noticed was her eyes. They were a bright, almost glowing blue and so striking that Daemon was momentarily captivated. A crescent moon graced her forehead, done in a light shade of blue, while stripes of the same color were traced from her jawline to her cheekbones. Her long blonde hair touched the shoulders of her white fur cloak. She wore seal skin boots and trousers instead of a dress and most peculiar was the sword with the ruby inlaid in its hilt at her waist.

“Outsider, you made a mistake coming here.” Her headdress was the visage of a fierce cat. Dark brown fur jutted from the mask-like needles.  Sharp teeth lined her wrinkled lips so that every time she spoke the cat snarled. Each of the crones held a staff of ironwood. She pointed her staff at Daemon.

“We are not here for you,” Shiera spoke, ever defiant. At once the three women slammed the butt of their staffs into the earth with surprising strength. A ripple spread from the point of where their staffs struck the ground. 

They spoke in unison. “Silence demon. You will not speak your poisonous words here.”

Before Shiera could retort, a thin weirwood root burst from the bed of snow to wrap around her throat. She clutched at the root in surprise and struggled as it grew taut. Another tendril of white wood tore the mask from her face. The vampire’s eyes bled red with anger. Even as she tore the root away from her throat, more roots emerged from the snow-covered earth to ensnare her limbs. Shiera struggled mightily but she was immobilized shortly.

“We see you two for what you are. Abominations.” Old Tongue was hissed across the trees. The ancient greenseers were in agreement. More roots emerged to envelop Ashara’s unconscious body.

Stunned, Daemon stared at the crones. “The stink of their magic is all over you, boy. It fouls the very essence of your soul. Have they made you nothing more than a thrall?” This cat-faced crone hissed.

“I am no one’s thrall,” Daemon insisted but he held his anger in check. He had seen enough to know he was outmatched.

“We do not believe you.” An owl mask obscured half her face. The feathers were a kaleidoscope of colors and changed with every minor moment, creating a disorienting effect. The tufts of feathers at the top of her brow formed into points as sharp knives. She was the tallest of the crones by at least half afoot. “But you are not hopeless. You have the gift and have been trained and raised beneath a hearth tree. Despite your coloring, your mother’s blood flows strongly through your veins.”

Daemon remained silent.

“Your mother was a strong believer. More so than any of her brothers. A special girl favored by the Old Gods. A favor she betrayed.” Cat-face prodded him.

“You’ve never met my mother. Stop speaking as if you knew her,” He never raised his voice, but his ire rose with every word.

She tsked. “We are Greenseers. We bear witness to events across ten thousand lifetimes.  We watched your mother grow from a little girl to a young woman. We saw your father place a flower in her hair, the first man bold enough to approach Rickard Stark’s daughter. Every sweet word your father whispered to turn Lyanna against her father and against the gods was heard as well. And we bore witness as the Targaryen and your mother committed a fertility ceremony of the utmost sacrilege on the Isle of Faces. Your father violated The Pact. He betrayed the trust of the Green Men, the very last of the Children, and spilled their blood for a sacrifice. A child born of blood magic. An abomination.”

Enraged Daemon took to his feet. He was staring at two spears before he could take a step.

“Let the boy come.” The crone ordered in Old Tongue. Her lacquered mask was crowned with bleached antlers. The antlers were many tipped, shaped nearly vertical with veins of crimson that pulsated across their pale length.

Daemon let his displeasure lay plain. He crossed the distance between him and the crones. The blue-eyed woman stood just behind them. They locked eyes for a moment before Daemon turned his attention to the crones. They passed a silent command to the warriors and their crossed spears barred him from moving any closer. The owl crone addressed him, “Every word that drips from their tongues is poison to the minds of men. So, we ask without interference from the demons, what is your purpose here?”

“I expect three Greenseers to already know this.” Daemon countered. His eyes were harsh. He could sense the presence of the dead Greenseers in the trees. The Court of the Old Gods. I am on trial.

“You cannot hide your intentions. Your men spill their secrets as we speak. Their minds may as well be open books and we read quickly…Daemon, but that is a recent change. It is not the name you grew up with.” The teeth of the cat masks contorted what must have been a smile into a satisfied flash of teeth.

“It is the name my mother gave me,” He corrected the crone.

“Is that what these demons told you? Lies.” Her emerald eyes were piercing. “Your birth ripped your mother’s insides apart. She died in agony before you took your first breath. Your father’s guards had to cut you out of her dead body. They named you not your mother.”

Bile rose at the back of his throat. “You’re lying.”

“Now is not the time to dwell on the past. We seek answers of the present,” The Owl Crone quipped.

“Tell us of the horn on your back. I can smell the blood magic.” The Antlered Crone spoke the Old Tongue with such authority that he was compelled to action.

“Dragonbinder is mine. It is bound to me by blood right and ritual.” He blinked in confusion as the words slipped from his lips. His lips made to move on their own, but Daemon bit his tongue to halt the words.

“Dragonbinder. Dragonbinder. Dragonbinder.” The word reverberated through the trees. The crones’ eyes rolled back into their heads and the three swayed on their feet. After a while, one responded in common. “You are barely more than a child. It is not right for one so young to wield such an artifact.”     

“Give us the horn. You are not worthy child,” The authoritative tone returned laced with greed.

Dragonbinder was too hot to touch. Like a lump of charcoal recently ejected from flames. Reality returned to him. “This child is the only one worthy of the horn. Try to take it from me and you will see.”

If they were surprised by his resistance, they did not show it. “And what do you intend to use it for?”

“I will use it to smite the enemies that move against me or my family,” Daemon loomed over the crones. “Do not underestimate me, old bats.”  

“Power without restraint. Not surprising from a Valyrian. That has always been the song of your people.” While cat-face berated him, the Owl stared at him in silence. She peered past his flesh, searching for something that he could not name. A thousand phantom spiders crawled across his skin, violating his flesh and soul with the witches’ intrusion.

His anger ignited. Daemon shoved his own conscious against hers. He imagined impaling the crone with a phantom spear between her eyes. The revolting sensation stopped at once. The crone stared at him curiously.  “My mind is not so easy to breach.”

“He is a talented warg. His ability is too great to waste,” Daemon was surprised to hear the antlered crone speak in his defense.  

“He is a child born from Valyrian biomancy. A perversion of nature. Left unchecked he will be just as terrible as the demons he travels with.” The cat-face crone warned. She was the shortest of the three, thin to the point of frail with a small mole above her top lip. Her emerald eyes were filled with contempt.

“You should worry more about Stannis burning half of your island than the status of my birth,” Daemon retorted.

“Make no mistake, the Old Gods allow the Southern King to traipse across sacred lands, but he and his fanatics will be driven into the sea. My sisters and I have seen our victory.” The antlered Seeress spoke with confidence.

“Are you sure about that? I’ve seen the fires from the sea and the smoke columns rise to the mountains. All of Westeros has heard of his Red Witch and her special powers. If the rumors are to be believed, she has power that rivals your own.” Daemon leaned forward; his chest touched the spears. “And I’ve seen the corruption that contaminates your lands. That’s why Stannis is committed to turning these lands to ashes. You don’t deny it?”

“What is the southern saying? The enemy of my enemy…” The silken voice of the fourth woman startled Daemon. Her captivating eyes arrested his own. Skinchanger.

“Stannis’ army, will distract the Stoneborn but they are not enough to end the threat.” The cat-faced crone added. Time had bent her back but did not rob her voice of its power. Confidence poured from her.

Stoneborn. It seemed an apt name for those terrible creatures. He committed it to memory.

“Enough of Stannis. Tonight concerns your fate and your fate alone.” Two of the three crones were nodded in unison.

He clenched his fist. “You three have the authority to judge me worthy? What about my friends? Will they find their judgment fair?”

The younger crone answered, “Your men will share your fate, but we will not allow the corruption of those two to spread.” The roots still bound Shiera, though she had stopped struggling. Her true form was on full display and the hate in her crimson eyes centered on the crones. Ashara’s mask had also been removed. There were dark circles under her eyes and a layer of sweat was present on her grey skin.

Daemon steeled his spine. “I swear on my life that these two mean you no harm.”

“You are an ignorant child whose promises mean nothing,” the short crone spoke. She spoke with a voice laced with power. “Tell us more about the horn binding ritual.”

Daemon anticipated the compulsion and steeled himself to resist. Pain rose from behind his eyes, and he was briefly disoriented as his vision blurred. “Go fuck yourself.” This time his words were spoken under his own power. He laughed at the mix of surprise and anger that washed across their faces.

His triumph was short-lived. He was struck across his back and legs. Even as he fell, he turned to retaliate. He nearly yanked the weirwood spear from the guard’s grip, but the others joined in the attack. Daemon rolled away from the blows. He blocked a strike with Dragonbinder and earned another one across his face. Hatred surged through him, and the runes of the horn flashed so bright it blinded one of his attackers. Daemon yanked the dagger from his boot and buried it in the warrior’s neck. He caught the dying man’s spear.

The horn glowed white-hot in his fist, as bright as a tiny star. He could feel the heat envelop him, building power suddenly before surging out in a wave that brought three warriors to their knees as any flesh uncovered was suddenly scalded.

Daemon did not pause. He turned and hurled the spear at the crones. To his shock, the spear fell to the floor in pieces before it reached the short crone. The blonde woman stood before them with a slender longsword in her grip.

He heard movement behind him and turned just in time to save himself from being gored. The big body of the unicorn sent him reeling several feet away from where he once stood. Dragonbinder slipped from his grip. Daemon rolled away from the stomping hooves of the enraged beast. It was relentless in its pursuit and the horn caught his side. The beast flipped him into the air and suddenly all the air in his lungs was gone when he landed.

Before the beast could stomp him to a pulp, there was a flash of motion, and the unicorn was knocked to its side. A great feline stood between the enraged unicorn and Daemon. The feline’s bristled fur was striped white and black. A deep rumble emanated from its throat, growing louder each time the unicorn tested a charge.

The horned goat snorted and bellowed in outrage. Human-level hatred was present in its eyes, centered on Daemon. It stomped and dug at the earth in hatred but could not advance any further past the powerful feline. The second life, Daemon realized. The minds of wargs and skinchangers could permanently inhabit the forms of their familiars after death.

“Consider this our mercy. That the last of the dragons is not killed by a goat.” The crones regarded him smugly behind the protection of the blonde-haired woman. Her blade was still drawn. Smoke-like ripples adorned the blade. Valyrian steel, he realized at once. Where does a Skagossi woman find Valyrian steel?

The other warriors were on their feet with their weapons ready. Disturbingly, the big man held a blade at Shiera’s neck. Another yanked Ashara from the ground by her hair. The unconscious vampire did not budge.  

He shivered on the cold stone floor. His cell was barely wide enough to stretch his legs fully and not tall enough to stand. It was a small stone box, with a bucket in one corner that smelled foul if he breathed too deeply. Dark as pitch, Daemon knew the cell by touch alone.

Daemon could not be certain how long he had been in this whole. The pangs of hunger in his belly told him days but his captors fed him small tasteless meals, enough to alleviate the hunger for a short time. Does that make it weeks? Daemon could not remember the count of the meals.

The food made his throat parched and they never brought him enough water. Only a cup per every meal. Barely enough to wet his throat. Daemon tried to reach Ghost or Tilikum for a reprieve from this cell but to do so invited the Weirwoods to invade his mind. His world was this cell and this cell alone.

The witches had not left him to rot in the darkness. They interrogated him relentlessly with their magic, not even needing to enter his cell to stage an assault on his mind. The encroaching headache was the only warning he had to steel his defenses before the torment began anew.

Daemon did his best to resist them. They stole thoughts and memories from him but with each attack, his defenses grew stronger, and their assaults proved less fruitful. Still, the experience was exhausting and there were many times he was too tired to even move.

He clenched his toes and the scraping sound of his toenails against the stone floor, entertained him more than it should have.  “Five hundred and five. Five hundred and six. Five hundred and seven,” Speaking felt like an exercise, his voice had grown hoarse from disuse. “Five hundred and sixty-eight, five hundred and sixty-” A noise outside quieted him. Footsteps.

Despite his exhaustion, Daemon stumbled to his feet and prepared for a fight. He would not go lightly. The footsteps grew louder. Four men. His muscles tensed, as soon as the door opened, he needed to fill the gap. Instead, the metal slit near the top of the door slid open for a moment. Something unseen was tossed into his cell and echoed loudly as it struck the floor. A hissing noise followed.

He coughed in the black cell as the air turned foul. His eyes stung. Lungs burning, Daemon slammed his shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. “Let me out!” He screamed but his dry throat garbled the words. Disoriented he could hardly struggle as they hauled him from the cell.

His wrist and ankles were bound. Once again, his vision was blocked by a moldy sack. Daemon coughed and sneezed violently and involuntarily as they carried him by his arms.

His arms ached by the time they released him. He fell face-first into a thin bed of snow. Without his arms, it was a struggle to rise from the undignified position. The cold seeped through the moldy sack and stung the still-open wounds on his face. Still, he was glad to be outside of his cell even if the uncertainty of what the Skaggs planned to do with him set his nerves on edge.

He took deep breaths in an attempt to bring his shivering under control. The Skaggs had stripped him of his clothes, and boots and replaced them with a thin rough-spun sack. Every gust of wind, no matter how minor cut to the bone. Daemon imagined this how the men of the Night’s Watch must feel, standing vigil on a wall of ice hundreds of feet tall.

He heard conversation somewhere to the right of him but could not make out the words. One voice was clearly a woman’s and he thought she sounded displeased. A heavy woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and he nearly moaned in relief. A harsh word was shouted over the wind and a crunch of boots followed.

“It will be bright,” She spoke close to his ear. The sack was lifted, and he had to squint against the sunlight reflecting off the snow. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust and even then, his eyes watered. The sun was bright, but its warmth was swallowed by wind and billowing snow. Almost as if she read his mind, the woman adjusted the blanket for him, closing the gaps against the cold. He blinked in surprise. The blonde woman held his gaze for a long moment, before breaking their stare with a shake of her head. A heavy seal skin jacket lined with white fur protected her against the fierce cold. She bore a hood that hid most of her face. Still, her beauty was unmistakable.

Daemon was relieved to see his men. He locked eyes with Negan and the two shared a nod. The other men seemed relieved to see Daemon and they looked no worse for wear though they had all been stripped and forced to wear similar garb to him. Blankets had been afforded to each of them. Unlike Daemon, his men’s hands were bound in front rather than behind their backs and they huddled together to stave off the cold.

They were on a plateau above the valley, facing the sea. A thin dusting of snow that was rapidly being blown away by the wind covered the bare rock they were on. He could see across an expanse of nothingness to the other side of the valley. Black rock and tree branches decorated a wall of white. The proximity of the cliff’s edge made him nervous. There were enough Skagg warriors here to force them over the edge without issue. Their wolfhounds sat obediently next to their respective masters.

There was a large murder of crows present. They were perched on rocks and stood in groups of more than a dozen only a few feet away from Daemon. The birds were silent, and their focus was singular.

Half a dozen prisoners knelt precariously on the edge of the cliff. Heavy shackles rather than rope bound their necks to their wrists. Black hoods concealed their faces. They were not allowed the dignity of clothing and yet none shivered. Strange tattoos covered every square inch of their bodies. Daemon examined the markings. No two bodies were the same, but the similarities were disturbing. There were eyes, countless eyes. Large and small. Human, cat-like, reptilian, and more that he was sure did not exist in nature.

Most disturbing was the design on the center of each of the prisoner’s chests. No two were alike but amongst the eyes was a writhing mass of flesh. It was an amorphic being, without end or beginning, and a shape that was hard to follow. The bodies of the nude prisoners were misshapen. Their spines were curved, and several had bony protrusions that pierced straight through their skin. Two of the prisoners were women; each with an extra set of swollen breasts, and both were heavily pregnant.

Daemon averted his gaze. The sight was revolting.

“Don’t look away,” The blonde woman turned his head with a gentle grip on his chin. The more he stared, the more he noticed the irregularities of their bodies. There was an otherness to the shackled that set him on edge.

Then came the pounding of heavy drums. He flinched at the sudden noise. The blonde woman squeezed his shoulder. With every second the drums grew louder and louder. The first to appear were spear wilding Skag warriors led by the big redhead. They formed a protective line before the three crones who were next and following were a handful of acolytes. All were female, each with antlered headdresses that smaller than the crones.

“You have only had a taste of the nightmare we deal with every single day,” Her hand did not leave his shoulder. Under the order of the crones, the prisoners’ hoods were removed. Their wailing started. Their screeching was inhuman, akin to wounded animals forced into a corner crying for help. The Skag warriors beat them until they grew quiet.

He stared at their faces. Their bone structure was wrong. Too sharp and jutting in places so that their faces were overly angular, and their eyes were too big, the blacks dominated so that the whites were only a silver.

“What are they?” Daemon found his voice. One of the condemned males scanned his surroundings. His eyes eventually found Daemon and his stare fixated. The others took notice and soon they were all staring at Daemon.

“You,” The male spoke. His voice was surprisingly normal. The bound man tried to move closer only to be rebutted by a spear. He gnashed his teeth in frustration. “You have felt our touch. We are just messengers.  There are truer gods than these trees and the minds of dead men trapped in them. Open your mind to the truth. They call us and we will answer. This world will-” A spear shoved through his throat ended his sermon. The Skagossi pulled the spear tip from the dying man with a grunt.

“They were men once,” The Antlered- Crone spoke. “A weak people that prayed nightly for strength. Strength to end the raids on their lands. Strength to protect their girls and women from rape. Strength to protect their men from death and their boys from servitude. They were a cursed people that no god would bestow favor or pity.  And so, their prayers were answered by demons.”

The wailing began again and so did the slaughter. The males were killed quickly, most skewered by the Skagossi though several of the misshapen men hurled themselves over the cliff’s edge. The distant sound of their bodies dashing against stones caused several men to flinch. Crows descended upon the bodies. They tore at the flesh of the fallen and even those still twitching with their sharp beaks. Fights broke out between the crows over the eyes of the prisoners. Daemon watched in morbid fascination as an eyeball was stolen by several crows until a larger raven descended and ate the severed eye whole.

Only the two misshapen women remained. They were held back from the cliff’s edge by a Skaggossi warrior via a chain around their necks, they struggled against his strength to no avail. The warrior forced the two away from the cliff and over to a large rock. With the aid of another warrior, they shackled both women side by side on a boulder.

True terror was plain on their faces. Several of his men shifted in discomfort but none could look away.

“Show them no sympathy. What they would do to you, what they have done to my friends, to my people is far worse.” The blonde woman spoke to all of the outsiders but only Daemon could understand Old Tongue.

The crones approached the shackled women. One touched the bulging bellies of the women. The prisoners snapped their jaws, displaying sharp teeth.

“Dalla,” The Owl-Crone beckoned an acolyte forward. The acolytes all wore hooded robes in various shades of green. This one was heavily pregnant.

“Make sure the Targaryen does not look away,” The cat-face crone ordered. The blonde woman’s grip on his shoulder tightened momentarily.

“Today is not the day to disappoint them,” She spoke in a soft voice.

The acolyte removed her hood and Daemon immediately noticed the resemblance she shared with the blonde woman. They shared the same striking blue eyes. She accepted a dagger from the cat-face crone. He was not surprised to see it was Ashara’s.

He expected Dalla to stab the women in the heart or even slice their throats. Dalla surprised him. She cut across their bellies with a steady hand. Her pretty face was a mask of determination and showed no revulsion even as her victim screamed and writhed in pain. Valyrian steel cut through skin and tissue without a pause or a snag. Dalla reached into the belly of the screaming woman and her hands returned with something truly monstrous. Dalla held the creature away from her body. She spoke to Daemon directly. “Every one of these we prevent from being born is equivalent to saving a hundred men from drowning. Look at this monstrosity and know that we have won a great victory,” And then she threw the infant to the crows.

There were more of these unborn monstrosities. Two from the first mother and three from the second. The last infant from the second mother wailed as it took its first breath. That wail, not so dissimilar from a human infant’s made Dalla hesitate. She stared at the creature too long and Daemon could see a flood of emotions appear in her eyes.

The blonde woman left Daemon’s side in a rush. She knocked the infant from Dalla’s hand and drew her sword in a flourish. The flash of Valyrian steel was unmistakable. The blonde sliced the monstrosity in half and kicked the remains to the crows in disgust. She turned to the frozen acolyte in rage. “You need to focus! Remember what they are!”

“Listen to your sister, Dalla. She is wise to remember the warnings. These creatures will use your sympathy against you. They will invade your mind and have you believe that their offspring is more worthy of your love than the child you carry. Such is the extent of their devilry.” The Antlered-Crone laid a comforting hand on Dalla’s shoulder.

Tears welled in Dalla’s eyes, and the blonde woman embraced her shaken sister. “I’m sorry Val. I didn’t mean to. The crying, I-”

The blonde woman, Val, hushed her sister. “We need to be stronger.”

The Owl-Crone stood before Jon. She moved so silently that it was almost as if he blinked, and she was there.  “You have battled against these creatures and know the danger they pose. I want you to know that the two you slew were nothing more than children. Just as you and I grew cleverer through age and experience so does the enemy.”

“If not for me and my sisters, the Stoneborn would have devoured the fractured clans of Skagos long ago.”

“I have offered my help. Release Ashara and Shiera and return the horn to me. If the Stoneborn can succumb to steel, then they will fall to dragon fire,” he insisted.

“Just as a sheep cannot negotiate its safety with a pack of wolves, we cannot seek a treaty of peace with vampires. It is in their nature to subjugate and enslave. To glutton themselves on human blood without heed to the cost of their mortal victims. You have seen the evidence and yet you still choose to ignore their nature.”

The wind increased; snow and dust swirled around them. Daemon blinked to clear his blurry vision. “You are wrong about them. Ashara saved my life. They will help me save my brother’s life! Together we can save your people!”  

The cat-faced crone sneered. “False promises spewed from the mouth of a thrall. Dragonbinder cannot be trusted in the hands of this boy. He beds with evil, and they corrupt his soul with no resistance.” Her green gaze was searing. “Just like your ancestors, you are undeserving of such power.”

The other two crones joined their sister. “The fruition of the vampires’ plans with you and the hell horn is assuredly a nightmare. We will not trade one nightmare for the next.”

Another sack was fastened over his head. Two warriors dragged Daemon from the cliff. His blanket fell and once again he was at the mercy of the cold. His shackled wrist and ankles discouraged him from struggling. The wind soon abated, and the echo of the warriors’ boots was a tell that he was being carried into the mountain fortress.

The sound of a heavy door opening assaulted his ears. Now he did struggle, the fear of being thrown away in a black cell again made him desperate. One of the warriors responded with a heavy fist to his abdomen. The other dragged him by his throat into the room.

“I’ll burn you all,” Daemon snarled. Feral and desperate, he yanked against the chain. A booted kick dropped him to his knees. He wheezed against the pain. Another kick connected against his ribs. He curled into a ball to protect himself against the blows. They struck him again and again, beating his strength out of him.

“Enough!” The order echoed throughout the room. “He is already chained. I will have no more of this savagery. Leave us.”

“Damer Val-” A slap echoed throughout the chamber.

“Leave.” The door shut.

Val removed the sack from his head. He blinked and took in his surroundings. This cell was larger than his last. With a barred opening in the rock walls that faced the sea. There was a straw bed and a separate room that led to the privy. Certainly, more dignified than his prior accommodations.

He turned a glare on Val. She stood several feet away from him. A wary expression was on her face. “What is this? Do the crones think they will earn my loyalty with a larger cell?”

Val arched a brow. “Crones? Seeress is their proper title. See that you use it. And this cell is my will. You would remain in the black cells if not for my interference.”

Daemon tested the shackles on his wrist. They were attached to a three-foot-long chain that connected to a metal loop embedded in the stone floor. He had to stand directly over the loop to reach his full height. “Why?” Daemon questioned.

Rather than answer, Val studied him. She circled him, carefully staying well out of his reach. “When the wisdom of the Seeresses pierces that pretty head of yours I do not want your mind to be in shambles. Solitude and darkness can break the strongest of men. My people need a warrior.”

“That is, it then? If you expect gratitude, then you will be disappointed. Release my vampires and then you will have it. Not any sooner.”

Val shook her head. Her blonde hair was bundled into two long braids. The blue crescent moon painted on her forehead and the stripes on her cheeks made him curious. She carried herself with grace reminiscent of a Northern noblewoman. He hadn’t seen many of them, hold away in Greywater but Val easily matched the elegance of Lady Catelyn.

“I don’t need your gratitude, but I have been tasked with your safety. Escape is not possible, but you can earn your freedom with a pledge of loyalty to the Seeresses. Our people do not deal in deception and our pacts are binding.” She leaned towards him slightly. Her nose was wrinkled. “You need to bathe. I’ll have a bucket delivered and no I do not expect a thank you.”

“Wait,” Daemon said before she could leave his new cell. “Are they still alive? I need to know the truth.”

“Only the Seeresses are allowed in their cells. I have not seen your friends myself, but I have no reason to believe they are dead. How long until they are executed is determined by the Seeresses alone.”

Two buckets of water did come to his cell. Delivered by a guard who glared harshly at Daemon. He did not expect Val to return nor for her to remain in the cell when the guard departed. She sat on a stool she brought with her near the door. A bundle of clothes sat on her lap. Daemon cocked a brow and the blonde merely smiled in return.

“Bathing is generally easier without chains,” He held up his wrist. Standing at his full height he could not extend his arms, let alone lift them above his head.

“You will have to manage,” A smirk touched her lips. She had the grace not to stare openly at him when he stripped but he knew she stole glances. The water was cool and the wind that came through the barred opening in the rock caused him to break into goosebumps. He poured the bucket of water into his hair, shivering as it soaked his locks and dripped on his skin. Daemon worked at the knots that formed.

His hair was longer than he ever remembered allowing it to grow. Ashara and even Shiera were fond of combing it to perfection for him, working sweet oils and perfumes into his locks that were likely worth a value that most Westerosi could ever hope to afford. Deprived of their care, his hair had tangled in quite a few places. Daemon untangled the worst of the knots with his fingers, wishing instead for shears. Hair this long would only be a hindrance when the time to fight finally came.

He worked a wet cloth across his skin, washing away dirt, grime, and dried blood. His side had mostly healed courtesy of Shiera’s blood, but the skin was tough, raised, and scarred. The soreness was hard to ignore as well. Every lateral movement brought a stitch of pain. His skin was beginning to bruise as well. Dark blotches covered his ribs and thighs, and while he could not see his back he was sure his skin was much the same.

It was then he caught Val’s curious gaze. Rather than shy away when caught, Val boldly drank in his nudity. Despite his imprisonment and ever-present pain his cock hardened almost instantly.

When he was done with his bath, the bucket of water was almost black. He was tossed a towel and then pants and surprisingly warm woolen socks. Val knocked on the door of the cell and the two guards entered. Instead of spears both wielded short-haft axes with blades of obsidian, perfect for fighting in the close quarters of the cell. They removed the buckets and wiped away the water on the stone floor. One returned with a tray of food.

Val sat and watched as he ate. The food was bland, unsalted fish and lentils but he was ravenous. Thankfully the portion was large and for the first time in days or weeks, Daemon felt no hunger.

“Does that not warrant a thank you?”

Daemon eyed the woman. His gaze fell to the longsword sheathed at her waist. “Your sword, who did you steal it from?”

Val sneered at him. “I am no thief.”

“That sword is Valyrian Steel. The rarest of all metals. Even some of the greatest houses in Westeros have been unable to acquire one. How does a sword that rare find itself in the hands of a Skagossi woman?”

“This sword was my grandfather’s. He was born in the mainland, in the south, like you.”

“Who did he steal it from?” Val leaped to her feet. Daemon tensed as he thought she would hit him. Instead, Val rapped her palm on the heavy door of the cell.

“Unchain him. No one enters this cell without my permission,” Val ordered the guards. She stalked away without a backward glance.

Daemon rubbed his wrist as he was unshackled. Heavy bolts sounded throughout his cell as the guards secured the door. His eyes scanned the rock walls. No obvious weakness could be found. He tugged on the bars at the opening. They did not budge, no matter how hard he pushed and pulled.

His hate for the Skagossi grew and he roared in frustration. Only a distant echo and the sounds of the sea answered. Daemon sank to the cell floor. Maybe I shouldn’t have antagonized her. The need for conversation or excitement was a pit in his chest. He abhorred this forced solitude. Even the comfort of his new cell only enraged him. It is just a larger cage. He reminded himself. She isn’t a friend. He wouldn’t let the Seeresses break him.

They cut him off from his familiars. He hadn’t dreamed of Ghost or Tilikum. Slipping into their skins was incredibly difficult at this distance even in the best of conditions and with his strength worn down from the constant mental toll of captivity, it was all but impossible.

It was morning when the guards entered to reattach his shackles, Daemon wanted to fight. The armored men regarded him warily. There were four this time. Two held heavy oaken shields while the others had their axes ready. He took a deep breath to master his anger and offered no resistance. His wrist was shackled to an even shorter chain.

He was forced to remain on his knees when the Seeresses entered. Two guards remained even as the cell door shut. Daemon forced down his rising dread.

“Valerie believes that you could be a powerful ally to our people. She thinks a gifted man is wasting away in this cell when he could help in our people’s fight for survival,” The Owl-faced crone spoke in common.

“If only your loyalty could be guaranteed. We do not doubt for a moment that you would seize any opportunity to free the vampires.” He glared at the Cat-Faced crone. Fear sat heavy in his belly, but he refused to show it.

“What do we do with you?” The Antlered Crone stepped closer. “Your gift and your unique bloodline are too precious to waste. There is still a way you can serve our people.” His skin crawled once again. A thousand phantom spiders crawled across his flesh. Some bit him; sharp prickles of pain sprouted randomly across his skin. He gasped and heaved a heavy breath to gather his resistance. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow, followed by drops of warm blood from his nose.

“Stop it!” He shouted. The sensations faded and he dropped to his hands, shuddering from the exertion.  

A wooden bowl was placed before him. Blood. Daemon’s stomach turned at the sight. It had congealed into some sort of paste and there looked to be seeds mixed into it.

“Weirwood sap and seeds,” The Owl crone answered his unspoken question. “You will finish it all.”

Two guards gripped his shoulders while another forced his jaw open. Daemon struggled like a wild animal even as they forced the concoction down his throat. The paste had no smell but was extremely bitter. When they finally released him, he slumped to the ground defeated.

“Take care, Jon Snow. You do not know it yet, but we bestow a great honor upon you.”

Pins and needles grew first from the start of his spine and then spread to his back. His throat grew tight and when he coughed, congealed blood coated the ground. He tried to focus on his cell floor, but the pounding of his head forced his eyes to close.

 “I’ll burn you all,” He promised but their response came back garbled.

A slanted face carved into white wood greeted him when he next opened his eyes. The wooden face spoke to him in a foreign tongue and Daemon could only nod as the world dissolved around him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Ashara Dayne

A raving thirst threatened to dominate her every thought. The thirst was so great that Ashara had grown all but numb to the wounds and pains that ailed the rest of her body. Her captors had deprived her of blood since she had regained consciousness.  Shiera must have fed me while I slept.  It was the only explanation as to why she was still alive.

Shiera. Ashara had not seen the elder vampire, but she could still feel her somewhere close.

Ashara’s cell was some dark pit, illuminated by only starlight now but the openings in the rock wall brought hours of sun-induced agony. The burns across her flesh grew worse as the days came and went. The burns became gaping wounds.

Nude and suspended into the air by chains, Ashara knew if she had not accepted the gift she would have long since expired. Her vampiric blood coagulated much faster than a human ensuring she would lose very little.

The two acolytes of the Seeress moved about below her like ants in service to their queen. Ashara could hear their heartbeats and felt the warmth of their breaths in contrast to the cool air of the pit. They made her mouth water.

“The ritual to bind the horn, how did you bind it to the boy? You will tell us,” The Seeress commanded. Ashara did not have the strength to laugh nor was she foolish enough to do so. These human priestesses held great power over their flock, but this power was meaningless to a vampire.

“I have already told you. The horn already has its master. It will not accept someone lesser. And if you kill its master then the horn is useless.”

The Seeress persisted. “That is not my question.” The woman nodded at one of her acolytes. With a spin of a wheel, the chains linked to the spike that impaled her wrist retracted. Her body stretched and she cried out. “I know there are spells and magics that you seek to conceal. Spill your secrets and this pain ends.”

“Please,” She gasped. Tears wet her cheek. The Seeress smiled. Her green eyes gleamed.

“I will learn your secrets, demon. And then I will grant you the mercy of death. Not before.”

Ashara almost admired the determination of the Seeresses. They were sure the binding ritual could be completed once again. That the horn could be taken. Only if they knew of the decades of study Shiera committed herself to learn the ritual. If only they knew of the thousands of glass candles she burned to invade the dreams of Targaryens.  She toiled to purify their bloodline after centuries of breeding with non-Valyrians; carefully constructing a worthy bloodline. Shiera had all but engineered the perfect specimen to wield the horn. Daemon was the culmination of her efforts despite the detours his father took; the fruit of ninety years of sorcery. They could repeat the spells, make the sacrifices, and follow instructions to the letter and still fail. They lacked the key element.

The acolytes held open the door of the cell for the Seeress. Ashara cleared her throat.

“Something to say?” The Seeress turned. Her voice was filled with triumph. Throughout the night, Ashara answered many of her questions. Progress brought about confidence.

The Seeress met Ashara’s gaze, but it was the acolytes that Ashara paid mind to. They had been instructed to never meet her eyes, but the overly confident witch did not notice those that violated her order. “Does it bother you? To have so much power but to be trapped in an old body that will inevitably fail.”

The Seeress scoffed. “My body may wither but my soul is eternal. You have forsaken your immortal soul and that is something you will pay dearly for when your time arrives.”

“I can hear your weak heart and its irregular beat. I can smell the clotted blood in your veins. Your time may come sooner than you think,” Ashara retorted. Her voice was chilled with spite.

The Seeress ignored her, but she clutched her chest, nonetheless. Ashara scanned the room. Directly meeting the gazes of several of the acolytes. It was then the Seeress noticed. “Eyes down!” She commanded but then it was too late. Ashara’s suggestion had been planted.

Her vampiric vision pierced the spell laid on the Owl Mask the Seeress wore. Each of the Seeresses’ masks bore spells that influenced those who set their gaze upon it. It amplified their influence, unconsciously binding their subjects to their will. The vampires by their very nature were immune and Daemon had ingested enough of their blood that she was sure he could resist these human witches with ease.

Soon. Ashara was sure that was Shiera speaking to her. The connection between her and her maker always grew stronger in times of desperation. They would not be laid low by mere mortals. Not when the prize was so close.

“Not once have you asked upon the well-being of your thrall and yet your confidence extends from him. If I told you that he was dead what would your reaction be?”

Ashara remained impassive. “I’d call you a poor liar.”

The Owl Seeress turned away from her. “Not dead but he is beyond your reach now. Your hope is misplaced.”

Ashara stared at the lightning sky with dread. Soon. She told herself.

Soon. The sun touched her skin. Her wounds sizzled. She screamed.

Daemon Targaryen

He sat cross-legged in the middle of his cell. It was snowing outside with heavy winds that shook the cloth that was placed over the barred opening in the rock wall. The lovely Val sat across from him, on the customary stool that she brought with her for their daily conversation.

“Are you even listening?” She questioned in the Old Tongue.

“Dalla’s husband hates me. Hates the Starks even more.” Val seemed too glad to give him the abbreviated history of Skagos.

“That is all you heard?”

Daemon smiled. “Also, that he is an asshole.” Dalla’s husband, Bjorn, was the leader of House Magnar. The most powerful of the Skagossi clans before the arrival of the Stoneborn. Bjorn’s father had abdicated his power to the Seeresses to save his people and in the decades that followed it had become a haven against the Stoneborn and their spreading corruption.

The arrival of the Stoneborn had altered Skagos drastically. The Skagossi were rarely unified, and their clans were oft at odds with one another. Their fractious peace could quickly dissolve into violence and skirmishes between the clans were not uncommon. As far as what was recorded in the living memory, the threat came from Skane. Emerging from the island to the north, the cultist of Skane infiltrated the other clans or consumed them entirely. Black rites were enacted under starry skies and the Stoneborn only grew stronger.

The living memory was not omniscient. Daemon recognized it as a collection of the memories and dreams of the dead. An event had to be witnessed to be recorded. And there was a void growing in the memory. The corruption of the island spread beyond the physical world and ate away at the remnants of the dead. Stannis’ scorched earth assault of Skagos also contributed to the further dissolution of the living memory. The southern king burned corrupted and healthy weirwoods indiscriminately.

Daemon witnessed a hazy recollection of infighting and brutal conquest by the Stoneborn. Many Skagossi clans fell victim or submitted to Stoneborn. The Seeresses came to power during this time and many Skagossi banded together under their direction. Many but not all. In his time in the living memory, he saw wisps of the present. Skag clans united under the banner of a burning heart. Stannis was gaining followers even as his Witch’s fires reduced the island to ashes.

The three women ruled their people nearly absolutely. The three decided who married and bred. The bloodlines that were allowed to mix. All to cultivate the gift of skin-changing. The most successful weapon to combat the Stoneborn.

“He’s the best of our warriors and a skinchanger. Have you ever seen an armored cave bear fight?” Daemon shook his head. His mind was elsewhere. The Seeresses assumed his mind would become lost in the living memory as had been the fate of so many others. They underestimated his prior training and thought navigating the living memory beyond his ability. Their mistake. He emerged with newfound knowledge and wisdom. Now he knew the reason behind their gamble.

Val continued. She did not particularly care for Bjorn or how he treated her sister, but she did respect his prowess as a warrior.

Daemon interrupted her. “Did you know your grandfather?”

Val paused. “Where did that come from?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity.”

“He died before my mother had me or Dalla.”

“Did he come to Skagos willingly?” The Skaggs are a mongrel people. Skag raiding parties used to ravage the coastline beyond the wall, plundering villages and taking slaves. Some were born from normal Northmen, like Val and her sister Dalla and others from the hulking savages he had read about from the writings of Old Maesters. Daemon knew the answer to the question, but it did not matter what he knew. He was more interested in what Val knew.

“He did. Along with my mother.” Val stared at him, waiting for more. “Why do you ask?”

Daemon held her gaze. “Are you a spy for the Seeresses?”

“They ask questions and I answer. Does that make me a spy?”

“If I asked you to keep a secret from them, would you?”

Val swallowed. “I-” She understood the significance of his emergence from the living memory. He was surprised the Seeresses had not forbidden her from seeing him. Even his guards seemed to hold newfound respect or fear of him. Which he could not say. He and Val had grown closer in the days that followed. She swore she knew nothing of the Seeresses’ plan to ensnare him in the living memory and was disgusted by their intent to trap his mind. The memory was sacred above all else and to reduce it to prison was blasphemy. The fact that he emerged sane of mind gave him a great advantage.

“I want to trust you, Val. But you have to prove it.” Daemon waited. Val and her sister were the last of a potent bloodline. They were the nearest resemblance to nobility here in Skagos. And Val was the only one who had shown him kindness. He was sure he could win her.

“Then trust me.”  

“Your grandfather helped guide me through the living memory. He trained the Seeresses. He is the reason they are so powerful and yet he doubts them and fears for you and your sister.”

“You’re a liar,” Val said with vehemence.

Daemon shook his head. “Why would I lie? Your grandfather begged me to protect you and your sister. I can still feel his plea. A dead man’s request from beyond the grave.”Daemon moved as close to her as his chains allowed. “I know we are kin. I can name the king that gave your grandfather that sword you wear. I can tell you why he was banished to the wall. Does this sound like a lie to you?”

Val did not run to the Seeresses as he feared she would. Instead, she stayed and listened. They spoke for over an hour. At times their discussion grew animated, and Daemon had to hold his tongue less their conversation devolved into a shouting match. She was frustrated and questioned his every word but in the end, Daemon knew she believed him.

“You cannot ask me to betray my people,” Val said firmly.

“That is not what I am asking you to do. How can I protect anyone from this cage?”

“The Seeresses-” Val started.

“They are not to be trusted. Why do you think my friends are still alive? The Seeresses want to know how to take the horn for themselves.” Val still seemed skeptical. “Only the blood of the forty can master the horn. My blood. Your blood and your sister’s.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Not for sure but your grandfather knows they covet the power of the horn for themselves. The Seeresses delves deep into the living memory for answers.”

“Where else would they look. They are few books on Skagos.”

Daemon shook his head. “Not for the horn. They are scouring the living memory for details on transference.” He saw her confusion. “You know of the second life for wargs and skinchangers. When the human body dies, they take the skin of their familiar. There were past Greenseers who discovered they could also take the skin of men. They extended their lifespans by stealing bodies that were not theirs. Their only limitation was that each new body needed the gift. Power is in the blood.”

“The horn can only be claimed by those with dragon’s blood. There are three people on this island with the right bloodline. The Seeresses intended to steal my body as the first vessel. You and Dalla were the next.”

Val shook her head in disbelief. Tears slipped from her blue eyes. Daemon called after her when she fled from the cell, but she was gone. “Keep your sword close, Val.”  

Daemon spent the next two days alone in his cell. Val had not returned. He wondered if she had gone to the Seeresses but dismissed that. Even if Val didn’t believe him entirely, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to play her hand against the possibility that he was truthful.

The sky was dark when he heard a commotion outside of his cell. The heavy wooden door muffled much of the sound. There was a conversation and then a heavy thud against the door. Val entered the room, sword drawn. Her hair was in disarray, and she panted as she if had just run a mile. Dark Sister was coated in blood.

“I told Dalla. I told her and made her promise to keep it to herself,” She panted from exertion. Sweat lined her brow.  

He understood. “She went to the Seeresses.”

Val looked ready to cry. “When our mother died, the Seeresses took care of us. Dalla couldn’t accept that they meant us harm. She denied it and said you were poisoning my mind. I told her that we needed to be careful, and trust no one.” He tentatively embraced Val. She accepted his embrace, stiff at first but then she relaxed as he held her tighter.

She pushed him away. “We need to move quickly.” To his surprise, she handed him one of the Valyrian steel daggers. This one belonged to Ashara.

Daemon stepped past her out of the cell and saw the two dead guards. The back of one’s skull was punctured, an instant death, and the other likely hadn’t time to scream. Val is an efficient killer.

“What are you doing?” She asked as he dragged the bodies into the cell.

“I need the armor and the boots. If someone takes a glance, they’ll think the guards left their post, likely to look for you.”

Daemon stripped and donned the armor quickly. It was ill-fitting and crude, reminding him of why the Skagossi were not renowned as smiths but it was an upgrade over thin cloths. At least the boots fit.

“We cannot do this alone. We need to free Shiera and Ashara.”

Val sighed. “If I can convince Bjorn; his men will follow his orders even against the Seeresses. And some are loyal to me. They are not fighters but important enough that many will listen. This does not need to escalate into a war. It will only weaken us for the Stoneborn. Your vampires must understand this.” Daemon nodded.

“Promise me that we will not abandon my sister.” He thought of Arya and Robb. “Family is important,”he agreed.

They moved through the dark belly of Kingshouse to a narrow wooden staircase anchored to the face of a rock. Daemon picked his steps carefully as stone collected on the steps and the trees to break his fall were sixty feet below.

“They are in the pits. Under guard by wargs. They will have their wolfhounds with them, there is no sneaking past.”

Daemon’s mind raced. “Where is your shadowcat?”

“I sent her after Dalla.” Val slapped the rock face in frustration. “Fuck.” Her feline was more than a match for the largest of the wolfhounds and the strongest of Val’s familiars.

“Do you know where they store the vampire’s belongings?”

Val looked at him curiously. “Their robes have been searched. The Seeresses have it in a closet near here, but I doubt there is anything useful left.” Daemon insisted and Val led him through a dark hallway to the closet. The door groaned loudly when opened but there was no one around to hear.

Daemon spotted what he needed immediately. Shiera’s and Ashara’s armor and robes were surprisingly unmolested. He took everything with him. They left the room without bothering to close the door. Daemon followed Val through a dark hallway. The dogs heard them despite their silent footsteps and their heavy barks echoed through the stone hallway.

Daemon surged from the shadows before the dogs could charge. He tossed the pouches filled with powder with great accuracy. One hit the lead hound in the snot dousing it and the rest of the pack with a cloud of fine dust. The next pouch landed at the feet of the guards.

The effect was instantaneous. Dogs and men writhed and snarled without awareness on the ground. He felt Val’s eyes on his back, but Daemon moved with a purpose; he took no pleasure in executing the hounds but only disarmed the men. “They need to feed,” he answered Val’s questioning eyes.

He stepped over the men with an armful of crude weapons. Val dismantled the lock on the door the men guarded with Dark Sister. The smell of burnt flesh and dust lingered in the air. Daemon coughed and dropped the weapons in a pile. Rushlights along the nearest wall filled the foyer with flickering light.  A low ceiling hung overhead. The torture racks pressed against the walls made his heartbeat increase.

There were multiple iron-banded doors along the far wall. Two of the doors were made of weirwood rather than ironwood. These two doors had a large rune painted in what appeared to be blood. “What is this?”

“A binding spell. Your friends will not be able to pass through the doorway if the runes aren’t destroyed first,” Val answered. Daemon stabbed his dagger into the wood and ripped away sections until the rune was unrecognizable. Val nodded.

“Stay in that corner until I tell you otherwise.” He pointed to the far corner. “Best not to give them the temptation.” Worry colored her pretty face, and she followed his direction. The smell of burnt flesh grew much stronger as he stepped through the weirwood doorway. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. A female figure was suspended in the air before him. Chains leading to the ceiling spread her arms while her feet were bound to the floor. The taught chains tortured the vampire even while her tormentors weren’t present.

Glowing eyes the color of blood halted Daemon’s forward motion. He felt the malevolence in her gaze. His skin broke into goosebumps and instinctual fear made his heart race. Daemon brushed away the feeling. “It’s me.”

The malevolent gaze did not abate. She tasted the air audibly. “Daemon?” Her voice was hoarse. She collapsed into his body when he released her. Her nose pressed against his skin then her lips. He gripped her hair and pulled her away from his neck before she could bite down.

“I need my strength to fight. There’s a feast waiting for you.” Ashara groaned both in pain and protest, but she did not fight him. He set her down carefully. Under the rushlight, her numerous wounds were revealed to him. Ashara ignored his concern and growing anger. Instead, she focused on Val, the hunger in her glowing eyes was evident to everyone. “Don’t eat her either,” Daemon held her chin in place, forcing her to stare into his eyes. “That’s not negotiable.”

Ashara seemed far from coherent, feral even, but she did not immediately lunge for Val when he released her. He moved quickly to destroy the rune on the second door. A hostile aura slammed into Daemon akin to a powerful wave. It was far more powerful here than Ashara’s torture chamber. Daemon grit his teeth under the assault of Shiera’s pain and anger.

Her glimmering red eyes were half-lidded, without recognition despite her superior senses. Blood congealed around the spikes that impaled her wrists and feet. She hissed when he removed them. He carried her limp body from the torture chamber.

Shiera’s burns were far more severe than Ashara’s. Her skin had blackened in several places and flaked away at the slightest contact. Val gasped audibly at the sight of Shiera’s damaged body and Ashara hissed weakly in anger. “Is she dead?” Val asked.

Daemon shook his head. “Shiera will endure.”

He carried both vampires to the unconscious men. Ashara attached to the neck of a guardsman immediately. Shiera, he fed drops of blood from a wound he sliced into a man’s wrist until she latched on herself.

Her eyes opened suddenly. They were blood red and full of malevolent anger. Tonight will be a bloodbath. The vampires gorged themselves on the blood of the guardsmen. Daemon had never seen them feed so violently. They tore the men open with their fangs and claws with no regard for the mess. Blood splattered against their grey skin and made a muddy mess of the dirt floor.

Their grievous wounds healed before his eyes. Even their skin absorbed the spilled blood, and the sunburns and wounds began to close. Once every single guard had been drained dry, the vampire rose to their feet. 

Daemon stood between the vampires and Val. They both affixed the woman with ravenous gazes. “She is with me. No harm will come to her,” Daemon ordered but neither vampire seemed to listen. He grabbed both vampires by the throat and pressed them against the wall. Ashara’s claws dug into his wrist while Shiera arrested him with her crimson eyes. They overflowed with power. “I told you no!”

In his current state, the vampires could easily overpower physically him, but Daemon forced open a well of strength he did not know was there before delving into the living memory. His dominance would not be denied. Ashara’s bloodlust quelled under his will, but Shiera actively fought him. His grip tightened around her throat and the crude armored shirt he wore protected him from her grasping claws.

Daemon kissed the elder vampire harshly. Her fangs nipped his lips, drawing blood which she drank greedily. In response, he bit down on her roaming tongue until the sweet tang of her magic blood ignited his taste buds. Outraged Shiera snarled but the heavy slap he laid on her cheek and the following glare brought her to silence. “I did not free you to eat our only ally. You are not an animal, act like it!”

Ashara slid between them. She wrapped her arms tightly around the elder vampire. “He’s right. She helped you free us?” Daemon nodded.

Shiera’s iron gaze spoke of disagreement. “And she helped put us here in the first place. I remember the bitch’s face.”

“She is Bloodraven’s granddaughter.”

Shiera tilted her head. Bloodstained her mouth and teeth; and the curved horns that sprouted from her skull were on full display. They were dark, not quite black, and several inches thick. Paired with glowing red eyes and her grey skin, the inhuman nature of this beautiful woman could not be denied. “That’s a lie. He never had a child.”

“You and Bloodraven separated before he was sentenced to the Watch. At some point, he abandoned the watch and fathered a child on a wildling woman-”

“Freefolk,” Val corrected. Daemon looked behind him in surprise. He thought she only spoke Old Tongue.

“My grandmother was freefolk.” Val did not shy away from Shiera’s gaze. “I didn’t help him for you two to eviscerate my people.” Her sword was drawn and held low at her side. “You will kill no innocents. Promise me that or I will strike you down here and now.” She raised the blade to eye level. The sharpness of Valyrian steel lent credence to her threat.

Shiera laughed. “Don’t pretend your worthy of that blade because Brynden forgot to feed a wildling moon tea.”

“Enough!” Daemon roared. “I will not allow infighting to consume us before we can come together. We need all of our strengths and talents to escape this.” He looked at each of the three women.

Ashara wrapped her arms tight around him. “I’m with you.” Shiera and Val were less assuring but vampire and human both nodded.

Daemon took a moment to appreciate the embrace of the dark-haired vampire. He had missed her dearly. “There is a dragon here. I saw a blur of him in the living memory. He made his lair in the mines and killed the men who tried to drive him out. I felt the burns and the teeth myself.” He looked at Val. “This had to be before your grandfather was even alive.”

“What were the colors of its scales?” Shiera questioned.

“I don’t know. None of the men survived long enough to get a clear look. There was fire and there was blood and not much else.”

“It has to be one of the dragons that survived the dance. Maybe even a hatchling with a century in the wild,” Ashara added.

“Cannibal,” Shiera corrected. She seemed certain. “He was the only dragon that the maesters could not poison. And his range was massive. He wouldn’t return to Dragonstone for weeks on end. Sailors would report sightings of him as far as the Shivering Sea. If there is any dragon that can escape detection for this long it must be Cannibal.”

“Either way, it has not been seen since by any Skagg since.”

“Dragons can hibernate for decades. They awake to hunt and return to rest when their hunger is sated,” Shiera spoke. “Valyria’s greatest conquests coincided during the months of great dragon awakenings. It is when they are at their most powerful and most dangerous. We will need Dragonbinder to bind the dragon to your will.”

Val shook her head. “You will need an army to get close to the mines. The Stoneborn control the entire northern side of the Island. They make their weapons from the obsidian found in the mines.”

“We can infiltrate their territory with a small group-”

Val interrupted Shiera. “He needs Bjorn’s men. No scouts survive long in the north. It is impossible.” Her blue eyes locked on to his. “If you are meant to be a King then you will win the trust of my people. They will fight for the one that gives them the best chance for survival.”

Tonight, the moon was a blood orange hue. An ill-omen or an encouraging sign to one who walked with vampires? Daemon could not decide. It was bitterly cold, and the windswept the waves into a frenzy. Several inches of fresh snow covered the ground. The spray of the sea was in the air and whenever he licked his lips, he could taste the salt.

“They are not enough,” Shiera’s tone was harsh, and her glimmering red eyes were affixed to Val’s haughty blue orbs. “Women, children, and old men. What are we to do with them?”

Val did not shy away from the elder vampire and neither did her hand stray far from the hilt of Dark Sister. “I’ve told you this once before. I am not starting a war amongst my people. These are the present, past, and future of Skagos. Their word, their opinions matter.” Val turned to Daemon. “They gather to see you.” A brief smile touched her lips. “They’ve heard rumors of the silver-haired man. A warg with a dragon horn. A man skilled enough to not lose himself in the living memory. Someone that the Seeresses fear. Show them the truth behind the rumors.”

Ashara squeezed his arm. Daemon nodded at the vampires. The sight of them must have been frightening to the crowd. Neither had been able to return to their human appearance. Shiera’s horns drew a slew of whispers and lots of pointing. Their blood-red eyes glowed in the dark. Was he insane to find the two even more alluring like this? They were inhuman, exotic, and intoxicatingly powerful. He knew their powers of persuasion were at work but their power alone would not be enough.  

He gazed across the crowd of curious faces. They were far from a fighting force. Women and their children, old men, and boys too young to fight. Many possessed the gift, and a few were accompanied by their familiars. The largest of them was a great elk with an impressive rack of antlers. It was so old that its fur was streaked with grey. The bull snorted restlessly, and an old whitebeard stroked its snout to calm him.

Daemon met the eyes of the crowd. He addressed them in the Old Tongue. “I have seen the corruption that spreads across this island. I have seen how it infects the land and I have seen how it eats away at the living memory.” There were murmurs at that. The Seeresses hide that detail from their people. “Perhaps that is why the Seeresses were so hostile to me. I was raised by a Lord who study under the Green Men. He taught me how to wield The Gift. We should have been allies from the start but your Seeresses imprisoned me and my wives and my men. This was not done out of concern for their people but directed by fear and greed.”

He paused. Their reactions were mixed. Many voiced their disagreements. Daemon silenced them with a hand. “You ask why? I ask why would they lock me in a cell, besiege my mind, and try to break my spirit before even considering what I had to offer? Fear is the reason. I am not just a warg. I am not a simple outsider. What warg can be forced into the living memory and emerge with the mind intact? What warg can withstand the hivemind that controls the Stoneborn?” There were more whispers.

Val confirmed his story. “It is the truth.”

“I stand before you with knowledge of the past and future. The Seeresses are no longer enough to stand against the coming storm. Many of you have held that suspicion for years now. The Stoneborn continuously encroach on your territory and kill your men. They have pushed you ever closer to the coast. At this rate, you will be forced into the sea. Stannis offers salvation with an ultimatum, forsake the old gods, burn the Weirwoods, and pray to R’hllor.” The foreign name of the fire god ignited a wave of palpable anger in the crowd. Daemon seized that anger. “And your Seeresses merely offer time. Not salvation. The time that until the blood of the last Skagossi is spilled.”

“Tell them what you offer.” Val stepped forward to stand beside him. She met the gazes of many who looked to her for direction.

“The death of your enemies. The Stoneborn and Stannis. I offer a future.”

“Why should we trust you? An outsider. Nothing good has ever come to the islands from the lands beyond its shores. Much less from an outsider who lays with demon women!” The whitebeard yelled with a raised fist.

Daemon stepped forward. “You are mistaken, old man. I am not here to ask for your trust. The Seeresses imprisoned me and are trying to steal my power. My birthright. I ask you to bear witness to when I take it back.”

The crowd followed him as he marched through the main street that bisected the village. More people emerged from their houses and stared in amazement at him and the two vampires walked beside him.

“Wives?” Shiera whispered.

“We’re much more than friends now, aren’t we? It was the only word I could think of to describe you two.” Ashara smiled warmly at him and despite the situation, he felt heat rush to his cheeks.

“We will always be with you, but you will need human brides to secure your line,” Shiera told him. Perhaps sensing how her rejection hurt his feelings, she squeezed his hand. “Just not this pretender behind us. A great number of women will throw themselves at your feet. Many with much more to offer than this girl.”

Daemon ignored Shiera’s words and focused on the present. Their march through the village attracted a great deal of attention. It seemed most if not all of the village followed them now. And he followed the call of Dragonbinder. He could not explain how he knew its location but the path to it was revealed with every step. It was as if the horn was calling to him.

“I need you two ready. I think I can prevent the Seeresses from using the Weirwood roots but only for so long.”

“We will deal with the Seeresses. Stay alert and protect yourself. They will target you as much as us,” Ashara said. The confidence she shared with Shiera was soothing.

Val interrupted, “Bjorn is not in the village or the valley. His scouts spotted Stoneborn and he and his men are on a hunt.”

“The Witches are undefended?” Shiera asked.

“They always have guards,” Val began. “They do not have to die. I may be able to make them agree to a compromise.” Daemon shook his head. “They do not know you as I do. Let me speak first.”

He sighed. “Val’s sister is an acolyte of the Seeresses. No harm will come to her,” He told the vampires. Neither seemed pleased but they did not argue either. “It is the best I can do.”

The trees provided protection against the wind, but their branches twisted and groaned under the strain. It made the weirwoods seem alive as if they were dancing. The carved faces of the weirwoods seemed especially angry tonight and the whispering of the dead Greenseers began. Daemon steeled himself for the impending assault on his mind. The attack was akin to several dozen spikes stabbing at his brain. He screamed through clenched teeth and would have fallen to his knees had Shiera and Ashara not been there to support him.

“Keep moving forward,” Daemon ordered. And the vampires all but carried him. Another physic barrage slammed into him. A burning sensation grew behind his eyes. Until they were rolling back into his head. Briefly, he was in Westeros, running through muddy fields with his smaller cousins and his two sisters. He stopped to howl his pain to the moon. And then he was under the waves. The shock of instinctual fear was disorienting. His pod was fleeing from something massive. Some monstrosity from the deep was so large that it dwarfed even the whales.

Daemon shuddered and with great effort, he brought himself back to his two-legged body. He returned the attack to the Greenseers, evicting them from his mind until finally their strength was spent. Hot blood dripped from his nose and stained the fresh snow. He took a shaky breath of the cool air. His exhale was accompanied by laughter. “Is that all you can do?!” He shouted at the face of a weirwood.

“Dead men will not stop me from taking back what is mine!” his voice carried through the forest. The shades allied to the Seeresses retreated.

He swaggered into the clearing where he, Shiera, and Ashara were first taken, prisoner. The Seeresses and their acolytes stood in front of the massive weirwood whose branches obscured the night sky. Half a dozen guardsmen stood in front of the women, spears held at ready. Another four bowmen had arrows knocked and ready. His attention immediately focused on Val’s sister. She was beside the Seeresses. In her hand, she held the mouthpiece of Dragonbinder. Its runes were glowing dimly. She’s not burning. Daemon noticed.

“Dalla get away from them!” Val yelled.

“Valerie, what is the meaning of this?” The Owl Seeress questioned. The three watched as the villagers filed into the clearing. Her masks shifted from a dark blue to a hundred vibrant shades of red.  

“She has lost her way. We thought you were better than this Valerie-”

“Thinking for myself does not mean I have lost my way,” Val interrupted the Cat Seeress haughtily. “Dalla listen to me. They are using you. You and your baby are not safe with them. Let me protect you.”

Dalla shook her head. “Stop it, Val. I do not what lies this outsider filled your head with. You all know the Seeresses have always been for our people. No one here would be alive if it were not for them.”

“I smell blood and lots of it. Who did you sacrifice to bind the horn?” Shiera questioned. Her blood-red eyes were gleaming. “I know you Skags are familiar with blood sacrifices. You did it here, under the hearth tree. You do know the blessing of the Old Gods accounts to nothing when concerning Valyrian magic?” Her tone was mocking.

“Everything we have done has been to protect our people, demon,” The Antlered Seeress responded. “You would not understand a sacrifice that does not benefit anyone other than yourself.”

“Do they believe that?” Ashara retorted. She gestured to the villagers who watched with apt attention. “They know Daemon stands despite your best attempts to break him. He remains unbroken.”

“You are mistaken demon. The boy lives because we thought we needed him. You both live because we needed information. Now your usefulness has passed.” The Cat Seeress raised her staff. She never saw the knife. The Seeress met the snow-covered earth face first with a knife buried to the hilt in her back. Her attacker stared at her hand as if acted outside of her control.  

“And now there are two,” Shiera’s triumphant voice pierced the night air.

“I didn’t mean to” The acolyte pleaded. The other acolytes distanced themselves from her. “Please,” She fell to her knees and sobbed.  

The remaining two Seeresses were momentarily speechless as they stared at their fallen sister. Daemon knew this had to be the work of his vampires. Their power never ceased to surprise him. “Kill them!” The Owl face Seeress ordered her men.

“No!” Val shouted. “No one needs to die!” The men hesitated. Daemon seized the opportunity.

“Dalla, I promised your sister no harm would come to you. Do not make me break that promise. Give me the horn.” He ignored Val’s gaze and focused on her sister. To his dismay, she returned his look with a determined glare.

“The horn is yours now Dalla. It will respond to your commands, not his.” The Owl Seeress assured. “We stand with you. Blow the horn.”

“Do not do it, Dalla! Please listen to me,” Val pleaded. “I am trying to protect you and your baby.”

“You are a fool to believe them and not worthy of Bryden’s blood if you continue to do so,” Shiera said harshly in the common tongue. Daemon wasn’t sure if Dalla understood the words but the hateful look she sent the elder vampire sure made him think she did.

“We will forgive your sister for her treason, Dalla, but you must believe the power of that horn is yours to wield. Claim it now and we will strike down this pretender and his demons.”

She blew the horn. Dragonbinder’s roar was deafening beneath the canopy of the trees. It drowned out the terrified screams of the villagers and drove them to their knees. A thousand souls cried in agony. Their tortured cries grew louder and louder as Dalla emptied her lungs until they morphed into inhuman roars. Deep in pitch and terrifying to behold. The blood-red leaves of the weirwood trees were blown from their branches. The gloom of the clearing evaporated with the presence of the blood moon overhead. Its orange had bled to a deep crimson.

Daemon’s blood ignited and his heart nearly ripped from his chest. The roar of Dragonbinder shook his bones. He could feel the hunger of the horn. It had consumed hundreds, if not thousands of souls since its creation and tonight it would feast on another. The heat in his chest grew hotter and hotter until it threatened to consume him.

A roar ripped from his throat, too deep and powerful to be human. He asserted his will over the spell forged horn and once again it was reminded of its master. Smoke wafted from his nostrils. Daemon stared across the clearing, watching as Dalla’s lips released the horn. She coughed up a cloud of black smoke and then collapsed into the snow.

The Vampires did not hesitate. In a blink of an eye, they crossed the clearing. Both flipped over the stunned guardsmen and caught the remaining Seeresses by their throats. The men hesitated and the bowmen leveled their arrows at the vampires.

“Surrender and you will be given the chance to fight for your people.” Daemon strode towards his vampires. Weirwood leaves drifted slowly to the earth, so many that it was akin to rain. Half the men leveled their weapons at him while the others remained focused on the vampires. “Fight and we will destroy you.” Ashara’s tight grip stifled the words in the protesting Seeress’ throat.

His march to Dragonbinder was unimpeded. He stared impassively at Dalla’s burning body. A steady flame consumed her robes and flesh. Val was not far behind him and he caught the blonde before she could reach her sister.

She struggled with all her might, but his grip held. “Stop it. She is gone, Val. She’s gone.” Once he was sure her senses had returned, Daemon released her. Val fell to her knees beside her sister. It was either her or me. She should not have challenged me. There was no triumphant in this victory.

Dragonbinder felt lighter than he remembered. The heat from the horn washed away the cold and the runes that covered every inch of the horn pulsed. He turned to glare at the guardsmen. “I wish to end this night without any more unnecessary deaths. Drop your weapons or die.”

One by one the men dropped their weapons. Satisfied, Daemon stared at the villagers. “I asked you to bear witness when I took back what was stolen from me. Now I demand your obedience.” He pointed to the ground before him. “Come here and kneel before your king.” En masse the villagers knelt before him.

His vampires brought the captured Seeresses before the villagers. Stripped of their masks, they seemed impossibly frail to wield as much power as they had.

“Finish them,” he ordered his vampires. Their fangs elongated from their jaws and tore into the throats of the Seeresses. Both women gurgled and flailed uselessly. Shiera and Ashara did not drink them dry immediately as he suspected. Instead, they let the Seeresses drown in their own blood.

Satisfaction bloomed in his chest. He watched the light fade from their green eyes.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Is that how the saying goes?” Negan asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never worn one,” Daemon responded dryly. His eyes were so heavy they were hard to keep open. “Are the families inside the fortress?”

“Aye, the last of them are being rounded up.”

“And the acolytes?”

“Bound and under guard.”

He nodded. Sparing the acolytes sparked a fierce argument between him and the vampires. They were instruments in the torture directed by the Seeresses. He could not blame Shiera and Ashara for wanting to feast on their blood, swift vengeance was something they were fond of. Still, he needed important hostages. Many of the acolytes were wives of Bjorn’s men and with Dalla’s death, he desperately needed leverage to stop the warlord from seeking vengeance.

Wives, daughters, and young sons were marched into the fortress under his orders. Daemon did not have the men to withstand a siege but he had enough to carry out a bloody order. Negan laid a hand on Daemon’s shoulder. “The sun is almost up. You should sleep.”

This time, Daemon did not argue. He could no longer make sense of the crude maps laid before him. Cartography was not a strength of the Skagossi and to his knowledge, there had never been a Maester on the island. “You are in charge until I wake up.” They nodded at each other.

Even in the dim light of the rushlights, he could see how red and swollen Val’s eyes were. Her hair was loose and her face clean of any markings. She wore a blue sleeping dress that complimented the color of her eyes.  The woman looked so young and small, a sharp contrast to the fierce warrior he was used to.

“Val.” She sat at the edge of his bed.

“Hostages. That’s what they are?”

Daemon nodded. “You don’t like it.”

“Of course, I don’t. I know hostages are useless if you aren’t willing to harm them.” She swallowed. Daemon nodded. The implication was clear. “Bjorn is stubborn but his men fight for the future of their families. They will not risk them. I guarantee you will not need to carry out your threats. All I ask is that you let me do the talking.”

“Agreed.” Val looked as if she had something else to say but shook her head. He grabbed her wrist before she could reach the door. “I wish I could have saved your sister.”

Val did not look at him. “Prove to me that I did not trade my sister’s life for nothing.” Her wrists slipped from his grip. The door shut quietly behind her.

Daemon was startled by his dreamless sleep. By instinct he reached for the knife he hid under his pillow. A soft hand stilled him. Glowing red eyes filled his vision. His heart rate slowed. “Ashara?” he rasped.

“How could you tell?” Her voice contained a smile.

“Lucky guess,” he shrugged. His eyes felt heavy once again. Ashara shook him gently. “Come with me.”

The weight of weeks of confinement and torture settled in his bones. He felt so tired that it was difficult to lift his head. “What time is it?” He lingered in stillness. Awake, the ever-present soreness in his back and limbs reminded him of its presence.

“Come with me,” Ashara repeated. Her voice was an invitation he could not refuse. He lumbered from the bed with her help. The rushlights in his chambers had died out, drenching the room in darkness. Daemon followed Ashara blindly. She led him out of the darkroom into a maze of dark hallways.

Traveling through the abyss of darkness was discomforting. He felt like fish in a black ocean, unknowing of predators lurking in the dark. His mind returned to the memory of Tilikum’s fear. What had spooked the whale and his pod? They were the apex predators of the sea.  

Ashara’s squeezed his fingers interlocked in her own. “Not much longer,” She whispered.

Light spilled into his eyes. A hundred candles burned before him. Shadows flickered across the stone walls of the bathing chamber. The air carried something sweet to his nostrils and then something richer. Daemon’s taste buds awoke, and a hunger rumbled in his belly. His eyes were affixed to the beautiful vision of Shiera. She was a vision in a sheer slip of red. Ashara mirrored her attire in an equally sheer slip of black. Both vampires wore their hair down, silver-gold and raven-black locks that reached their waistline.

Neither had returned to their human appearance. Both were in full demonic bloom. Shiera doubly so with the horns that sprouted from her skull. In the silver-haired woman’s hands were four sets of chains. Four girls knelt on either side of the vampire. Dog collars clipped to the chains were around their necks. Save for their collars they were nude. The four of them looked not much older than his cousin Sansa.

His eyes narrowed. “What is this?” He released Ashara’s hand. “You know my orders. No harm is meant to come to these people.”

“You want to keep the acolytes alive, fine; their hearts will continue breathing. You cannot ask us to stop feeding entirely. Not when you need our strength; no when you need our magic.” Shiera’s tone was haughty. Her blood-red eyes glimmered.

“Do not try me tonight, Shiera. You can feed but no deaths. I vouched for you both, do not make my word meaningless.”

“Your body needs to heal. How do you think we fuel your healing?” Shiera strode towards him. Her girls crawled behind their lead similar to obedient dogs following their master. Daemon could see no signs of distress on their faces. They had a single-minded focus on Shiera. Despite his misgivings, the caveman within him was aroused by the sight.

“She’s right Daemon.” Ashara pressed her lips to his neck. Her breasts pressed against his back. “Blood magic is the most potent magic there is. It does not come without cost. To heal you, we must take from these girls, and you must be supremely healthy for the road ahead.”

He glanced at the girls. “They’re too young.”

“No younger than the girl you took on the ship,” Shiera said flippantly.

He shook his head. “We didn’t kill her.”

“Did we not?” Shiera tilted her head. She was playing with him. He thought back to that night. Much of it was an insensible blur. “We didn’t,” he insisted. “I remember her breathing at the night’s end.”

His fist clenched. “Stop it! I know what you’re doing, and it stops now.” His focus felt absolute. Shiera took a half step back. Daemon stepped away from Ashara’s embrace to stand nose to nose with the elder vampire. “You will not manipulate me. I know your tricks, Shiera.”

Ashara touched his side. Daemon winced at the pressure on his bruised flesh. “If today had resulted in a fight, then you would be dead. You could barely move from bed. How will you swing an ax tomorrow? Or hold a shield? Or march miles through the snowpack? How will you claim a dragon when by midday tomorrow you will barely be able to stand? I can smell the exhaustion.”

“I don’t want it this way. I’m not a monster.”

Shiera laughed. “You are a monster. Both sides of your bloodline were filled with them. Aegon and Visenya fed their dragons half a dozen men before every battle. It gave the dragons a craving for human flesh that made them unstoppable on a battlefield. No pain could deter them from the hunt. This is no different. Your Stark ancestors bled their enemies before the weirwoods. Feeding the weirwoods so that the Old Gods would grant them visions of conquest and prosperity. Do you think they held Winterfell for a thousand years by playing fair? Sacrifice has always been the path to power. Your path is no different.”

“Shiera-”

The vampire cut in before he could respond. “Did your wildling bitch ever tell you how the Seeresses bred so many wargs out of their Skags?”

“She didn’t have to,” Daemon replied. “I saw it. Every year there’s a sacrifice of children who do not display the gift.” He had seen the sacrifices in the living memory and watched the killing from the eyes of grieving mothers. The present-day Skags had grown accustomed to the practice, but they had not always been so cooperative. The blood was always spilled on the roots of the weirwoods. Blood magic even if the Seeresses would argue differently.

“I want to better,” he admitted in a whisper.

“And you will be,” Ashara breathed into his ear. Her nimble fingers pushed his trousers to his ankles. Shiera’s hooked her claws in his tunic. The fabric split from his flesh, falling into two pieces on the stone floor. “But first you must fight. Let us help you. Trust us.” Her hand found his cock. It had already begun to stiffen before she touched it. It twitched and swelled in her grip.

“You are better.” Shiera stroked his skin. “You will be a great king. I can see it now. The song of the Dragon of Greywater will be known for ten thousand years.” Shiera captured his lips. This kiss was much softer than the last they shared. He luxuriated in the sweetness of her mouth and traced her fangs with his tongue. His arms encircled her waist even as Ashara pressed herself flush against his back.

Firmly in the embrace of the two immortal beings, Daemon followed their direction to the steaming bath. It was less of a tub and more of a large misshapen bucket. Still, it was watertight and filled to the brim with steaming hot water. The warmth felt incredible against his skin, even the stinge of open wounds did not prevent him from relaxing fully in the water.

Shiera and Ashara each fed from the girls. They drank deep gulps of blood from the throats of their victims but did not drain them. Lips red with blood, Ashara was the first to kiss him. The metallic tang of her victim’s lifeblood was almost negated by the sweet tang of the vampire’s mouth. Shiera kissed him after, more forceful than Ashara but not as dominating as her kisses normally were.

He was lulled into a light sleep. The vampires were not idle and set about washing him. Soap was worked across his skin while the other wet his hair and set about undoing the tangles. His eyes snapped open when he felt additional sets of hands run across his skin. The girls touched his flesh. One stroked his abs while another squeezed his bottom. Two others joined the vampire behind him in washing his hair.

He met the gaze of one of the girls. She stared back at him; a flush painted her freckled cheeks. Her brown hair was plastered to her brow and her deep brown eyes were filled with equal amounts of shyness and lust. The girl was no great beauty but young and as beautiful as she would ever be. The others were much of the same. Shiera directed the dirty blonde into the tub. The girl pulled on his hips and the second his cock emerged from the water she took the head in her tiny mouth.

“Ah,” he cried out as she struggled to fit more of his turgid cock into her tiny mouth. His hips surged upward, and she choked. Shiera gripped the back of the dirty blonde’s head, forcing her to remain on his cock. His cock swelled again. The surge of blood made his shaft even harder, and his cockhead bounced against the back of the girl’s mouth. Shiera yanked the girl back and replaced her with another.

“You are a king. A soon-to-be dragonlord. It is an honor for these peasants to lay with you.” Ashara breathed into his ear. She stroked his chest and pinched his nipple.

Soon he stood in the bath, fucking the mouth of one of the thralls while the others waited patiently for their turn. Part of him, the one rooted within morality, screamed that this wasn’t right. Could these girls consent while under the vampires’ thrall? Do I care? The darker side of him whispered.

Ashara gripped the base of his cock, halting his thrusts. She pulled guided his cock into the mouth of the brown-haired peasant girl.  Shiera worked the girl’s mouth up and down his cock. His cock looked angry and magnificent as it stretched the tiny girl’s mouth obscenely wide. She choked once again but Shiera did not relent in applying pressure to the back of her head. Daemon put his hand on the top of the girl’s head and rocked into her mouth. The entrance to her throat gave away and for a brief moment, his cock breached her throat.

Daemon cried out when her mouth was snatched away. Shiera was quick to sheath his cock in the mouth of the next girl in the rotation. He used the four mouths before him like four cunts. His balls slapped their chin and their spittle dripped down their tiny breasts. Four inexperienced mouths did nothing but set his passion aflame.

Filled with sexual energy, Daemon turned suddenly and hauled Ashara into the bath. Water splashed against the stone ground. He pressed Ashara against the side of the tub. Daemon hauled a leg up into his arms and sank his entire cock into the raven-haired vampire in a single stroke. Ashara cried out, arching her back for him while her sopping cunt clenched tightly on his cock.

He pounded the vampire’s pussy with long, deep strokes. Her breasts heaved and swung with every stroke and the sight of her dusky nipples beneath the sheer fabric dominated his attention. “Suck on momma’s titties while you fuck me.” Ashara lowered a shoulder strap on her gown. Daemon gratefully took the offered nipple in his mouth. He sucked as he stroked into her. Her constantly clenching cunt milked his cock.

Ashara shifted, she spread her legs and set her feet on the edges of the tub. Her hands gripped his shoulders. With the additional leverage, she could thrust her hips as much as he could. Ashara fucked him back in a steady tempo. The intensity quickly grew, and Daemon tried to pull out, desperate to prolong this pleasure as much as possible.

Shiera’s claws gripped his buttocks. “Breed this needy slut.” She nipped his ear and sucked away the blood that welled on the lobe. “Spray in her cunt. Do it.”

With a roar, Daemon surged into Ashara and paused. His cock swelled so much that it was almost painful. The relief from his first shot of cum was monumental. His cockhead all but exploded, splattering the deepest recesses of Ashara’s pussy with copious amounts of seed.

Ashara cooed in delight. She wrapped a leg around his waist, in no danger of falling backward. “Fill me, baby. I want it all.” Desperate to fulfill her request, his cock sputtered and heaved for what felt like a small eternity. Daemon slumped into Ashara’s embrace. She kissed his temples and stroked his back.

Daemon pulled back to stare into her crimson eyes. “I missed you.”

Her eyes were soulful. “You saved us this time. Even when it would have been easier to switch sides.”

“I don’t want to imagine life without either of you in it,” He admitted. Ashara’s resulting smile filled his chest with warmth. His cock throbbed inside of her. He had not lost any stiffness despite the intensity of his climax.

“Feed Shiera now.” Ashara hissed when his cock slowly emerged from her cunt. It glistened with a combined mix of their juices. He turned to find Shiera. To his delight, instead of the peasant girls kneeling before him, there was the dazzling sight of Shiera. She knelt in the water, her full breasts and stiff nipples just kissed the water. Crimson eyes stared up at him.

Shiera opened her mouth and stuck out her long pink tongue. Daemon’s cock controlled him from that point onward. He hissed as Shiera’s lips closed around his cock head. She teased his slit with her tongue, piercing the fold with the tip of the muscular appendage. He shuddered at the sensation and briefly his knees buckled.

The elder vampire steadied him with her hands on his hips. Shiera slowly bobbed her head, taking more of his cock with each downward pass. She pulled back to slurp away the combined juices of him and Ashara. Her tongue brushed his sack, and swiped underneath to trace the main vein that ran from root to tip. The muscular appendage swirled around his cock head before she swallowed his cock in one hungry motion. Her throat opened for him, and Daemon grunted when her lips kissed his navel.

The sight of such a beautiful woman with his cock fully encased in her throat was incredibly intoxicating. He felt drunk with pleasure. Shiera twisted her head with his cock buried in her throat. He cried out at the incredible sensation. The elder vampire gurgled something he couldn’t understand.

She pulled her mouth to his tip, lashing the slit once again with her tongue before bobbing to take him deep. Her hands on his hips held him in place. Shiera set the tempo; she was aggressive. Throating his cock continuously until he was so hard that he hurt. Then her pace slowed dramatically. She kissed around his cock, licked it, and slurped on the head while her hand expertly stroked the shaft.

Shiera brought him to the edge more than once. She teased him by providing just enough pleasure that he almost begged for her to finish him. Instead, he gripped her shoulder and pulled his cock from her wet mouth. The beautiful blinked at him in confusion before he forced her to face away from him.

Shiera giggled girlishly as she realized his intention. Her hands gripped the edge of the tub and she stood on the tips of her toes and arched her back. The offer of her succulent bottom and the sight of her pretty pink pussy and the pale crinkled flesh above it made his mouth water.

He spread her cheeks and filled the space with his face. His tongue swiped at her core, and he swallowed the sweet nectar. The taste of her only made him more ravenous and Daemon held her bottom as he feasted on her pussy from behind.

Shiera squirmed and rocked her cunt against his face. Her juices smeared across his nose and cheeks. He drank even more. His tongue split her nether lips before finding the nub just above.

“Fuck me!” Shiera cried out. He slapped her bottom in response.

“Soon,” he said in between licks. He slid a finger into her cunt. She fluttered around him. Quickly he added another. Shiera’s cunt accepted the digits greedily. Daemon bit her thigh as he fucked her with two fingers. She rocked against his hand, arching her spine so he could find that special spot she loved.

He focused on that bundle of skin at the top of her cunt. Shiera rocked back against his hand. “I need your cock inside of me, not your fingers. Fuck me.”

Daemon yanked his hand away and replaced his fingers with his cock. Shiera grunted deeply when he buried his cock to the hilt. He gave her no respite and fucked her roughly. His hands couldn’t stop caressing her beautiful bottom. He gripped the flesh hard, using her cheeks as handholds to pull her back onto his cock.

He slapped her cheeks harshly. Shiera hissed but did not resist. Daemon repeated the slap on the other cheek, drawing a pleased moan from Shiera’s lips.  His hips pummeled her bottom.  The vampire submitted to him entirely.

The earlier orgasm granted him incredible staying power and Daemon used his stamina to fuck the vampire into several intense orgasms. Shiera shuddered beneath him, her cunt flexing around his cock, desperate to be filled with his seed. His belly tightened as the sensation, the need, to cum came upon him once again.

Shiera bucked her hips back just as he pressed forward. His cock surged, thickening until it felt ready to burst. He kneaded the vampire’s bottom as he filled her with a river of seed. Daemon pressed his chest against her back.

They did not let him rest for long. Shiera was the first to feed him her blood. Ashara took over the instruction of the girls and the four peasant girls took turns slurping his half-hard cock. It wasn’t long until he was hard again.

More blood flowed when the brown-haired peasant girl sat on his cock. Virgin. He realized. She cried out as he stretched her to the limit. Daemon bucked upward, forcing his cock deeper than she intended. The girl shuddered in pain and tried to retreat. His hand on her hip halted her movement. He turned in the tub and pressed the girl against the tub wall.

Ashara sank her fangs into the brunette as he fucked her roughly. Despite his rough treatment, she was very wet, and each pass of his cock opened up her body for his plunder. Ashara held the girl in place for him and the pleasure of being fed upon relaxed the brunette. Her legs fell open instead of futilely trying to force him away.

The vampires feasted on the blood of the girls as he had his way with their bodies. They fed Daemon their magic blood and with each sip, he felt healthier, stronger, and reinvigorated. His feverish lust only grew hotter with the more vampire blood he drank. He fucked each peasant girl using the young virgins like they were seasoned whores. One by one the peasant girls collapsed into a slumber.

Shiera jerked his cock while Ashara gently squeezed his sack. They kissed his length all over and took turns swallowing him. Daemon stared at the beautiful vampires, mesmerized by their demonic beauty. It wasn’t long before he could no longer endure such debauchery. Shiera directed the spray of his cum on Ashara’s face. She painted the other vampire’s cheeks, nose, and lips with his cum. Then she took his cock in her mouth and the final burst of his climax landed on her tongue.

For the first time in ages, he felt like a king.

Chapter Text

Daemon Targaryen

Val’s hand felt warm against his cheek. The blonde woman stared at him in amazement. “How?” She questioned. Her deep blue eyes scanned his skin for the wounds that once scarred his cheeks. His imprisonment had not been gentle, but the magic of the vampires’ blood had restored him. The guilt that blossomed in his chest was almost painful as he was reminded of the vampires’ methods. Now he understood that Shiera and Ashara could drain the lifeforce of a human and harness the energy to heal his wounds and ailments. They had drained the peasant girls of every ounce of life. He knew no small part of that energy was dedicated to his healing, but the vampires had gorged themselves on the blood of the virgins. Both were flush with power. Blood magic. The most potent form of magic. He had willingly partaken in the vampire’s ritual. And he was a product of blood magic if the Seeresses could be believed. His fists clenched.

Murderer.

The cold wind swirled his cloak. The sky was dim with a heavy cloud layer that obscured the sun. “Shiera and Ashara are very resourceful.” Val’s nose wrinkled in disapproval. She was not afraid to voice her misgivings about the vampires.

“You may not want to hear this, but the Seeresses were not without their wisdom. Be wary of your demons.”

“Not now, Val.”

Val gripped his elbow before he could turn away. His eyes turned stern. She did not shy away. “Listen, I am not blind to their utility. It is very likely we will not survive without their magic but in the end, they must be your tools. Not the other way around. You are still a man; you still have compassion in your beating heart.  I cannot say the same for them.”

“Do you trust me?” She matched his intensity with her own.

“Show me why I do.”

Snow crunched beneath their feet. Daemon and Val marched side by side through the snow. Three of his men followed behind Daemon. Light from their torches pierced the gloom of the forest.

“Are you sure now is the right time?” Val asked. They stood before the massive weirwood tree, only yards away from where the Seeresses were executed hours before. The weirwoods bore sinister expressions, none more frightening than the face of the largest tree. Its face seemed frozen in a rageful snarl.

“This is likely the only time I have. Bjorn will be returning soon and there will be no opportunity for this when he does. It is now or never.” Val’s lips pursed. Daemon flashed her a smile that he hoped was reassuring. “I’ve returned from this once. Who is to say I won’t again?”

“Be sure that you do, or this was all for not. Bjorn will take your head even if you are stuck dreaming.”

The weirwood sap had not lost its bitterness and he dry swallowed several times to force the concoction down his throat. He leaned back to rest against the weirwood, and the wood swallowed him like a stone thrown against the surface of a lake. His eyes opened to a fractured sky the color of blood.

He was in the same clearing in the forest. Yet the world was remarkably different. The branches of the great weirwood tree reached higher than ever. They were wide enough for three men to walk shoulder to shoulder and stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see.

Branches from the other Weirwoods across the forest connected to the branches of the heart tree. His mind tried to make sense of the dense maze of pathways formed by the wood. The paths twisted and inverted endlessly. At the end of the pathways, was an endless array of memories. They were swirling gaps in space, and thousands of different doorways to times passed. A collection of different perspectives that captured the history of a world older than the written word.

He felt the judgment of hundreds of star-bright green eyes bore into his skin. They contrasted sharply against the red gloom of the sky. Their hatred of him had never been more apparent.

“Why are you here?” A whisper could be heard. Daemon searched for its source, but the voice was directionless. The pack of green eyes brightened and drew closer. “Are you here to gloat? Was the death of my granddaughter not enough for you? Must you come to terrorize a dead man?”

“I have better things to do with my time,” Daemon retorted. “Show yourself old man.”

His sharp eyes squinted against the gloom. A silhouette appeared in the distance. One moment it was at the edge of his vision and the next the wraith was right before him. He recoiled at the sight of the creature. A skull with thin tattered skin and one blood-red eye glowered at him. The figure loomed over him, near seven feet tall and clad in wisps of black cloth as tattered as its flesh. “You’ve made a mistake coming here, boy.”

The figure was not alone. Other wraiths lingered at the junctions of the trunks and branches overhead. Some were near the shape of men and others were beast-like. He was at the center of the court of the Greenseers.

Daemon clenched his fists. “You will not intimidate me.” He straightened his spine and stared unflinchingly at the wraith and then those beyond. “I didn’t come here to rub salt in the wound. Dalla’s death was regrettable, and I wish it could have been avoided but she chose her fate.”

The wraith flashed a row of sharpened teeth. “You are in my realm, boy. Choose your words wisely.”

“The fate of your last granddaughter lies with me. As does the rest of this godforsaken island. I will speak whatever words I choose.”

“You have already doomed her along with the rest of Skagos. The North is next boy.”

“You underestimate me,” Daemon promised. He leaned in close.  “History made me expect that Bloodraven would be more than a bitter old man, thus far you disappoint.”

“I see Shiera ensured her sass endured through the generations.” The wraith noticed Daemon stiffen. “Yes, the Seeresses spoke truthfully. Shiera is your progenitor. For better or worse you are the result of a century of manipulation of the Targaryen bloodline.” The creature cocked its head. It moved closer to Daemon, gliding in a circle around the Targaryen. “This is why you’re here? Did their words strike your insecurities?”

There wasn’t enough skin on the wraith’s face to form a full smile. Still, Daemon did not like the way its face twisted. “The Seeresses spoke truthfully. Shiera engineered the circumstances of your birth. She ensured the bloodline she deemed proper would propagate through the ages. You are a product of all the tragedy her manipulations have caused.”

His fist clenched. “Shiera has been out of Westeros for the gods know how long. How am I supposed to believe she’s capable of this?”

“Are you daft boy? Shiera’s obsession with blood magic has been allowed to fester for a century. I saw the start of it, aided her even. That was before I understood how much she is willing to sacrifice to achieve her desires. I thought time would be her deterrent, but she has defeated that. What is left to stop her?”

“You are a kinslayer and an oathbreaker. What right do you have to pass judgment?”

The wraith was suddenly before him. Too late, Daemon realized it wore no cloak. Great black wings unfurled from around the wraith. Its wingspan was more than thirty feet wide. Tatters in the flesh of wings allowed red to pour through the blackness.

Skeletal hands wrapped around his shoulders. A sudden cold seized his muscles, holding him in place. Daemon struggled but the cold penetrated his bones. Even breathing felt difficult.

“You are nothing more than a tool for her will.” The glow of the blood-red eye intensified, growing until it dominated the entirety of his vision. “A century in the forge. How useful will she find an empty husk? Do you even know why she spilled so much blood to ensure your creation?” Daemon’s heart hammered in his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was almost deafening. Bloodraven’s bitter laugh rattled his bones.  “She keeps you ignorant. Binds you to her will with empty promises. You are blind, Jon Snow!”

Stop it! He tried to gasp but his lungs would not comply. The cold felt absolute. He is trying to kill me.

“I cannot kill you, but I can doom you to a fate worse than death.” Laughter from the other wraiths penetrated his ears. “Shiera must be humbled.”

Daemon raged but even the heat of his anger could not thaw the cold that seized him. A Wolf howled. And then as suddenly as the cold appeared, it began to dissipate. The wraith’s great wings launched into the sky. A great white beast snarled above him. Heat returned to his body. Ghost! He realized.

Daemon ran his fingers through the fur of his direwolf. He found his footing. Man and wolf glared at the winged wraith above them. The direwolf had grown considerably. He was as tall as a war horse. Muscles bulged in his powerful lean legs.

“I could trap you here with ease. Lock your mind here and throw away the key. Even Shiera could not save you from this place.” The wraith shouted. He was not alone now. A half dozen others stood amongst the branches, close enough that Daemon could discern their tattered forms against the gloom.

Ghost bared his teeth. Daemon grinned. He was emboldened by his direwolf’s presence. “Go on then!” Every moment he stood by his direwolf empowered his spirit even further. Now he saw the wraiths for what they were. Naught more than shadows. All fear left him. His spine straightened and his shoulder’s squared. “I have defeated all who have challenged me. I will do so again,” his words were a promise.

Bloodraven swooped from branch to ground. He approached the pair much slower this time. Ghost lowered its head, ready to intercept the wraith at any moment.

“You should have never abandoned your wolf.”

“Ghost is with me. No matter the distance.” Daemon answered. He spied a semblance of envy on Bloodraven’s tattered face.

“If any harms befall Valerie, know that I will do everything in my power to haunt you and your progeny until your bloodline is forgotten.”

Daemon watched the wraith carefully and scanned the branches. There the other greenseers lingered. Ghost’s pale fur was almost blinding in this world of shadow.

“Is that it? Val is my ally. My friend. I wish her no harm.”

“Valerie is more than an ally and your wish is no consequence. I want a guarantee. She is the last of my legacy. You will protect her from any harm including the machinations of your vampires. Shiera has already begun to weigh the value of my granddaughter’s bloodline. It won’t be long until she decides which spell of hers will need such a potent fuel source. You will prevent this from happening.”

Shiera’s hostility towards Val was plain and the feeling was clearly mutual between the two women. Val was unlike the peasant women the vampires had used to fuel their spells. Guilt grew in his heart at the memory of the souls sacrificed for his goals. He would not condemn Val to such a fate. “You and Shiera were lovers, but I only hear coldness in your tone. What happened between you two?”

The wraith was silent for a moment. “I was once a man blinded by love. Once my eyes were open it was impossible not to see the truth. Shiera is relentless in her pursuit of knowledge and power. There is no sacrifice too great. No act is too heinous. This was before she abandoned her humanity. I can only imagine her thirst has grown. As has her apathy for the lives that she destroys.”

Daemon scratched the skin behind Ghost’s ears. He longed to see the direwolf in the flesh. “I came here for knowledge, not for a condemning of Shiera. I need to know the nature of these Stoneborn if I am to save your people.”

“Does your ego know no limit? The Seeresses were the last defense against the growing dark. You have undone a generation of effort!”

“They left me no choice,” He snarled at the wraith. The others hissed in anger. “If they were so wise, they would have not made me their enemy.” He pointed at several of the wraiths overhead. “They sought your wisdom, and they were left wanting.”

Before his eyes, the wraith shifted. Skin patched over the bones and in seconds he was staring at a young man. Brynden’s face was thin to the point of gaunt, and his nose and chin were sharp. He was garbed in dark mail and a white dragon breathed red flames across his chest. “I trained the Seeresses myself. Three greenseers. They were the bastion against this nightmare. Protectors against the invaders of the dreams of men and beasts. The cultivators of the special bloodlines. An army of skinchangers. A society imbued with the gift. The very land prospered under their guidance. The corruption was pushed back, healed even. Every sacrifice, every offering, was for the future of our people. That is what it means to be a Greenseer. You are a king with no kingdom. A warrior without significant skill. A commander without an army. A pretender. There is no equivalence. You lack in every way that matters.”

 “I am what you have left.” He spun to glare at the wraiths above him. “The Starks of Winterfell have always held the Old Gods favor. Does my mother’s blood make no difference?”

“You have never been a Stark of Winterfell. No matter how much you have always wanted to be.” Brynden replied. “And you are mistaken. We are not the Old Gods. That is a lie we allow to persist. The truth is far more sinister.”

Daemon took measure of the one-eyed man. “We don’t have to like each other but if Skagos is to have a future then you and I must be allies. I need to know the enemy I face.”

The dead greenseer studied him. “The Seeresses were justly opposed to Shiera. Her kin were eradicated not without reason. They are a species without empathy. Morality is stripped from those who survive the change. Bloodlust governs their every action. Whether they realize this or not. Their bodies are immune to the ravages of time. As is their ambition. Their only limit is their ever-increasing hunger. Shiera’s mastery of sorcery makes her even more of a danger. You should have denounced her.” His grim face held a conviction that was unnerving.

Daemon’s mind sparked with curiosity, but he suppressed his urge to inquire deeper. “I made my choice. Now I am asking you to help me.” He swallowed his pride and clasped his hands together. “Must I beg?”

Bloodraven communicated wordlessly with several wraiths. Others drew closer. A court of a dozen stood behind Bloodraven. “No. We must make do with you and pray it is enough.”

“The Stoneborn emerged from Skane. Sudden as a plague. They spread across Skagos. Assimilating those they defeated and massacring those they could not. They were unstoppable until the Seeresses came of age. Three young girls took upon the burden of holding the hope of their people. Given time they would have been victorious.” His tone was bitter.

Bloodraven paused. “You seek the dragon just as I did. When my legs were still strong enough to scale mountains. I heard the rumors. Too outlandish to attract even a scout from the Iron Throne. Even with a thousand eyes, I saw nothing. But I could feel it. I could taste the sulfur on my tongue. I see its monstrous shadow in the brief memories of its victims. The beast is a great old one that slumbers in the fires beneath the earth. However, there is no reason to believe it is immune from what infects this island. More likely is that the cruel force behind the Stoneborn have had decades to corrupt it. The old one could arise more terrible than any of Valyria’s dragons.” 

“The dragon is worth the risk,” Daemon insisted. “Dragonbinder is bound to me. I will bind the dragon to my will.”

“Do not discount the possibility of a trap. You are not the only man who calls himself a king on this island. This dragon has been here for most of this century, if not longer. Now there are two kings on this remote island in the span of weeks. He, like you, is here because of the vision of a sorceress. What are the odds that two sorceresses have the same vision? What if this vision was sent to them both? Magic is as trustworthy as a wild flame. Control is oft an illusion.”

Daemon swallowed. He did not like this line of thinking.

Bloodraven’s gaze was piercing. You have felt its touch?” Daemon nodded. The memory of his mind being violated was still fresh. Worse than any of the torture inflicted by the Seeresses. “Then you are aware of the true nature of the Old Gods. Their motives are beyond the understanding of mortals. Their intelligence is orders of magnitude greater than any human mind. This one is especially cruel. It altered the Skanen. Pollutes the very land and converts it to its vision. We harness the power of the weirwoods to slow the corruption, but it is relentless. Without flesh, our influence over the material world is limited at best. Decades of effort were undone when the Seeresses were killed.”

“How do I kill it?” His mind ignited with a vision of Skagos ablaze, the woods of the valley sanctuary untouched by the flames.

“The Old Gods are eternal and beyond any mortal weapon. Their followers no matter how grotesque are not. Burn and burn until the corrupted lands are reduced to ash and destroy what first came to Skane.”

 “Simple.”

“Yes, but now they know of the horn and you.  You are a target,” Bloodraven’s laugh was grim. “Do not grow overconfident. You are less a hunter and more the prized morsel of a feast.”

Daemon scowled at the wraith. The completeness of Bloodraven’s form began to dissolve. His cheeks became thin and dropped away from eye sockets. Rust spontaneously grew across his armor and patches formed in his cloak. He had so many questions, but he could sense his time here was coming to an end.

His world rippled. Color left his vision. His eyes rolled back into his head. There was a foul taste in his mouth. The bile was expelled from his throat onto the stone floor. He coughed over and over until his throat was finally clear. His torso was soaked with cold water. A towel hit his face.

“Get yourself cleaned up. You’ve been dreaming for too long.” Val was dressed for war. She wore a shirt of studded steel, iron gauntlets, and greaves. A beautiful bear fur cloak flowed from her shoulders and her hair was braided and bound. Dark Sister was at her waist alongside a blue-stained bone knife. Her cheeks were striped with war paint. The stripes sharpened her features into a focused scowl. She tossed away the empty bucket. Daemon took a moment to admire the woman. She was as beautiful as she was formidable.

“Bjorn?” He asked as he took to his feet.

“Bjorn is at the gates, but he is without his berserkers.”

Daemon understood. “Are my men in position?”

Val shrugged. “The berserkers will push hard. Only the old gods know if your sellswords will break.”

He stumbled to his feet.  His vision blurred for a moment and Val steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Her blue eyes were fierce. “Now is not the time for weakness, steel your spine, or Bjorn will break it.”

“Where are the Seeresses’ acolytes?”

The sky was blindingly bright when he emerged from the mountain. Shiera and Ashara stood at the edge of the overhang. Hooded and masked. Each wore black lamellar armor adorned with gold over their robes. The darkened steel plates seemed to drink in the light of the sun rather than reflect it.

“Where is your armor?” Shiera snarled through her mask when he drew beside her. Daemon stared across the gap. The Skagossi war band had taken the village. They had already reinforced the side of the village nearest the fortress. Thick logs and overturned trees formed barricades, and several were lined with sharpened branches. The sounds of the warriors carried up to the fortress. The voices of hundreds of warriors and the barks of their warhounds were a sobering reminder of how severely there were outnumbered.

“I won’t need it,” Daemon replied, with eyes locked on the men below. In a softer voice, he added, “You and I have much to discuss later. And I will have answers.” He spotted Bjorn. The seven-foot-tall Skagossi warrior pointed an axe at Daemon. He was fully armored, face concealed by a horned bone helm. The great Cave Bear he rode made his identity unmistakable. Even on four limbs, his mount was taller than most men and the armored plates only added to the bear’s stature. Man and beast appeared like one entity; a great war machine waiting to be unleashed.

“Bjorn!” Daemon shouted in the Old Tongue. “I am certain you have heard the news. The Seeresses are dead. They forced our conflict to a bloody resolution, but you and I do not have to continue this. Help me help your people. Together we can end this nightmare.”

Bjorn shook his axe. “You walk and lay with demons. You killed our elders. You murdered my wife and unborn child. There are no words that will save you. You should have run wolf when you had the chance. I am the Old God’s punishment. I will make you suffer for this.”

“You know nothing of the Old Gods. I have walked the living memory twice now. I have broken the seers that sided with the Seeresses. Those that remain have bestowed me their wisdom. Ask Damer Valerie if my words are true.”

Bjorn roared in frustration. “The words of a traitor hold no meaning to loyal ears. Valerie, was the taste of his cock enough to betray your sister? I’ll have every man in the village fuck you until you are loyal!” The warlord beat his chest and his men responded with a deafening banging of iron, and stone on their shields.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “I know your berserkers are scaling the cliffs. They will attack from above while you attack from below. An impressive strategy.”

“You do not have the men to hold this fortress from me.”

He shook his head. “No, I do not. I have enough men to make every step in this fortress a payment with blood. I have enough men to kill or maim at least a hundred of your men.” Daemon made a gesture and his men scurried to follow the silent order. Soon the acolytes were forced to the edge of the overhang. Many trembled with fear, while others prayed to the Old Gods. “I have enough men to ensure that your wives will be dead long before you set foot behind these walls and then I will start with your daughters and finally your sons. By now you have checked the village and know that I have hostages. I will not hesitate to end your bloodlines.”

Bjorn raged. “You bastard! If you have any honor, then we will settle this the old way. Single combat before the heart tree. Let the gods and skill decide our fate! What say you, Stark? Or did your mother give birth to a craven welp?”

Daemon moved behind an acolyte. She trembled when he gripped the length of rope just behind the noose around her neck. “What is your name?” He had picked this acolyte purposefully. She was Bjorn’s half-sister.

“Freya,” she whispered. And he shouted her name to the men below before shoving her over the edge.

Daemon caught the rope before its halfway point, arresting Freya’s fall prematurely. Her scream clogged in her throat, and she flailed like a fish out of water. Her hands grabbed futilely at the noose and her face quickly turned red as a tomato.  “Understand, Bjorn and all who listen. The blood of the Kings of Winter runs true in my veins. I am not craven nor am I fool and woe to the man who mistakes me for either. I am prepared to execute your families myself. Now decide which is more important your future or your pride!” He glared at Bjorn while the sounds of Freya’s struggle to breathe filled the clearing. Bjorn stood frozen. Freya clawed at the rope around her neck. Finally, Bjorn shouted. “Damn you! Let her live!”

With a heave of the rope, he pulled Freya up and back to solid ground. She flopped onto her belly, gasping for air. A dark bruise formed the ring of chaffing skin on her neck. Freya coughed violently as his men pulled her away from the ledge.  

Daemon looked down upon Freya and then the Skags below, his face a mask of indifference. See the cruel master I must become. Never again will I be caged. Never again will I be at anyone’s mercy. “Call off your berserkers, Bjorn. I expect you and your best warriors unarmed and within these walls before the sun is at its apex. We have much to discuss.”   

Ashara was the first to find him. He explored a dark, cramped corridor of the fortress where the only light came from the small radius cast by the rushlight lantern he held. Even with his heightened senses, he did not detect the vampire’s presence until the cool of her breath was on his neck. “You shouldn’t be alone. Not at a time like this.”

“The men are needed elsewhere,” He turned to face the vampire. Her blood-red eyes glowed in the gloom. She had been an inch or two taller than him when she and Shiera had collected him from Greywater. Now he could clearlylear over the top of her head. “I need to know if there are any alternate entrances we are not aware of. For the next stage of this plan to be successful, this fortress must be impenetrable.”

Ashara pressed him against the wall of the tunnel. “You are under a tremendous amount of stress yet conducted yourself better than could ever be expected. Shiera and I are proud of you.”

He couldn’t stop the smile spread across his face. “You both expected me to accept his offer for single combat.”

Ashara nodded. “It would have been the honorable way.”

“It would have been the way of an honorable fool. Val told me Bjorn is the greatest of the Skag warriors and he has more than a drop of giant’s blood. Even with the gifts of your blood, I might very well be outmatched.”

She smiled, even in the dim light her pride in his rationality was evident. She stroked his face, and he couldn’t resist kissing her long, elegant fingers when they came to his lips. “I don’t know if the boy we took from Greywater would have been so wise.”

“You made that boy a man.”

“More than a man,” Ashara knelt before him. Her fingers deftly unlaced his breeches. His hard cock sprang forward, slapping against the underside of the vampire’s chin. “A king with a kingly cock,” Ashara took half of him in her mouth with a single bob of her head. His hips jerked and his cock head brushed the entrance of her throat. A moment later, she swallowed him into her gullet. Her throat tightened around his cock head and the length of the shaft that followed, drawing a gasp from his lips.

Ashara did not need to breathe as often as a normal woman. Each bob of her head was a piece of the relentless onslaught of pleasure that she inflicted on him. She buried his cock into her throat over and over again until he was so hard that he thought he might snap.

Her lips released his cock with an audible pop. Her tongue traced the veins on the underside of his cock. Following the path to his heavy sack. She tongued his balls, bathing them in her cool spit while she stroked his cock in a corkscrew motion. His breath hitched when her tongue went further south. She teased the space between his balls and his bottom.

He wasn’t expecting the area to be so sensitive. A heavy groan left his lips. Ashara yanked his pants the rest of the way down his thighs and threw them to the side. Her mouth returned to that sensitive space, and she forced his legs to spread wider.

“Fuck,” Daemon grunted when her tongue went further south. She tongued his ass without reservation. She teased the puckered flesh. Craning her neck for a better angle, Ashara draped his left leg over his shoulder. Her tongue penetrated his ass while her hand milked his cock.

Shame and pleasure mixed. I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. He gripped Ashara’s hair and pulled her from his bottom. In the gloom, he couldn’t see her very well, but the sound of his cock slapping Ashara’s cheek pierced the silent hallway. His wet cock slid against her face, leaving behind a trail of spit. He adjusted his aim. His cockhead bumped against her chin. Daemon tightened his grip on Ashara’s skull and aimed a few inches higher. This time his aim was true. Ashara’s wide-open mouth engulfed him. His cock felt aflame in the coolness of her gullet.

He slid deep. Her throat eased open around his shaft. Ashara’s claws bit into his ass cheeks, and with every stroke of his hips, his cock disappeared. The wet gurgling noises of the satisfied vampire and his moans filled the hallway. He fucked her throat roughly.

“Cum down mama’s throat,” Ashara gasped before swallowing his turgid length once again. Her finger wormed its way between his cheeks and circled his butthole. He cried out and his cock grew painfully thick. The force of his first shot of cum made his knees buckle. Ashara moaned in delight, catching his seed on her tongue. She swiped at his sensitive cockhead with her tongue, encouraging more of his seed to follow.

He jerked in her grasp, but Ashara did not release him. She suckled his cock, swallowing until all his seed sat warm in her belly. Still, she did not release him. Her mouth grew gentle. She took no more than half of him in her mouth while her tongue teased and traced every vein. Her finger stayed at his bottom, sometimes penetrating but no more than the tip.

“How do you feel?” Her hands lazily stroked his still hard cock. It was impossible to grow soft with such a dedicated lover.

“Much better,” he said honestly. Her laughter was lovely.

The raven-haired vampire stood. Her hand was still wrapped around his cock. Daemon reached for her, but she wriggled away. Ashara smiled at him playfully. “I promised Shiera, I wouldn’t exhaust you.” Her hand squeezed his cock. “She’s a needy bitch today. More so than usual.”

“I have more than enough energy for the both of you,” he said confidently.

Ashara’s smile grew wider. The flash of her fangs excited him more than it should have. “I was hoping you would say that.” The vampire braced herself against the wall with one hand while the other lifted her robes. Daemon stepped forward; his cock pressed into the crevasse formed by her luscious cheeks. He rocked his hips; his cockhead prodded her cleft.

Ashara reached behind to grip his cock. The vampire spread her legs wider, adjusting the angle of their hips so that his next thrust was true. They shared a delighted sigh as his cock sank halfway into her needy cunt.

“Quick, we do not have much time.” He pressed forward burying himself to the root in the beautiful vampire. He gripped her wrist before she could brace herself against the wall. His hips smacked into her full bottom.

“Harder,” Ashara demanded. Daemon smacked her bottom but acquiesced to her request. Her cunt wrapped tight around him. “Fuck,” Ashara breathed. He held her arm behind her back and gripped her ass roughly. The Dornish woman fucked him back. They met with a fleshly crash.

Daemon bit his lip. His thumb swiped against Ashara’s rosebud. Her hole fluttered beneath his touch.  He added more pressure and her asshole sucked in his thumb.

“Fuck me like a whore. Your Dornish whore,” Ashara growled harshly. She arched her back and flicked her long ebony hair behind her shoulders. Haughty red eyes stared at him. “Make me yours. Own this cunt.” He released her wrist in favor of a firm grip on her hips. Her wet fingers teased his balls before returning to strum her clit.

It wasn’t long before Ashara came undone around his cock. Daemon followed her shortly after. His heart thundered in his chest as his seed splattered inside the beautiful vampire.

-

-

-

Daemon watched silently as Bjorn and five of his men were admitted into the inner courtyard of the fortress. They had been stripped of their weapons and left their armor at camp as he instructed. Bjorn glared at Daemon as Shiera and Ashara inspected him for the third time since passing beneath the fortress walls. They found three knives between the six men, including one Bjorn hid in his boot.

Bjorn scowled at him and jerked away from Shiera’s grasp. His expression turned even darker when he noticed Val at his side. “Did he promise to make you his kneeler queen? Is that why you betrayed your sister and your people? Is that why my unborn son and wife are dead?!”

As fierce as the bear he commanded his words boomed across the courtyard. Val flinched at the accusations but didn’t turn away from his fierce glare. “I tried to save my sister and her child. The Seeresses poisoned her mind against me.”

She stepped past Daemon. Bjorn’s dark gaze didn’t abate when Val drew closer. “You know how close Dalla, and I were. I would never do anything to harm my sister!”

Bjorn lunged. He was faster than any man his size ought to be. A vicious backhand brought Val to her knees. Daemon snarled in anger, but Ashara tackled him in midair before he could reach Bjorn. He stumbled and the vampire’s strength prevented him from advancing any further.

Val rolled to her knees. She rubbed her jaw and glared at Bjorn. The big warrior grunted dismissively. “Consider your luck that was just a slap. I could have snapped your pretty neck before your southern men knew what to do.”

A deep snarl alerted everyone to the presence of Val’s shadow cat. The feline was sleek and muscular, not as tall as Ghost but with a much more muscular build that spoke of the beast’s lightning speed and power. The shadow cat was larger than the swamp cats that lived in the Neck. Even their smaller cousins were known to hunt men if hungry enough. It jumped from atop the battlement it perched and strode forward at a swift pace.  

The shadow cat paused to check on Val. The feline nuzzled its face against Val’s body. She climbed to her feet and rested her hands in its stripped fur. “Consider your luck I don’t have your throat ripped out.”

“Enough,” Daemon stepped between the combatants. Ashara shadowed him, ready to shield him from danger. “Bjorn, the next time you lay a hand on Val or any of my allies that hand will belong to me. You are my guests, and I will forgive this transgression as the law of hospitality has not yet been offered.”

Daemon tore away a chunk of bread from the loaf and sprinkled it with salt. He chewed it slowly while the Skag warriors watched. Shiera offered the bread and salt to each of the warriors, and one by one each man partook in the tradition. Val eat her offering without taking her eyes off Bjorn. Her shadow cat’s amber eyes promised an efficient death at a moment’s notice.  

Every man was now bound by the sacred law of hospitality. No harm could befall guests or hosts and with that reassurance, the tensions eased slightly.  

“Val speaks truthfully. Ask the villagers if she took arms against the Seeresses or her sister. All stood witness.” Bjorn grunted. Daemon did not know what to make of that. “I ordered the death of the Seeresses but only after they ordered my execution. Would you have done differently?”

Bjorn shared a look with his men. They huddled quietly. Daemon exchanged a look with his vampires. He knew their enhanced hearing could hear what he could not.

“I will send a man to confirm your telling,” Bjorn’s gravel voice carried the weight of command.

Daemon nodded. “Very well. If there are any other grievances, we must address them and voice them now. We have much more important matters to discuss and if this helps with mutual trust then so be it.”

Bjorn spit on the ground. “Trust is earned, outsider.”

“Then you will allow me the opportunity to earn it. Thus far I have been denied that dignity.” Daemon held the gaze of the giant man. Bjron stepped closer. Shiera and Ashara took a step forward, but the Targaryen held them at bay with a hand.

The big Skagossi stared down at him. “You’re nothing more than a boy. Why should I believe you are anything but a mouthpiece for these demons.” He shoved a finger in the vampires’ direction.

“This very morning, I held court with the Greenseers. Your witches made the mistake of underestimating me. I advise you not to repeat their mistake.”

-

-

-

Daemon sat at the head of a large wood table. Val sat to his right, Negan to his left and Bjorn sat opposite of him. His warriors filled the other seats. Shiera stood just behind Daemon with a hand resting on his shoulder. The removal of her mask had caused quite a stir amongst the Skagossi. The vampire’s unnatural features and supernatural beauty drew a slew of curses from the men all save for Bjorn. The leader stared at Shiera unflinchingly.

“The Seeresses warned us of your trick’s demon. None of my warchiefs are easy prey. This fortress will be stormed before your magic comes to fruition. Be warned.”

Daemon translated Bjorn’s warning. Shiera shrugged completely unthreatened. Unveiled by the Seeresses’ curse Shiera’s aura was unnerving. Her crimson eyes and grey skin marked her as other. It was her horns that were the most unsettling. A visual reminder of predatory nature. It was akin to being in the presence of an uncaged lioness. A supremely intelligent lioness.

They were deep in the bowels of the fortress. Candles arranged along the walls and on the table chased away the shadows. On the table was the largest map Daemon had ever seen. It covered almost the entirety of the table. He was unsure of how old the map was or how accurate, but the level of detail would earn even a maester’s respect. The topography of Skagos was drawn to exquisite detail. Mountains, lakes, and streams were all present along with indications of where the tree line of the forests ended. More importantly, they were an abundance of marked trails and mountain passes. Daemon had spent time with Val studying the map, but Val was the mastermind behind their planned path.

Daemon stared at Val as she detailed each decision behind the planned march. Val’s blonde locks were held away from her face in a long simple braid. The bruise on her cheek was beginning to form, marring otherwise perfect flesh but she displayed no discomfort. Bjorn and his men listened silently as Val spoke and their eyes followed along as she traced the way North.

Val stood and approached Bjorn’s side of the table. She tapped the marker that indicated the end of the planned march. The area was a hotbed of volcanic activity. Poison fields in the Old Tongue labeled the area. A desert pockmarked by volcanic vents and geysers that spewed boiling hot water. It was surrounded on three sides by towering canyon walls. The Skags once mined the canyon walls and built tunnels into the deep earth. A barren land, inhospitable to most life. The most likely place for a hibernating dragon.

“What is here?” The man to Bjorn’s right asked. Kormak, Daemon remembered.

“Your salvation,” Daemon answered.

The Skagossi warriors turned as the door behind them opened. Ashara glided into the room. In her hands was the great dragon horn. She had polished it to perfection. Every band of gold gleamed, and the hundreds of intricate glyphs along its length were illuminated by a pulsating glow. The black horn seemed to drink in the light so that the rest of the room was cloaked in shadow while it grew in prominence.

Ashara set the horn before Daemon. When his hand touched it, every candle flared brightly before burning out suddenly. He listened to the men curse in the darkness and waited patiently for his vampires to light the candles.

Bjorn glared darkly at Daemon. His warriors all stood, anxious and alert for a coming threat. The Targaryen gripped Negan’s shoulder and forced his friend back in his seat.

“I thought you wished to earn my trust outsider. These tricks bring will you no favor of mine!” Bjorn’s anger boomed across the stone walls.

Daemon held up his hand in apology. “The horn has a mind of its own sometimes.” Bjorn’s glare did not soften. “Sit. I insist. Guest right is still in effect. No harm will come to any of you.” The Skags were hesitant to pick up their overturned chairs but Daemon’s silent insistent forced them to do something. He smiled slightly when they returned to their seats.

“Some of you have seen this horn but none of you know the true extent of its power. This is a spell-forged horn crafted by ancient Valyrian sorcerers with methods that were lost when the Doom came to Valyria. It is the only one of its kind left in the world and I am its master.”

Bjalfi scoffed. Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me?”

Bjalfi was heavyset made of seemingly equal parts muscle and fat. His bushy beard hung midway to his chest and his green eyes were sharp as swords. “Sounds like bullshit.”

“Come try to take the horn,” Daemon said evenly. Bjalfi looked to his companions. “Go on,” the Targaryen goaded. A look of determination sprouted on the Skagossi’s face. He stood suddenly and grabbed the six-foot-long horn by its mouthpiece. There was a flare of light and heat. Bjalfi yanked his hand back with a cry of pain.

To Daemon and his companions’ surprise, the other Skagossi men erupted in laughter. Even Bjalfi grinned good-naturedly and punched Thorgrim in the shoulder.

“This is Dragonbinder,” Daemon traced the glyphs engraved on one of the horn’s golden bands. “It will only respond to the blood of the forty. My father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the son of King Aerys. The blood of Old Valyria flows through my veins.”

Shiera interrupted. “King’s blood.” Her words were in common, but every man knew the word king. Her lips touched his ear. “Refined. Purified. Exquisite.” Her husky whisper stiffened his cock.  

He cleared his throat. “From the moment they saw the horn, the Seeresses coveted it. They conspired to steal it from me. First, they tried to break my spirit and then my mind. They tortured my companions for weeks on end. We were never given the option to become your allies.” His fists clenched as the memories of the dark hole they threw him in were brought to the surface.

Daemon locked eyes with Bjorn. “The Seeresses for all their wisdom fell victim to their own greed. They used your wife against me. Set her against her own sister and led her to her death.”

“My wife? What use would she be? She was carrying my son. My son, the boy who would end this nightmare.  The Seeresses foresaw this themselves. They were to train him not damn him before his first breath.”

“Val and Dalla’s grandfather was the baseborn son of a Targaryen king who sat on the Iron Throne more than a hundred years ago. The Seeresses exploited Dalla’s trust and used her bloodline for a ritual to bind the horn. They sacrificed their own people for a selfish desire. Even if they had been successful, Dalla and your son would not have been safe. For all their power they could not ignore their mortality. Younger bodies with dragon blood would extend their life and grow their power. Bloodraven warned me of this. I told Val and she warned her sister, but Dalla had too much trust for the Seeresses.” The lie left his lips without a hitch.

Bjorn’s fist slammed into the table. “Damn them!” There were tears in the big man’s eyes. “Damn you! Tell me why I shouldn’t destroy the horn and your demons and be done with this devilry once and for all?!”

“Don’t be a fool Bjorn. Daemon should have been our ally from the beginning. This horn is our only chance for survival,” Val’s words were harsh.

“Quiet bitch! It should have been you. First Jarl and now Dalla and my son. You are a curse. The Others take you!”

Val’s snarl was as fierce as her shadowcat’s and in the distance, the beast’s roar could be heard. Ashara restrained the woman from leaping across the table.

“Enough,” Daemon stood. It was uncomfortably warm in the room now. A bead of sweat ran down his brow. “The Seeresses are responsible for Dalla and her child’s fate. They alone. There is a saying we have in the south, what is in the past has passed. The future is the only forward and the future of every Skag will be decided in this room.”

Thorgrim cleared his throat. “Why here? This is a barren land, devoid of life.”

“It is a land of heat and fire. Perfect conditions for a dragon to hibernate. They can sustain themselves from the heat of the earth for decades.” He rested his knuckles on the table and leaned forward. “Aegon the Conqueror destroyed armies larger than any Skagos has ever seen. I will cleanse this island of the Stoneborn and their corruption with dragon fire.”

“Dragon fire?” Thorgrim questioned. “The Stoneborn hold these mines. If your dragon is there, I fear its slumber is eternal.”

Kormak nodded his head. “The north of the island is the Stoneborn’s stronghold. The further North you go and the firmer their grip on the land becomes. They hold a dozen mountain holdfasts and try our borders that we fight tooth and claw to defend. You are asking us to devote most of our strength to this quest. Our people would be undefended.”

“We must move in numbers. Make no mistake, this is not a scouting mission. This is an invasion. The Targaryen is our best chance to cleanse this land in generations. We cannot squander this opportunity,” Val’s eyes were fierce.

Bjalfi pointed at the route through the mountain passes. “If the weather changes here we will be at the mercy of the winds and snow. That could stop us entirely. I do not want to freeze to death on a cliff or worse fight the Stalkers in a blizzard.”

Val interjected. She touched the map. “Better to brave the elements than march through this forest. We will have visibility for miles in every direction. A march through the forest, where the corruption is the greatest is certain suicide.” The men grumbled in agreement at her logic.

Thorgrim combed his fingers through his bushy beard. “The pass must be held regardless. Otherwise the forces in the south can travel forth uncontested.” He dragged a finger across the map. “We place men here and we will deny nearly a third of the Stoneborn’s forces.”

“You forget the southern king. His knights have already killed forty wargs. If we march this far north our path is likely to encounter the main strength of his army,” Olf voiced. He was the smallest of the Skaggs, more than half a foot shy of six feet with a pointed black beard. A necklace of bone and shells hung around his neck and his fingernails were caked with dirt. His logic was sound. Skagos narrowed and grew steeper the further North you journeyed. This close to winter and the highlands of the north part of the Island were dominated by glaciers that extended to the sea. Their path would inevitably intersect with Stannis.  

“He has a witch of his own. That woman controls his fires and sacrifices those who refuse to worship her Fire God,” Bjalfi stared hard at Shiera and Ashara.

“You can keep the gods you know. It makes no difference to me.”  Daemon said dryly. “As for his witch. I have two to his one and mine are better. Much better.”  

For several minutes they argued over the best path to take. Every option came with its strength and its dangers. Daemon listened to the heated arguments, but no option presented itself as the best decision. Any path forward would lead to the death of men. What is the price for the power I seek? Now he truly longed for the teachings of his uncle. Eddard Stark had won two wars for his king. In contrast, Daemon felt useless. He didn’t know the terrain or how the Skags organized their men. When Robb looks at a map does he feel the weight of uncertainty of where to move his armies? They named his cousin The Young Wolf. A man did not earn such a moniker frozen with indecision.

On top of the map lay a collection of shells and knuckle-sized chunks of wood carved into a mix of miniature men, dogs, and unicorns. Olf protested loudly at the collection of figures Val positioned at the mountain pass. “That will not work. Breakpeak sits seven miles southeast. The southern king is somewhere within five leagues in any direction.”

Thorgrim interjected. “Assume Stannis is preoccupied countering whatever the Stoneborn conjure. If we send our unicorn riders here.” He took a handful of pieces and moved them west. “One hundred men hack and burn whatever they find. A hundred riders will not be ignored. We split their response long enough for our men to garrison the mountain pass.”  

A thought stirred in his mind. “What if we go by sea instead of land?”

“With how many men?” Bjalfi questioned. “We do not have nearly enough ships to take everyone.” His tone was interested rather than dismissive.

“Not everyone. This land assault is necessary to draw attention away from the North. The berserkers, your finest warriors, no more than five scores and ten. Whomever the fishing ships can hold. They can be repurposed. And we came here with a ship. That will be our flagship.”

“We have half a dozen longships,” Thorgrim added.

Kormak frowned. He worked his fingers through his bushy beard. “This puts our people at great risk. The sea is our only reliable food source, without a steady supply of fish we are only weeks away from starvation.”

“We will need three days at most if the winds cooperate. The Stoneborn have little strength at sea,” Olf’s enthusiasm was evident. They had bound him to their cause.

“Their thralls might still be seaworthy,” Bjalfi muttered. “It is still better than any land route. Unless the southern king decides to intercept us with his warships.”

“If that happens, we have no defense. His navy will cut through our fishing ships like that sword of yours,” Kormack nodded at Val.

“The southern king’s ships are on the western coast. We will have the island between us for most of the journey. He will never see us,” Val stated. He admired her poise.

“That will put us between Skane,” Kormack looked around the room with a grim expression. “None of you are treating this as seriously as you should. Skane is death.”

“Nothing is without risk,” Olf responded. “Waiting is death. Either we fight and die or wait and die. I’d rather die a warrior’s death.”

“What of the hostages you have?” Bjalfi stared pointedly at Daemon. He had the face of a man who lived a hard life. His skin was weathered and there was each line around his eyes spoke of the stresses he endured.  “There is no agreement without the safety of our families.”

“I will release five hostages as a gesture of good faith. I will let you all decide who is set free first.”

“Ten,” Kormak demanded. “If I die, I want my granddaughter safe. Not at the mercy of southerner’s noose.”

Daemon shook his head. “Five. I do not doubt the honor of any man in this room but any more and your subordinates may be tempted to bury an ax in my back. I will be fighting side by side with you. I need assurance that my allies are not enemies of a different name. I give my word that no harm will come to them.”

“No harm will come to them should you return alive,” Bjorn corrected. Daemon nodded. “Smart,” the big man said. He looked to his men. One by one they nodded. “The time for talking has ended. There is work to be done.” He spat in his hand and stretched his arm across the table. Daemon mirrored the action and Bjorn nearly shook his arm loose.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity. Despite his hesitance to send Ashara into danger, he knew she was the best option to lead the retrieval of their ship. The vampire departed with fifteen of Bjorn’s men within an hour of their agreement. Shiera had sequestered herself in a room at the top of the fortress. He could hear her clear voice singing in some foreign tongue he could not identify. Daemon knew not what magic she called upon but knew her power would prove useful sooner than later.

Still, he was frustrated with Shiera. There were many things they needed to speak about. Ever since she and Ashara started him on this journey, Shiera had been the one pulling the strings. She was far from forthcoming about crucial details much less her meddling with his bloodline. Why did she go to such lengths to create me? To what ends? Merely restoring the Targaryen regency did not make any sense. Why hadn’t she intervened to help Rhaegar? Why had she sat by for seventeen years while the Baratheon King consolidated his power? As far as he knew Shiera had no hand in Robert’s death or the calamity that followed. He had so many questions without answers.

Ashara was no source of truth. He knew that Shiera had turned her but not much else. The dark-haired vampire cleverly evaded his questions.

Val sat a flagon on the table before him interrupting his runaway thoughts. The blonde sat across the small table and sipped from a flagon of her own. He eyed the milky white contents of the flagon. “What is this?”

She shook her head. “Drink it first,” as if to entice him she took a long draught from her cup and licked away the excess on her top lip. Daemon did the same. He blinked in surprise at the taste. “Unicorn milk. Spiced and sweetened. We will only have one, tomorrow is too important for our morning to begin with a headache.”

Val’s eyes were bright. The spiked drink warmed their chests. A flush added color to her bruised cheek. “You did well today. I’m beginning to think there is something special about you beyond your pretty hair.”

His brow raised. “Oh? You’re just now beginning to notice? What gave it away?”

“Those were the fiercest warriors of Skagos. Each of them is a powerful skinchanger and you did not flinch once in their presence. Not only that but you have convinced them to mobilize.”

“You played a significant role yourself, Val. The credit is shared between us. You and I make great allies.”

Val looked away. “I did what needed to be done.” A pregnant silence grew between them. She seemed to struggle with her emotions. “Jarl was my husband. Bjorn’s cousin and his greatest friend. Jarl saved my life at the cost of his own and Bjorn holds me responsible.”

Daemon laid a hand on her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She shook his hand away. “It was. I was overconfident. Rash. First Jarl and now Dalla.” Val angrily wiped away the tears on her cheeks. “You’re like my Jarl. Fierce and heroic. Your youth makes you even more foolish. If you must choose between my life and success. Between my life and the future of my people then I urge you to make the right choice.” Val gripped his wrist and laid his hand on her chest. Beneath his fingertips, he felt the beat of her heart.

Daemon held Val’s gaze. “Do you wish to become a martyr? Do you think that will make amends for your husband and sister’s deaths? It won’t. Besides, I’ve already sworn to your grandfather that I would keep you safe.”

Val scowled. “Fool.” When his gaze did not falter, she sighed. “No matter. I can see your stubbornness plain.”

“You see my will. There is no certainty in war unless you are certain to die. Fight with me and live to see a better tomorrow.”

Val tilted her chin. The storm of emotion had passed. “You have a direwolf. It is a shame you did not bring him. Even a half-Stark with command of such a beast would have immediately elevated your status. I cannot imagine you parted with the beast of your own free will.”

“Ghost wouldn’t do well on a ship. The seas were rough. We nearly capsized.”

Val’s eyes narrowed. “Do not be a fool. Your wolf would have endured. Our familiars draw from our strengths as we do theirs. Keep him close. He is a part of you. Warg or have you forgotten?”

He liked the challenge in her tone. “I haven’t. I wouldn’t be standing here if I had. My gift is stronger than ever.”

Val stood. “Grab your cloak and follow me. Hide that pretty hair of yours.”

Daemon followed Val through the bowels of the mountain fortress. She moved through the dark passages by touch alone guiding him with the sound of her voice. There was a ruckus at the end of a path as black as pitch. He heard the sound of heavy wood falling and then the dying light of the sun touched his face. His breath was visible in the cold.

Val leaped from the narrow ledge to the remnants of a stone staircase several feet below. She turned back to face him. “Come, close the door behind you.” Daemon did as he was told. As he followed, he admired the swiftness Val carried across the crumbling staircase. She moved with a grace only exceeded by his vampires. They descended a steep cliff face to the beach below.

The sun dipped near the horizon by the time they reached the rocky shore. Clouds dimmed the color of the sunset, casting the world in a pale grey light. The warriors of Skagos already had more than a hundred ships anchored on the shoreline. More bobbed in the shallow waters.

Men scrambled tirelessly along the beach preparing the ships for the sail. The seas around Skagos were notoriously treacherous. Even the fishing vessels were built robustly to withstand the deadly waters. In the times of the Kings of Winter, Skagossi shipwrights were equal to the Bravossi. Not at all of that talent had been lost. At least most of the men will not drown before we do battle.  

He and Val picked their way through the men. They were too busy to take notice. Still, he kept his hood tight around his face. Val led him to the far side of the beach. Looming before them and stretching three hundred feet over into the sky was a salt-battered cliff face.  

A gust of wind ripped their hoods away. Val pointed skywards. “The great sea eagles’ nest at the top of this cliff. Their dominion extends over sky, land, and sea. There exists no challenger other than their own kind and they will carry away our younglings if mothers are not careful. My grandfather commanded one and no other has since. Not even the Seeresses.” There was almost madness in Val’s blue eyes. A madness fueled by glee. He felt the weight of the challenge before him.

“Why?” he asked as craned upward to view the top of the cliff.

“The birds are intelligent. Somehow, they know the source of our power is through the eyes. Those who have tried to claim an eagle have had their eyes gouged out.” Val laughed as the wind howled. She extended her arms and balanced in the wind. “You have asked my people to watch as you claim a dragon. No one has ever seen a dragon, but they know of the eagle. Succeed and they will know you are no ordinary warg. Succeed and you will have won the loyalty of many.”

Val noticed his hesitation. “Do not tell me the prospective dragon rider is afraid of heights.”

No Dragonbinder. No help from the vampires. Just my strength. Just my gift. A crazed smile grew on his lips. “Show me.”

They shed their cloaks on the beach. Val discarded her gloves next, and he did the same. “With me.” She picked a careful path up the vertical cliff face. Daemon studied her handholds and the placement of her feet. He did his best to mirror Val. Their progress was swift but careful. Both paused halfway up the face on a protruding rock just large enough for them to stand shoulder to shoulder. The sound of crashing waves below drew his attention. The sea churned furiously.

The strength of the wind had grown so much that they had to shout to hear each other. “This is the point of no return, Daemon! I will not hold it against you if want to dive into the sea.”

Daemon grinned at her. “Are you doubting me now, my lady?”

Val grinned at him and then to his surprise she kissed him fiercely. The warmth of her tongue was different from the coolness of the vampire’s to which he had grown accustomed. He stared at her in surprise. “For luck! Now prove me right!” She pointed at the route up the rock face. “I will wait for you here. And I rather like your mismatched eyes. Try not to lose them.”

Alone now, he continued his ascent. His grip was strong. Every minute he was a foot higher. Val watched him from below and shouted encouragement. “To the left. There now up, your fingers should dig in the stone.” The shadows grew deeper as the sun dipped below the horizon. He moved laterally and Val lost sight of him. He looked up and the cliff’s edge was only a dozen feet away. It may as well have been a mile. The rock above was smooth. He could detect no handhold.

Daemon hung there contemplating his options. They were limited. He deepened his breath in an attempt to calm his rising nerves. I can do this. His eyes closed. Mind extended, Daemon felt the presence of the eagle above. Its sharp-pitched cry signaled its rage.

His eyes snapped open. The eagle cried out again. I don’t want to be hanging from the cliff’s edge when it challenges me. Daemon jumped laterally and his right hand found purchase in the rock. With one arm, Daemon pulled himself upward until his left found the next handhold. His feet slipped against the rock. With a grunt of exertion, Daemon jumped upwards and snagged the cliff’s edge with the tips of his fingers. He lifted his left leg over the edge of the cliff and rolled onto solid ground.

Before he could revel in his triumph the sound of great wings alerted him to the coming danger. The eagle’s great wings created a canopy of darkness. His wrists struggled against the bird’s strength, and he directed the talons away from his eyes. Daemon shoved the bird away and rolled to his feet.

It came at him again before he could take sight of the animal. Talons tore at his brow and a rush of hot blood covered his right eye. Daemon shoved the great eagle away and followed with a fist to the center of the bird’s chest. Winded, the bird faltered, and the Targaryen struck with his mind. He caught sight of the great predator’s face and stared into its black pupils.

The eagle screamed in outrage and unfurled its great wings. They were longer than he was tall. Wide and powerful as well. The eagle stood as tall as a ten-year-old boy. Its feathers were gold and black. Two bright amber eyes sat above its powerful beak. Rather than fight him, the eagle jumped from the cliff. Daemon jumped after it.

He caught the legs of the raptor. Man, and bird fell to the waves below. The eagle tried to yank its feet from his grasp, but his grip was absolute. It beat its great wings furiously. Their fall was slowed but not stopped. Daemon wrestled against the bird’s defiance. As the dark waves grew closer, he broke down the raptor’s mental defense. Blood covered half his face, and his right eye was sealed shut but his third eye was wide open. “You’re mine now!” Daemon shouted. Finally, the eagle conceded defeat. He released its talons and stiffened his body as the dark waters enveloped him.

The shock of the cold water briefly seized his muscle. Daemon sank like a stone. Icy darkness loomed below him and all around him. With a surge of will, he urged his muscle to contract. His legs shook and then he kicked. Soon his arms responded, and he swam with all his strength. The surface had grown frighteningly far. He emerged from the water with lungs full of fire. The cold water boiled the moment it touched his skin. Steam rose in a column around him.

Daemon gorged himself on the cold fresh air. To his right, the sea crashed against the face of the cliff. To his left, the dark sea stretched to the horizon. The dark sky was alight by ribbons of dark green.

He swam away from the jagged rocks to the shore of the beach. Val met him halfway. She had stripped to her small clothes. Her arms sliced through the waves and her feet kicked strongly, unimpeded by heavy boots. She wrapped her lean body around his and Daemon gratefully accepted her help back to land. Exhausted they collapsed side by side on the rocky shore.

Val’s smile was infectious. “Your laugh makes me certain you were successful.”

He nodded, still out of breath. Val slapped his chest. “The heat, is this some spell?” He shrugged. It was more than likely some consequence of the vampire blood he consumed. A strange energy filled his veins. He no longer felt the cold.

She did not remove her hand. She leaned over him. The wet strands of her hair clung to her neck. He eyed the column of pale flesh that was her neck. Her pink nipples were stiff and visible to the now transparent wrap around her chest.  Bright blonde hair clung to her slim shoulders and lean arms. “It’s certainly useful. A southerner like you isn’t used to the cold of the true north.”  

The eagle landed in the sand. It unfurled its great wings and bowed deeply to Daemon. He stared into its large amber eyes. It was a beautiful creature. The dark feathers of its head spiked to a crown. It had a beautiful blue beak well suited to tearing flesh. Its feather around its chest and belly were as white as freshly fallen snow. Gold lined the dark feathers of its wings. For a moment his consciousness spread across two bodies. Bird then man.

“Rhaegon,” he spoke to the eagle. Rhaegon for his half-sister Rhaenys, slain before her life truly began.

Daemon pulled Val closer. Her leg draped over his hip. She was far from a blushing maiden and did not shy away from his lustful gaze. Her blue eyes were as dark as the ocean behind them. Val touched the cut above his right eye. Most of the blood had been washed away by the sea. “I’m glad you kept both eyes.” Val kissed him deeply and then pushed away.

Daemon followed her and pulled her back to the sand before she could rise to her feet. Val cried out in surprise and anger. Her kick hit him square in the chest. Jon grunted and tightened his grip on her ankle. His arms surged with strength, and he pulled Val to him. Daemon crawled on top of Val even as she squirmed beneath him.

Val’s ice-blue eyes glared at him. “What the fuck are you-” Their clash of lips and teeth interrupted their outburst. Heat poured off his body. His steamy breath washed over her lovely face. Daemon dragged her bottom lip between his teeth. The beast was in him.

Val’s nails dug into his chest, but they felt minuscule compared to his vampires’ claws. She had shed her sword and daggers and her only defense was her strength. Daemon caught her wrist before her fist could hit his cheek.

The wildling princess fought him savagely. Her legs squirmed and he all but threw her into the sand before she could lock her legs around his neck. They wrestled. Val surged against his grip with all her strength. What she lacked in might she compensated with technique. It was not enough to circumvent his considerable weight and strength advantage.

Val snarled as pinned her on her belly. Daemon felt and saw the muscles in her arms and back tense as she fought against his grip. He pinned the wildling to the wet sand with arms crossed behind her. She squirmed on her belly and Jon pressed his hips down onto her. His legs forcibly entwined her own. Finally, an exhausted Val grew still.  

She breathed heavily. A flush colored her lovely pale skin. Wet strands of blonde clung to her neck and cheeks. Daemon exhaled deeply into her ear. He took a deep whiff of her scent. She smelled of the sea. His cock stiffened and he pressed length against Val’s taught arse.

Val shuddered beneath him. Her forced submission stirred a dark desire. The sounds of the ships being prepared at the other end of the beach reached his ears. It was too dim for the men to see them. Not at this distance.

“Did you get a good look at it when I was your prisoner?”

Val’s laugh was dark and haughty. “Is this what this is about? Are you mad I spied your little cock.”

Daemon’s cock throbbed against Val’s bottom. He pressed it between her cheeks, only wet cloth separated their skin. “Small? Either your eyes or memory are at fault.” He rolled her on her back. Her ice-blue eyes glared at him, but she hardly struggled when he pinned her wrists above her hand. With his freehand, he dragged his turgid from his breeches. His thickness landed heavy on Val’s face. Across her nose and her lips.

The sight of his cock that laid across Val’s pretty face made him throb with desire. The blonde woman was silent, even as he rubbed his glands across her chin. A bead of precum pooled at his tip and the Targaryen traced a long sticky line across the wildling woman’s cheek. “Get a good look.”

Val was silent but she did her best not to close her eyes. His cock was longer than her face. He pushed the tip of it against her nose and rubbed it across her lips. They remained pursed and closed.

She rolled away from him the moment he released her. Val crouched several feet away. Her wet small clothes offered the barest amount of protection and non-existent preservation of modesty. The expanse of her lovely body was a beautiful sight to his eyes.

Val was human. Her skin was flush from the cold. Goosebumps raised on her shoulders and upper chest. Lean muscles bulged in her thighs and arms as she crouched. As feline as her shadowcat. There were scars and tatoos covering her flesh. Her blue eyes gleamed. She bared her teeth.

Daemon mirrored her pose. His back was against the sea. He dropped to his hands and feet. His knees scrapped the sand as he stalked her.

Val moved laterally, a picture of flexibility and grace. Her movements were smooth, and fluent through every range of motion.

Rhaegon circled overhead. The eagle gave a cry. He heard the approaching footsteps. Val stood and the spell was broken.

-

-

-

Many of the rushlights in his chambers had burned out. Long shadows covered the walls of his room. Shiera rested atop his mattress. A gown of crimson silk poured across her curves. Her shoulders were bare, and gemstones wrapped in gold hung from her ears. Her neck was adorned with a gold necklace of alternating emeralds and sapphires.

He eyed the beautiful vampire and quietly shut the door behind him. Before Shiera laid a considerable pile of scrolls. It was too dim in the room to be reading but with her enhanced vision, the dim light was no hindrance to the vampire. She paused her reading. “I searched for you. Looked through this entire fortress and I could not find you. It is foolish for you to gallivant without a force of men. A force that does not exists. Or is your pretty wildling enough to keep you safe?”

He ignored her scolding. “What are you reading?”

Annoyance grew on her brow. “Do not change the subject.”

He sighed. “I do not gallivant. Today I completed not a feat no other has since Bloodraven.” The silver-haired boy stretched his fingers. “I stand apart from even Bjorn.”

Shiera seemed satisfied with his answer. “The stress has not wilted you. I sense a new strength.”

His lips morphed into a bashful smile. “Is this your way of saying you are proud of me?”

“Very proud,” Shiera purred. “Even without a dragon, they fear you. Imagine when you are mounted on a dragon’s back.”

“I want to inspire more than fear in the men.” He settled next to her on his bed. The scrolls lay between them. “What are you reading?”

Shiera passed him a scroll atop the pile. “You can read the Old Tongue?” This is the writing of the Seeress.

“I read a dozen more languages than I speak.” He was the opposite. He spoke the Old Tongue fluently but struggled to decipher the runes inlaid on the parchment. “This crude language comes easier with the more time we spend here.”

“Anything of note?” he asked.

“They disagreed on how exactly the Stoneborn came to be. Which black rights the Skanen performed are not known but they captured the attention of some dark god. The Skanen were changed in both flesh and spirit and unleashed a plague on the land and its people. There is more here on how the Seeresses bred their people. They took meticulous notes.” Shiera snorted in amusement. “For all talk of evil, these Seeresses were not so different than the blood mages of Old Valyria. They suppressed any sort of freedom for marriage and enforced harsh punishments on those that dared to disobey.” The vampire seemed lost in thought. After a moment her attention turned to him. “That woman grows close to you. You have surprised me with how well you have deceived her. Well done. Deception is a powerful weapon to wield by those clever enough to grasp its hilt.”

He stiffened. “How did you know?”

“A guess. And I doubted that if there is any ounce of Bloodraven that still exists that it would do anything but spite me.”

“I spoke with him today,” Shiera watched him with rapt attention. “He said your kind was eradicated and insists I should have allied with the Seeresses.”

Shiera’s response was derisive. “Bitter even in death. I pity him.”

“My question is why?” Shiera glared at him as if he spoke some foul words. “Why does he hate you? Why did he say your kind was eradicated? I have many questions and until now you have avoided answering them.”

“Is this really important?” Shiera leaned close to him. Her lovely scent grew stronger.

Daemon gripped her arm. “Yes, it is. I know so little of you and you know everything of me. I won’t be kept in the dark any longer. Answer my questions.”

Shiera sighed at his resolve. “Knowledge is not without its price, Daemon. You will not enjoy this. I guarantee.”

“I need to know.”

The candlelight flickered in her dark red eyes. “Where do we start?”

He hesitated. This was a rare opportunity. She may not always be so forthcoming. “Why did you spend so much effort to create me? Why not help Rhaegar? With your help, he would have killed Robert Baratheon. He would sit on the Iron Throne. I would have been raised with a real family.”

“I cannot control the future. Nor can I defeat armies of men. When Aerys chose to burn Lord Stark and his heir events spiraled beyond my control. There was a time I thought Rhaegar was the penultimate result of my endeavors. The Prince that was Promised. I was wrong. His is the Song of Ice and Fire. The blood of The Winter Kings and the might of Old Valyria. You.”

“So, you abandoned him at the time of his greatest need. What if you are wrong again? Will you abandon me?”

Shiera did not shy from his angry gaze. “I grieved that the world never witnessed the King he could have been. Though I know he would be overjoyed to have a son such as you.”

He ignored her flattery. “And my mother? Did you influence Rhaegar to take her?”

“There was mutual interest there without my intervention. Your mother was beautiful, a fierce and sweet maiden. Your father desired her more than just her bloodline, but I encouraged the pairing as much as I could. Still, Rhaegar was likely to take her without my guidance. I merely added fuel to an already burning flame.”

“And my mother went willingly? Despite the consequences?”

“Consequences of decisions are always clearer in hindsight. Your mother was rebellious and wanted freedom from the strict rule of her father and brothers. Daughters have rebelled against their fathers since the dawn of man. This was no different.”

“It was. You influenced them. The Seeresses said Rhaegar sacrificed the Green Men on the Isle of Faces. That was by your design, wasn’t it?”   

Shiera seemed undisturbed. “Blood magic comes with a price. Traits locked away in your mother’s and father’s bloodlines had to be brought to the surface. Cultivated and mastered so there was no mistake, nothing left to chance. I ensured you would be perfect before you left the womb. That you grew without deformity, and with great vitality.  Beyond your physical gifts, you have been imbued with power. Dragonbinder was bound to you without difficulty. Ashara and I grant you the gifts of our blood without fear of the side effects that would cripple lesser men. You should be thanking me, but I don’t sense gratitude in your tone. Do you think the strength of your skin changing is by accident? Even amongst a society of skinchangers you stand apart.”

“I’ve spent countless hours honing my gift. My strength is the result of years of dedicated training. You have no claim over my success.” He glared at the beautiful woman. “Rhaegar may have been under your influence, but my mother wasn’t. Mass sacrifice and the death of her father and brother. I don’t believe she would agree.”

Shiera laughed. “You never met the woman, and you are so sure of her character. What if she got off on fucking the Prince of Dragonstone while the realm bled?”

“No! I know the Starks. If she was anything like my uncle-”

The vampire chuckled darkly. “Your uncle was raised in the Vale, away from his siblings. I wouldn’t say he is emblematic of what the Starks represent. The truth is your mother did have remorse. She tried to run several times but by then she was heavy with you. And then when she realized escape was not an option, she willingly opened her legs for your father. Begged him for his seed and pretended all was well in the world. Rhaegar sought solace in your mother’s bed even as he tried to piece together the realm his father was determined to destroy. Pregnancy extracted its toll on Lyanna. She was confined to bed for the last three months and combined with the war it took a toll on her mental state.”

He swallowed. She was suffering in the end. Suffering because of me. “Why didn’t you help her?”

“I was not yet in Westeros, but Lyanna was not alone. Ashara was there. She provided companionship to your mother. She was her relay to the outside world. And Ashara helped deliver you.”

His eyes were watery with unshed tears. He looked at Shiera in surprise. “Really?”

“It was one reason why I turned her. She was willing to pass you as her own. Raise you in Starfall. Your uncle refused her. The Daynes were staunch Targaryen loyalists, and his best friend was consolidating his rule. Greywater was discreet and his friend Howland Reed was unquestionably loyal.”

“Why did you wait so long?”

“Had your time in Greywater not helped to develop your gift of skin changing we would have come for you far sooner. There were other things for us to do. Dangerous things not suited for women consumed with child-rearing. Even vampire women.” Her smile was charming. She moved the scrolls between them and scooted closer to him. He did not reject her embrace. “When you win the throne there will be time to develop your other gifts. Your Valyrian blood is not to be underestimated.”

She kissed his temple. “I am more than two hundred years old now. I have stood in the shadow of the Five Forts. I have sailed the river Ash to Asshai and have swum in the Jade Sea. I swear to you that no man will be your equal. That your reputation will cast a shadow across the world.” She stripped his tunic and stroked his bare chest. “You will be at the zenith amongst the greatest of the Dragonlords.” With one hand she undid the ties at his waist. His trousers went past his hips. “No army will oppose you.” Fingers stroked bare thighs. “No woman will deny you.” Val’s honey hair and full lips came to mind. His cock stiffened. Shiera gripped him through the fabric.

They kissed and her fangs drew blood. The vampire eagerly sucked his tongue. Straddling him, Shiera pulled up her silk gown to it bunched at the top of her thighs. Her bare cunt spread her wetness on his sack and at the base of his cock. A kiss at the still-open wound above his right eye startled him.

“They were fools to think they could separate us.” She rolled her hips. The lips of her cunt wrapped around his shaft, teasing him. Her tongue slithered over his pulse. “You are mine.” Shiera gripped his chin and kissed him firmly. “I am yours. Nothing will change that.”

Daemon did his best to push down his rising lust. “What did they mean your kind were eradicated?” He gripped her arms and held her in place.

Shiera’s predatory eyes arrested him in their splendor. “In the east, my kind was sometimes referred to as the daughters of the Bloodstone Emperor. The daughters once ruled Old Ghis. First from the shadows, influencing the nobility rather than directly governing themselves. The wars with the Valyrian Freehold whittled the human Ghiscari nobility both in number and confidence that the humans could oppose the Freehold themselves. The daughters seized Old Ghis and controlled the empire absolutely. For a time. The Freehold eventually shattered Old Ghis and sponsored the whole-scale extermination of the daughters. The daughters had been hunted before but never with the focus and ferocity that the Dragonlords and Sorcerer Princes wrought upon them.  Even the sun was weaponized. We were always sensitive to its touch but for thousands of years, while the Freehold prospered, a few seconds of exposure to the sunlight was a death sentence. Those daughters that survived only did so by hiding in dark, forgotten places.”

“Daughters?” He did not miss the implication.

“Daughters. Males of our kind are exceptionally rare. Long extinct if they ever existed.” Shiera’s nose brushed against his face. She traced his lips with her own. Her ruby eyes held his focus. She gripped his chin and kissed him gently. “We will be the union of the Freehold and the Daughters. The first in history.”

He swallowed. The promise of her words was dizzying. “How did you find someone to turn you?”

“I stole the gift while they slumbered.” Her red eyes were wild with mirth. “Stygai. The city of the night. There the mountains rise so high that the sun only falls on the valley the city sits in for an hour each day. Even at the height of summer. An hour was all I needed. They would never give the gift to one with the blood of the forty in their veins.”

“Does their hate really run so deep?”

“They despise the dragonlords and their every descendant.”

“And when they learn of what you stole?”

“Most of the remnants of the daughters have slumbered for centuries. I see no cause for change. If they ever awake, they will not have the power to oppose us.”

Shiera’s deft fingers undid the buttons of his tunic. She pushed the fabric off his shoulders. Her nails traced the cords of his muscles. “Such an impressive specimen. Every time I look upon you, I feel a devilish sense of pride. Lyanna Stark may have given birth to you, but I sculpted you. I have poured every ounce of my talent into your creation.”

She pressed his turgid cock against her wet sex. They both sighed as he slid deeper with each wiggle of her hips. It felt like a small eternity until he was buried at the root. Shiera rose to ride less than half of his cock. Her cunt squeezed his cockhead in an almost painful embrace.

Daemon gripped her swirling hips and with a surge of strength pulled her down on his cock while surging his hips upward. They met in a wet clash of flesh. He cried out in unrestrained pleasure. Shiera kissed him greedily. The metallic taste of his own blood flavored their kiss.

Pain erupted across his back as her claws found purchase in his skin. The sweet taste of her enchanted blood followed soon after. He gripped her luscious arse cheeks, dragged her upward, and dropped her down his cock.

Her groan was husky and enticed him even further. He gripped the globe of each cheek. Shiera rolled her hips. Her wetness pressed against his navel. The silver hairs along their sexes soaked and mingled.

The smell of her passion filled the air. It was a heady scent that lingered and grew ever more intoxicating. She shoved him on his back. Her hands pressed against his chest. Her hips slapped down and his cock speared the back of her cunt. Welts sprouted on his skin beneath her sharp nails.

He drank in the beauty of the silver-haired vampire. Her silver mane spun loose down her back, reaching past her buttocks. The gown of crimson still clung to her bosom and bunched about her waist. Only the skin of her slender shoulders was visible to his eyes. Her thighs were wrapped in dark lace stockings.  Somehow that enticed him even further.

Shiera took her pleasure on his cock. She rode him roughly, invigorated by the small bites she inflicted on his shoulder and neck. His cock was as stiff as a bar of iron. He was buried deep in her sex. Her cunt greedily slurped his cock with dexterity far beyond what a mortal woman could achieve.

The vampire tugged on her crimson gown, baring perfect white breasts capped with stiff pink nipples. She pressed an engorged nipple against his lips. “Suck.” Daemon sucked eagerly. Shiera captured his wrists and held his arms above his head. Her legs widened across his hips. Her cunt dragged across his belly. Daemon’s cockhead swelled. A stubborn attempt to prevent itself from being dislodged. His freed cock bounced against his belly before rebounding to point skyward.

The soft skin of her thighs kissed his ears. Her gown fell around his head, blanketing him in darkness. He nuzzled the neat patch of silver hair above her sex even as Shiera spread her juices across his chin. She rolled her hips, coating the lower half of his face with her nectar. Her grip on his wrists was iron.

Daemon kissed her engorged clit. Shiera sighed and wiggled on his face impatiently. He repeated the action and followed with a long swipe of his tongue. That drew a guttural whine from the vampire. His tongue split her nether lips and traced a pattern on her clit. Guided by scent, sound, and taste Daemon eagerly pleasured the beautiful vampire.

Shiera cried out. Sharply, highly pitched, and unmistakably feminine. She released his wrist to tug her dress overhead. Sight restored; Daemon was once again a captive of Shiera’s infernal beauty. Her dark horns gleamed in the dim light. She was nude save for the belt of black lace about her waist. Bands of cloth connected the belt to her stockings. He rearranged their position to cup Shiera’s bottom in his rough hands. Her mouth hung open as he sucked her clit.

“Right there,” Shiera groaned. Her hips undulated. “Point your tongue.” He did his best to follow and memorize her commands. She may have been the captain of their journey, but she was a captive to the pleasure he brought her. “Fuck, right there.” A hiss left her lips. Her body shook and her cunt frothed on his lips. Daemon devoured the thickening juices before resuming his tongue’s assault on her clit.

He wasn’t sure how many times she came undone on his tongue, but his jaw was sore when she finally dropped back on his cock. Shiera’s tongue swiped against his face. They kissed. His hips rose and her hips fell in sync. Daemon swallowed her groan, and she didn’t protest when he rolled her on her back.

Shiera’s legs fell upon. Her pink sex was slick and engorged. Beautiful. His heart hammered in his chest. The sight of this dark goddess would never grow ordinary. No matter how long he lived.

Daemon crawled over her eagerly. Shiera squeezed his cock and guided him back into her depths. He rose on his elbows and drove his hips downward. The vampire lifted her legs, and her hands gripped his buttocks. His cock burrowed deeper.

They shared a sigh of delight. His balls tightened. Every thrust brought his pleasure ever higher and the pressure grew behind his sack. Daemon fucked Shiera harder.

Her toes stocking-clad toes curled and caught his eyes. Her feet rubbed against his chest. She wriggled her toes in stockings and for some reason, he couldn’t look away, even as her cunt squeezed around his cock. Shiera tapped her toes against his lips. First the left foot and then the right. He squeezed her calves and kissed her feet.

Shiera watched wide-eyed as he sucked on her toes. He was close to madness. Even her feet were pretty. Her nails were perfectly shaped. Her skin was soft and supple. She seemed to enjoy it when he sucked on her toes near as much as he did.

Has there ever been another so perfect? Annoyed by the lace, he stripped Shiera of her stockings. In his haste, he broke the clasps to her belt, but the vampire’s sound of annoyance was interrupted when her toes were back in his mouth. He fucked her as he kissed and sucked her feet.

Shiera mewed beneath him. Her fingers danced across her clit. At times she petted his shaft that pumped in and out of her. Her eyes were wild with lust.

Daemon’s heart thundered his chest. His pleasure was tinged with fear. An instinctual response to his proximity to such a predator. His cock throbbed.

“Your mine,” Shiera cooed. “I brought you into this world; burned destiny and greatness into your very soul.”

Daemon grunted and gritted his teeth. He folded Shiera’s long legs and pressed her thighs to the mattress. He fucked her harshly. His long strokes were accompanied by wet squelches. Shiera arched her back and Daemon sucked hard on her right nipple. She hissed as he took the nub between his teeth.

Soft hands tipped with dangerous claws stroked his back. “You are bound to me. Do not deny it. I do not share my blood freely and you have gorged yourself.”

Daemon shook his head. Pleasure made the vampire slow to react. He flipped her onto her belly. The crack of his palm meeting her bottom filled the room. Shiera grunted as he entered her harshly. She clambered to her onto her hands and knees as he fucked her without pause. Daemon tightened his grip on her hips as she tried to fuck backward.

His cum boiled. His mind slipped into a single-minded focus. Shiera didn’t shy away from his rough pounding. She grunted at every deep thrust but answered on her own. She looked over her shoulder at him. Her red eyes were filled with challenges. “Pledge yourself to me. Your creator. Your. Ah.  lover. Your protector. Your guide. Affirm, ah fuck, your loyalty. Your devotion. Tell me!”

He wrapped her silver locks around his fist and tugged. Shiera’s grunted as her neck was pulled backward. His other hand tanned her arse cheeks. Her cunt frothed around his cock. “Tell me you love me first.” Daemon growled. He tightened his grip on her locks. “I will not be another man for you to discard. I will not be a thrall.” His thumb pressed against her rosebud. Shiera’s composure faltered. He was not to be denied. Insistent pressure forced her tight rim to yield around his thumb. He buried his thumb to the knuckle in her arse. “Tell me you love me. Or I will leave you here and go find Val.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Shiera challenged.

With the greatest difficulty imaginable, Daemon pulled his cock from her frothing cunt. His cock head was an angry purple. Long and slick with her juices, her cream coated the base of his cock and oozed over his sack.

Shiera’s movements were faster than he could perceive. She launched from the bed and tackled him. They spun once, twice, but Daemon remained on his feet. Shiera mounted his cock regardless. Her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Daemon gripped her bottom, ready to throw her off even as the dizzying pleasure of being inside her returned full force.

“I do love you,” Shiera pressed her lips against his. She rolled her hips.

“I won’t be your thrall,” Daemon told her between kisses. He stroked her skin. He could feel the vibration of her magic.  “You may have created me, but I am my own man. You will not control my mind. My will is not yours to dominate.”

His cock rubbed against the back of her cunt. Shiera cried out. His balls ached and his cock throbbed. His release seemed almost impossible. “Pledge,” She growled. Lust reduced this dark goddess to nothing more than a beast.

Daemon slicked his pointer finger in her juices and then buried the digit in her bottom. “Marry me. Let us bind ourselves together in the eyes of gods and men alike. An equal pledge. You will be my queen and I your king.”

Shiera peaked around him. Her cunt grew so tight that every thrust gained or last felt like a small battle.

“Be my bride,” Daemon grunted. Lust clouded his mind, reducing his ability to speak more than a few broken words. He pressed Shiera against a wall. He bit her shoulder and fucked into her.

“Yes,” Shiera sighed in agreement. Her nails dug into her shoulder. Her cunt milked him. “Cum for me. Cum for your queen.”

His legs faltered just as his climax boiled over. The first shot coated her walls. His cock slipped from her cunt and sprayed her belly. Shiera sank to her knees and the next two bursts sprayed across her breasts. Daemon shuddered as she wrapped her fist around his base. His cock sprayed seed across her lips before she took him into her mouth. The vampire took the rest of his spend on her tongue. Her tongue coaxed the last of his spend and his cock swelled and throbbed with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Daemon eyed the line of seed that dripped from her nipples with a sense of masculine pride. The sight of the cum soaked vampire robbed his cock of any rest. He was still stiff and aching.

Shiera guided him to the bed. He sat on the edge while she sank to her knees between his legs. Aware of his eyes on her, Shiera rewarded him with a devious smile. She gathered the cum that dripped from her belly and spread it on his cock until he was slick and sticky. Her breasts wrapped around his stiff length, and he sighed at the feel of their soft embrace.

She stroked his cock with her beautiful tits. Her nipples were stiff, and her long tongue teased his slit whenever his cockhead peaked out of her pillowy cavern. Jon grunted when the tip of her tongue split the slit of his cock. Shiera’s brilliant red eyes filled with devious amusement.

-

-

-

A bitterly cold wind greeted their fleet of ships. It churned the waters, crafting large white-capped waves that shook the hull of the ship. Daemon gripped the rail tightly as the deck rolled beneath him. Val white-knuckled the rail next to him. Seawater stuck strands of hair to their faces and the oarsmen grunted with effort to keep the ship from listing. Doing so in these waves would undoubtedly lead to a watery grave.  

They were both clad from head to toe in seal skin-lined furs. Daemon wore a shirt of steel over his furs. It touched his armored girdle. Pauldrons were attached to his shirt, and they rattled with every movement. At his belt sat a steel axe, an obsidian dagger, and a steel-barbed whip. The latter had been the latest gift from Shiera and Ashara. It was six feet long and once belonged to a Dragonlord slain in the Free Cities during the century of blood.

His helmet was close by but the hood he wore was a far more useful defense against the bite of the wind. Slung along his back was Dragonbinder.

Val’s Shadowcat yowled its displeasure loudly. The great feline crouched against the upper deck; claws embedded in the wood. She shook away the moisture from her fur futilely. Daemon would have laughed at the sight if he wasn’t terrified himself. The twelve longships the Skagossi still possessed were the closest to their ship while the fleet of fishing ships was a mile behind them and growing.

“We’ll scatter across the coast at this rate!” Val screamed over the wind. Her voice was muffled by the mask she wore to protect her skin from the cold. Any flesh exposed to the cold was in danger of frostbite. Above them, the sky flashed with a ribbon of arcing lighting and then a great chorus of thunder shattered. He heard Bjorn’s great bear roar from the other longship.

Daemon swung the horn slung across his back to his front. Shiera’s fingers locked around the mouthpiece of the horn before he could blow it. The vampire was shielded from the dim sun by her heavy hooded cloak. She locked eyes with him and shook her head. Shiera strode confidently as the deck rolled beneath her. She held both hands outstretched as she looked skywards. Her song carried across the wind, beautiful and haunting.

The deck pitched forward. His stomach dropped. Shiera’s notes amplified. Her song cast across the water. Frigid water swelled around their ship propelling them forward. The swell ensnared the longships, and another captured the fishing vessels behind.

“Raise the sail!” Negan shouted. The wind was now behind them. Three oarsmen jumped from their benches to enact the order. Shiera’s arms lowered. The men shied away from her glowing eyes.

Val glared at Shiera. “You couldn’t have done that sooner?”

The vampire smiled. “The storm needed to build.” She stretched her arms and leaned her head back. “Do you feel its power? Nature is in my hands.” She spun, gleeful as a little girl. “The gods watch in envy.”

Val shook her head. Her Shadowcat prowled across the deck to curl around her protectively. The beast kept a watchful eye on Shiera. Daemon tugged on the vampire’s wrist and pulled her next to him. The tension between Shiera and Val was palpable. Keeping the two from tearing out each other’s throats was a job in itself. He longed for Ashara’s presence, but the dark-haired vampire was sailing on Bjorn’s longship.

Shiera leaned against him. She kissed the narrow strip of uncovered skin around his eyes. “I can smell her jealousy. The wildling thinks she has a claim on you. How foolish.”

He gently pushed Shiera away. “Now isn’t the time for games, Shiera.”

The hours passed slowly on the sea. Shiera slumbered in the darkness beneath the deck of the ship. Val polished Dark Sister to perfection. She noticed Daemon’s stare. “Do you ever rest?”

Daemon smiled. “What do you mean?”

“They are mostly nocturnal.” She pointed to the deck. “And I know you keep their company most nights. Yet you are always an early riser. So, do you not sleep at all?”

“I sleep,” Daemon assured her. “Some nights more than others.” The memory of last night brought a smile to his lips. He couldn’t have slept more than an hour.

There was a pregnant pause. “Was she truly my grandfather’s lover?”

“A lifetime ago,” Daemon responded. He could see her silently count the years.

“Is that why she despises me?”

He shrugged. “There’s no love lost between either of you. That’s as plain as day.”

Her smile was rueful. “I don’t mean to make this difficult for you. Truly.”

“If I have learned anything on this journey women are prone to making things difficult.”

Val twisted her gloved fingers in a rude gesture. He laughed. Nyx peered at him with half-lidded eyes. Val’s great feline companion regarded everyone with a deep suspicion. She seemed more than willing to tear anyone’s throat out at a moment’s notice. He admired Val’s control over the creature. Felines were notoriously hard to control. They were prideful to the point of vanity. Fierce and difficult to dissuade once they made a decision to do something. Most of all they were unpredictable.

Nyx lifted her head and released a chuffing growl at the sky. A massive cod splattered against the deck. The men cheered and Daemon gazed skyward. His eagle soared above the ships.

By mid-morning, the storm winds had largely died but the frigidity did not abate. They were near the end of the western coast. At the northernmost point, they would rotate south and sail along the eastern coast. The only manageable current would place them close to Skane much to the ire of the Skagossi.

“Will you become one of them?” Val asked. They stood at the prow of the ship. Their face coverings offered ample protection from the icy wind but muffled their speech. The two leaned shoulder to shoulder together just to hear each other.

“I don’t know what the future holds,” Daemon admitted. He couldn’t see most of Val’s face but the crinkle of skin around her eyes showcased her displeasure. “You need to understand, I was nothing more than a forgotten baseborn son before Shiera and Ashara came into my life. I was only allowed to see my father and trueborn siblings only a few times a year. They said it was out of respect for Lady Catelyn. My birth. My very existence was an insult to her. How I despised that woman. She was the gatekeeper to everything I desired. She was the reason why I was trapped in Greywater. Now I know it was a lie.” He scoffed. “For my safety. If Stannis’ brother knew I was a lie he would have demanded my head. Stannis might have been the man his brother sent after me.”

“You’re in love with both of them.” It was no question.

“Aye. We are bound the three of us.” Their conversation dissolved into an uncomfortable silence.

He was alone at the prow when they rounded the westernmost point of Skagos. The slope of the island rose sharply. Tall barren walls of rock stretched vertically for more than a mile. Large stretches of ice split between the rock, stretching from somewhere deep on the island all the way to the sea. Great chunks of the sea ice drifted in the waves.

From behind the mile-high walls and massive glaciers, columns of black smoke rose to the heavens. The breeze was burdened with the assaulting smell of sulfur. Daemon grimaced even behind the cover of his facemask. As they traveled further north the breeze carried flecks of ash. Over the course of the day, the fall of the ash continued steadily. Soon the deck of the ship was covered in light scattering. The ash clung stubbornly to wherever it touched: clothing, skin, hair.

His mind wandered. He soared above icy waters. And swam beneath the waves. Above the wet ash that stained his feathers and made his wings heavy and slow. Beneath the dark waves and the wooden ships. The land smoked beneath his wings. A dark cloud grew ever larger. Ribbons of energy rippled across the black cloud.

“What do you see?” Negan asked.

Daemon shrugged. “The volcanoes are erupting.” He pointed upward. The edges of the ash cloud were just visible over the rim of the mountains. “That cloud grows ever larger.”

“It will be a black night.”

“At this rate, we will not see the sun again until we leave this place.” Daemon watched his eagle soar overhead. It was not alone. A murder of crows flew overhead along with several owls and more than a few falcons. None were near as large as the eagle, and all gave the great bird a wide berth.   Their bond was shallow, and Daemon could sense the bird’s resentment at being shackled.

There was a distant rumble. Sudden, deep, and supremely powerful. Daemon exchanged a look with Negan as the thunder washed over him. The men on the other longships shouted in excitement while their war hounds howled.

Negan shook his head. “We are in a land of monsters.”

The sun had not begun its descent to the horizon when the sky began to darken. Grey clouds combined and the pale sun turned grey. The temperature dropped sharply.

“Skane!” Their spotter shouted. The echo of the other spotters on their longships traveled across the waves. A string of curses followed the announcement. Daemon didn’t fail to notice how each Skag checked his weapons.  He patted the axe on his belt and checked his weirwood spear. The haft and spear tip were wrapped in seal blubber to protect them from the harsh touch of the salty sea.  

A tense atmosphere fell over the ship. Skane loomed to the west. Its bare sharp peaks pierced the horizon. His third eye throbbed. A pain grew in his skull. Daemon broke his gaze. To the east, the glow of molten rock painted streaks of red and orange across the dark sky.

He didn’t see them with his human eyes. They flew high amongst the clouds. Just black specks lost amongst the grey clouds. And then they descended. Swiftly.

The alarmed cries of the birds saved a dozen men. Daemon tackled Negan to the deck. A gale of wind washed over them. The angry roar of Val’s Shadowcat shattered across the deck accompanied by the angry barks of the war dogs.

War horns blared in every direction; from every ship. Three blows from each horn. Oarsmen discarded their oars for spears and axes and shields.

His eagle cried angrily. Its talons tore into black flesh. Foul-smelling blood tinged the air. A wing-body crashed against the side of the ship and splashed into the waves. The ship rolled sharply, and Daemon struggled to secure his footing. An oarsman yanked him up.

“Nightgaunts!” Their spotter screamed. He swung down from his perch atop the mass and scrambled to the deck. The man moved with desperation, but he was too slow. In a blink of an eye, the man has torn away from the mast. His screams rose higher and higher until they were suddenly silenced. His body splattered against the deck. The wood splintered under the force.

“Spears and shields! Shield wall! Closer, close the gaps!” Bjorns voice boomed over the waves. His men quickly rushed to form a defensive shell of spears. Daemon struggled to spot Ashara, but he couldn’t discern the vampire in the confusion. Above the ship dark specters circled on great black wings.   

Daemon brandished his weirwood spear. The feel of the weapon in his hand stifled his rising fear. The warning cry of his eagle saved his life. He spun on his heel and stabbed upward. His spearhead came back soaked in gore.

“On me!” Daemon ordered. He tugged his helmet over his head and leveled a heavy shield over his other arm. Val was the first to his side. Her Shadowcat stuck close to her side. More men and war hounds joined them. They formed a ring of shields with a thorn of spears to hold discourage the threat.

Daemon’s mind switched between two bodies. It was only through Rhaegon’s eyes that he could make sense of what the Skags called Nightgaunts. They were thin creatures. Like men stretched and shaped to unnatural proportions. Their skin was as dark as the frigid sea and great wings extended from their narrow backs. Long narrow tails stabilized their flight.

Men made monsters. First the Stoneborn and now these winged demons.

Their crows harassed the creatures in a great swarm of wings, beaks, and talons. They tore at their wings and pecked at their bodies. The birds did not falter even when one of their own was caught in a creature’s claws. His eagle tucked its wings close to its body and descended with talons extended.

“Check your arrows and bring down these abominations,” Val yelled over the commotion. Bowmen at the center of their fist of shields loosed arrows into the sky.  Most fell into the sea, but a few hit their marks. The Nightguants were undeterred. 

Most disturbing was their lack of sound. Their wings were silent. They did not cry in pain or shout in anger. They killed silently and most of all efficiently. A dozen men fell screaming into the waves. Tilikum’s pod rushed to save those who sank into the sea, but many were rent and broken.

The battle raged.

The fishing vessels closed the distance to the longships. More birds joined the skies. The men on the fishing ships shouted their challenge.

“Incoming!” A Skag shouted. A body slammed into their shield wall and the force of it sent several men flying. Daemon stumbled. Something grabbed the horn strapped to his back and lifted him a foot into the air.

Nyx tackled the Nightgaunt to the deck. Its great claws tore great gouts into the monster’s black flesh. Two war hounds savaged the wings of the downed beast.  Val leapt to support her Shadowcat and parted the head from the shoulders of the squirming creature with a swing of her black sword.

Before he could express his gratitude two more Nightgaunts attacked from above. Their focus was squared at him. They covet the horn!

“Protect the horn!” Shiera ordered. Her voice was laced with power. “Protect your king!”

-

-

-

Ashara Dayne

The vampire took a deep breath. The smell of blood and sea mingled. The dying screams of men intrigued the predator she had become. Ashara observed with detached vigilance. The Nightgaunts aerial advantage was difficult to overcome. The murder of crows and other birds harassed the winged humanoids with great frequency, but they were not strong enough to deter them entirely.

They were a force some two-score strong. Their black skin reminded her of the shadow-wing wyverns of Sothroyos but that was where the similarities ended. These creatures were six-limbed. Their faces were smooth and featureless. No nose or mouth was present. Inward-curving horns emerged from the creatures’ heads. At first, she thought the creatures were incapable of speech, but her sharp ears discerned their high-pitched whispers.

Ashara watched as the Nightgaunts overwhelmed the crew of a Skag longship. The dark creatures were savage in their conquest. They took the weapons of the fallen men in their long-fingered hands and hacked to pieces the war hounds that stood in defense of their fallen masters.

Her eyes widened. To her surprise, a Nightgaunt took hold of the steering oar. It turned the longship into another. The ship crashed into nearly overturned and several men and hounds were thrown overboard.

Every death, and every ship lost made their path forward even more difficult. Behind her mask, Ashara frowned.

Bjorn bellowed an order and their ship turned. The twang of arrows sounded. Most fell harmlessly into the sea but a flew true. A Nightgaunt was struck in the center of its chest. Its wings faltered before it crashed into the dark sea.

They pulled beside a besieged longship. A man and his warhound were separated from the rest of the crew at the fore of the ship. They were locked in a desperate struggle against a Nightgaunt. The rest of the crew were held at bay by two other creatures on the deck.

Ashara vaulted the distance between the two ships and landed on the deck of the other longship. The war hound latched onto the arm of the creature while his master severed the creature’s other arm at the elbow with his axe. The dark-haired vampire crawled up the Nightgaunts back and buried her Valyrian steel dagger in the creature’s spine. She dragged the dagger downwards until the creature collapsed and grew still.

The men drove the Nightgaunts from the ship with axe and spears and arrows. One fled with half a dozen arrow holes in its wings. It flew low over the water only to be tackled and dragged into the sea in the teeth of a breaching whale.

Ashara eyed the weary Skags. Each man gazed at her with a mix of wariness and appreciation. She was dressed for war; dark robes and black armor plates covered every inch of her skin. Her lacquered mask protected her face and hid her ruby-red eyes. The Valyrian steel dagger she bore dripped black blood. Behind her mask, her nose wrinkled at the smell.

Above the ships, a great flock of birds joined the fight. There were owls and falcons along with a great cloud of crows and rarer ravens. She spied Daemon’s eagle and was briefly arrested by the fierceness of the raptor. It was by far the largest bird in the sky with a wingspan that rivaled the Nightgaunts. Everywhere the massive bird struck, a dozen or more birds supported it. Massive talons parted thin black flesh, while a dozen other birds attacked and preyed upon the bleeding Nightgaunt.

Rhaegon inverted and avoided a diving Nightgaunt that came in defense of its comrade. The great eagle dived before the Nightgaunt could arrest its climb. They tussled midair. Daemon’s eagle’s talons opened the Nightgaunt’s belly and curled its wings to avoid a swipe from black claws. Two arrows slammed into the chest of the Nightgaunt. It reached futilely at the empty sky before its body crashed into the waves.

Rhaegon stalled his flight and rotated to engage another winged nightmare. A renewed sense of hope came upon the skags as Nightgaunts attacks were halted. More men wielded their bows and arrows. The bows forced the gaunts to lower skies. More Gaunts fell to Skag marksmen.

A shape in her peripheral caught her attention. The maw of Skagos loomed before them. It touched the bay of seals and stretched its jaw to the frigid sea. Ice-capped mountains loomed over smoking volcanoes. Three long arms of a glacier split the land and between the wall of ice and rock, an opening of a deep valley sat. Miles of black sandy beach separated the sea from the door of the valley. The sands were swept into gently sloping dunes.

Ashara’s sharp eyes quickly focused and resolved the distant blur into a ship. Ships. She soon realized. They poured from the maw of Skagos. Double-decked war galleys led the formation. Each war galley was equipped with metal battering rams at their helm. There were sailing ships and cogs following in support. The largest of the ships were the carracks. A half dozen formed the rear of the fleet.

She grasped the shoulder of longship captain. “Alert the fleet. Stannis is here!”

The blare of a war horn filled the air. One burst, followed by another. She could smell the fear of the Skags on this ship. A black stag amongst red flames danced in the wind atop the masts of each ship. The oars of the war galleys propelled the ships forward at breathtaking speed. They were a pack of wolves descended upon an ill-prepared herd.

Above the Nightgaunts still warred with the flock of birds. The dark creatures had reduced the number of birds greatly. Skags loosed arrow after arrow into the sky. Most eyes were turned skyward. Ashara ordered the horn-bearing Skag to sound the horn again.

Even as the horn blared its warning, the war galleys drew ever closer. Cries of surprise echoed across the water as a growing number of Skags took sight of the approaching warships. It was too late to form any cohesive response.

A volley of flaming arrows and devastating crossbow bolts fell upon the first line of Skag ships. Ashara watched as the Skags fell by the dozen. As their captains struggled to turn their ships, Skag archers answered with a volley of their own. Yet the decks of the war galleys were lined with shields. They formed a barrier to which the arrows bounced off harmlessly.

Crossbow bolts whistled. The bolts punched through the crude armor of the skags or the furs of the warhounds. Flaming arrows rained across the fishing ships and several of the sails that had not been lowered were now consumed by hungry flames.  

Ashara could hear the beat of the low beat of the drums that directed the cadence of the oarsmen. The size of the war galleys dwarfed any ship the skags possessed. We were not expecting a naval battle. Stannis was expecting us!

“Stannis!”

“Stannis!”

“Stannis!”

The chant from the warships was drowned by the deafening crack of splintering ships. The galleys smashed into the haphazard line of fishing vessels at full speed. Men and hounds and other beasts were thrown dozens of feet into the air. Their bodies were crushed under the weight of the charging vessels. Then came the whizzing noises of the heavy crossbows. They were powerful enough to spear two men in unison.

The initial charge of the war galleys was devastating. Skag men and their beasts floundered in the waves amongst the wreckage of their ships. Other fishing ships balanced haphazardly, listing sharply to their damaged side.

“Stannis!”

Crossbow bolts brought an end to several men and their loyal dogs. Javelin throwers emerged from behind their shield walls and struck at the skags on their fishing ships. Daemon’s whales plucked many of the Skags from the jaws of death. The massive creatures snatched the Skags and their dogs that had fallen in the water and carried them to safety.

“Stannis!”

Bjorn’s warhorn blared. The field commander’s horn was distinctive in sound, near as brutal as the man’s deep voice. The captain of the ship she stood on ordered his remaining men back to their oars.

Ashara looked to the sky. The Nightgaunts were absent. She turned and to her horror saw the swarm of black creatures on a single ship. Daemon’s eagle led the aerial defense of the remaining birds against the Nightgaunts but there were several on the deck of the ship trading blows with the sailors.

She saw a flash of Daemon amongst the melee. His weirwood spear was marred by the foul black blood of the Nightgaunts. A warrior woman fought beside him as well as the bearded sailor from White Harbor.

The deck lurched beneath her. The longship surged away from the swarm of Nightgaunts and fell in a line behind the three remaining Skag longships.

“For Skagos!” Bjorn shouted. His great cave bear stood on its hind legs and released an ear-splitting roar.

“For Skagos!” Her longship crewmates answered. More Skags joined the cry.

The war galleys were now near stationery. To her surprise, Skag fishing ships charged the larger ships. Crossbow bolts and javelins punished the brave men but still, they came. The skag warhounds were the first to board the Westerosi warships. They vaulted off the shoulders of their masters to the decks above. Their masters climbed up the sides of the ships with ropes.

Three men died to bolts placed in the center of their chests before they could reach of the edge of the deck. There were more Skagas trading arrows with the Westerosi archers and crossbowmen. The Skags hastily crouched behind shields while oarsmen struggled to bring the ships close enough for a boarding attempt.

Her longship surged forward under the strength of the oarsmen. They formed a line behind the other longships with Bjorn’s ship at the head. She could hear the roar of Bjorn’s voice and his commands in the guttural old tongue.

The ships looped around the mass of fishing ships. Stannis’ war galleys had noticed their actions and were rotating about their axis to meet them. One war galley was encircled by a patchwork blockade of Skag fishing ships. As it rotated, Ashara spied an armored warrior at the starboard side of the ship. Before him was a metal contraption, cylindrical in shape, ending in a long narrow nozzle. It was mounted on the deck of the ship and the warrior swiveled the device in the direction of two Skag fishing ships. A long stream of flame erupted from the nozzle of the device and poured onto the two ships.

Great ribbons of flames spewed from the decks of the war galleys onto the mass of Skag fishing ships. They were too close now to flee. Agonized screaming spilled across the watery battlefield.

This is no battle. This is a massacre.

Ashara looked behind her to the longship under siege by the Nightgaunts. She was too far now to offer any assistance. We are too close to fail now.

She turned away. Bjorn’s formation turned on their starboard edge, encircling the war galleys. The longships were smaller and presumably faster than the lumbering warships. Bjorn‘s ship angled to align with the port of the trailing war galley.

“I admire his bravery, but we are not here to die today.” Ashara gripped the oarmaster by his throat. His outrage was suffocated before it could leave his throat. She dominated the will of the sailor with overwhelming strength. She pointed beyond the battlefield to the Carracks that lingered near the mouth of the maw of Skagos.  

She was still engorged with energy from the blood orgy. Her power to influence men was nowhere near as strong as Shiera’s but none of the oarsmen protested as they changed directions. Ashara’s face set into a determined mask. She followed the presence of Stannis’ Shadowbinder.

Is her king with her? Or does he fight alongside his men? Ashara spun her Valyrian steel dagger. Her resolve strengthened. The war galleys were too far to oppose their approach and they were preoccupied with Bjorn’s fury. Her longship was not alone. Three of Daemon’s whales swam in front and on either side in escort.

Ashara eyed the carracks. They were much larger than the war galleys. True deep-water vessels but their large size made them unwieldy for any sort of combat other than troop transport. The longship sliced through their defensive formation.

She tracked the Shadowbinder’s aura and braced herself as the longship collided with the starboard edge of the carrack. She was first to recover from the collision and sidestepped a thrown javelin. It sailed harmlessly into the sea.

The skags hurled their hooks onto the lower deck of the carrack. Two crossbowmen peaked over the edge of the deck, but a Skag archer placed an arrow between the eye slits of one of the crossbowmen’s helm. His body slumped atop the railing of the deck. The other’s bolt sailed wide, and he ducked to reload. More hooks locked the two ships together and simultaneously the Skags threw ladder bridges over the railings of the two ships.

Ashara was the first across the ladder. She slaughtered the reloading crossbowman with her dagger and allowed herself only a taste of his blood that dripped from her blade. The Skags were not long to follow. The Westerosi sailors rushed to confront the invaders.

The ship listed sharply under her feet as another carrack collided at its starboard side. Several men were yanked from their feet and thrown across the deck.

“They have whales!” Came a terrified scream from the other Carrack.

The dark-haired vampire skipped past the vicious melee. She sidestepped and rolled out of the way of a lunging swordsman and ran across the thin rail that ran along the deck. Ashara jumped across boxes and barrels with speed and grace that no human could match. She landed at the entrance to the lower decks of the ship. A whisper of words extinguished every rushlight and candle beneath the deck of the ship.

The vampire stalked the dark hallway with her dagger ready. Where are you? Her ears perked at every sound. Her nose identified the smell of fear. A child’s fear. She stalked down the dark hallway. Each step led her deeper into the ship. It was uncomfortably warm here much more so than the frigid air on the sea.

The ringing of cowbells came from beyond the bend in the narrow hallway. A fool stumbled against the walls. He was crowned with a tin bucket adorned with narrow deer antlers that scrapped and banged against the hallway walls. Strapped to antlers were several cowbells that rang endlessly with every step of the fool.

“Fool's blood, king's blood, blood on the maiden's thigh, but chains for the guests and chains for the bridegroom, aye aye aye.” The fool paused and stared in Ashara’s direction. Ashara arrested his mind with her glamour. There was something disturbing about this simpleton. “The shadows come to dance, my lady, dance my lady, dance my lady. The shadows go to hunt, my lady, hunt my lady, hunt my lady.”

The fool’s face was tattooed in motley and made more grotesque by his dough soft skin. She turned him with a hand on his shoulder. “Take me to the priestess.” She followed several paces behind the fool. They descended into the hull of the ship. Ashara smelled the women before she spotted them. They huddled in a corner of the hold.

“Patchface?”A young girl emerged from the mass of cowering women. Half her face bore the ravages of Greyscale. Black, dead, and stone-like. The other half split into an innocent smile.

She stumbled away from the women despite the shrill protest of what could have been from her mother. The hold was bathed in black. A darkness impenetrable to human eyes. The young girl stumbled into the cargo and knocked a barrel over.

“Shireen get back here this instant.”

Ashara stopped the rolling barrel with her foot. “Shireen Baratheon.” The sudden spike in fear from the occupants of the hold was tantalizing. She grabbed the wrist of the frozen child and guided her to the fool. “There he is child.”

“Wh-who are you?”

The vampire stepped further into the hold. Patchface followed, Shireen Baratheon held tightly in his arms. Her eyes raked over the women. One stared blindly in her direction. A mantle of ermine sat on her shoulders and jeweled earrings hung from her large ears.

“Where is your husband? Where is his priestess?” Ashara pressed. The glow of her eyes was the only light source. The noblewoman fell under her spell.

“Behind you.”

The vampire turned and watched in surprise as the shadows took shape in the form of a tall woman clad in red. She was taller than most knights and towered clear over Ashara. A long mane of burnished copper ran down her back. A ruby clasped in elaborate gold and black choker adorned her neck. It was the red eyes that marked her lineage.

Ashara steeled her spine and crouched with her dagger at ready. “Asshai’i” She hissed.  

The sorcerer before her was elegant. Bands of gold lined her wrist and several of her fingers. Her shoulders were bare. The shape of her full bosom and her narrow waist was like to drive men mad.  Her dress flowed to her sandaled feet. Most disturbing was the large bulge of her belly.

“You are the younger of the pair.” The red woman spoke. Her voice was deep and melodic. Her words were colored by a heavy eastern accent. “Where is your muña? I wish to discuss her surrender.”

Ashara removed her mask and took a taste of the stale air. Patchface clutched Shireen tighter. “Surrender? Perhaps you mean for Lord Stannis to bend his knee and offer his men to our cause?”

The red woman smiled falsely. “We are aware of your claimant. Eddard Stark’s silver-haired bastard. The true king will not bow to a bastard. Stannis is a hard man but not cruel. Loyal men will find honor in service of his court. The baseborn son may even claim his father’s seat.”

“Your king had an opportunity to claim the Iron Throne. Much of the strength lies at the bottom of the Blackwater. Even now the Storm Lords bow to his nephew.”

“Even diminished as he is, King Stannis cleaves through your men. He is battle-hardened and tested. A gifted battle commander with a will that is proven time and time again to be unyielding. False Kings multiply and the ignorant adorned them with false crowns, but King Stannis stands apart. The red star has bled, and the darkness gathers. Azor Ahai has been reborn amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone.” The ruby at the center of her choker glowed along with the fervor of her speech.

“I care not for your red god. Nor for your pretender king. He will die in this savage land if he does not yield. As for you-” Ashara lunged. The Priestess sang a word in the tongue of Asshai, and a wave of heat hit Ashara in the chest and threw her across the hold. Her armor smoked and the singe of her robes assaulted her nose.

Oil spilled from an overturned barrel and spread in a rapidly growing dark puddle. The mortal women screamed and scrambled and fell in the slick puddle. The fool moved with more grace than all the women and was first away from the hold. He carried Shireen.

Ashara found her footing. She eyed the red woman cautiously. “A neat trick. I suspect your power lies in deception. You have fooled your king into believing you are a better sorceress than you actually are.”  

Heat and light emanated from the red woman as great as a bonfire. “You must have felt it. We stand beyond the great wall. This is what the world felt like before magic was locked away. Unseen but as real as the air we breathe. I am Melisandre of Asshai. A high priestess of R’hllor and I have practiced my art and faith for years beyond count.” The glow of her ruby was intense, and it threw a long shadow against the wall of the hold. A dozen shadowy claws sprouted from its twisted shape.

An arm of shadow emerged from between the red woman’s legs. Soon followed by another. Melisandre writhed in ecstasy as she birthed the great shadow.

“I walk the path of the righteous. R’hllor lights the guided path, and my heart is of fire. Of his love. And his fury. If you are against me then you are a servant of the Great Other.” The shadow loomed above the two immortals. Ashara stared upward. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger. The creature drew a great sword as dark as its form. “Submit. Your Lord of Darkness holds no power here.”

-

-

-

Daemon Targaryen

He crouched beside Negan’s body and closed the dead man’s blank eyes.

“Valar Morghulis,” Shiera whispered. The silver-haired vampire’s mask had been broken in the fighting. Her dark robes were splattered with bits of inhuman flesh. She shook her hooded head and followed with “Valar Dohaeris. All men must die. All men must serve. He was your friend and served you to the end.”

Daemon felt hollow. The sound of dying carried across the water. He could smell the burning ships. See the columns of black smoke and now knew the taste of defeat. Stannis and the Nightgaunts had splintered the Skagossi fleet. This loss was not something the Skags could recover from.

Shiera crouched next to him and stroked his brow. “Use your eagle to rally the men to the beach. Even now those saved by your whales gather there. Your whales will cover our retreat. On land, we will regroup and recover. Do not despair my king. Dragonbinder is yours.” The sight of the horn attracted the full attention of the Nightgaunts. They swarmed his ship just as Stannis appeared and were relentless in their pursuit of it.

Val limped over to them. She had rolled her ankle in the fighting but was otherwise uninjured. Nyx, her shadowcat, remained at her side and she used the beast as a makeshift crutch.

“How could the southern king know we were coming?”

“His priestess,” Shiera responded.

Daemon slipped into the skin of his eagle. The great bird soared over the watery battlefield. With his enhanced vision, searched for a sight of Ashara. He found Bjorn and his great bear on the deck of one of Stannis’ war galleys. To his dismay, Ashara was not with them. Bjorn and his elite berserkers had commandeered two of Stannis’ war galleys, but the others had their ships pinned with a concentrated volley of arrows and crossbow bolts. The Westerosi learned just how savage a boarding party the berserkers were and would not allow them to take their remaining ships.

At the shore, his eagle’s eyes spotted a ragged group of Skags. Many were those saved by Tilikum’s pod. Others were from the fishing vessels that had broken or drifted ashore during the fighting. Carcasses of ships lined the beach. Men, beasts, and wooly unicorns stood in the sand.

He slipped from the skin of his eagle to that of his spotted whale. The overwhelming grief of the whales startled Daemon. Two of Tilikum’s pod died to spears and crossbow bolts and another three were grievously wounded. The whales had withdrawn from the battle and were more than a mile away from the mass of ships.

They mourned for the fallen members of their families. A grief so deep and distinct that he was momentarily paralyzed. It reminded him of when he learned the news of Theon’s betrayal and murder of Bran and Rickon.

They are not creatures of war. This is beyond their nature. His guilt was monumental.

I need your help. His bond with the spotted whale was not as strong as it was with Ghost, but the majestic creature understood his meaning if not his words. Daemon sensed his reluctance. Please. He implored. A distraction and then you can take your family far from these waters.

Tilikum’s powerful tail slapped the surface of the water in frustration, but the whale relented.

His eagle’s circling and loud cries grabbed the attention of Bjorn. The big man crouched behind the row of shields. His bear’s armored hide was peppered with dozens of arrows and bolts. They were still in fighting shape.

The great eagle flew too high for an arrow to reach but that did not stop the Westerosi from trying. More eyes gazed skyward and finally; the bird flew towards the beach.

“Blow Dragonbinder. A short burst will not allow our meaning to be misunderstood.” Daemon listened to Shiera. The hellhorn flared brightly and its anguished sound paused the fighting.

So many oarsmen were dead that he, Val, and Shiera took oars of their own. They powered to the beach will all the strength they could muster. Bodies of men, dogs, and Nightgaunts littered the deck.

His whales slammed into the bottom of the war galleys and the distraction was enough for Bjorn and his men to abandon the commandeered ship and return to their longship.

The icy waters of the sea swallowed his legs to the thighs. He helped Val from the ship while her Shadowcat and Shiera leaped into the war far ahead of the men.

“He lives!” The skags greeted him on the beach. Several slapped his shoulders. Relief was fresh on their weary faces. All gathered in a circle around him. Daemon felt the weight of their hopes and fears.

“What do we do?”

“Do we defend the beach?”

“We can hold them here.”

“No.” Silence fell upon the men as he spoke. “Stannis caught us unaware once. None of us expected his fleet to lie in waiting but if I was him, I would have more men waiting inland to deal with those washed ashore. If sit and wait, we will die. We must march.”

Val and Shiera watched as the war galleys shook from the force of the whales battering against their hulls. The reinforced warships were too large and strong for the whales to sink but the harassment allowed Bjorn to reach the beach unopposed.

“Where is Ashara?” Daemon questioned the Skag commander.

“Your demon jumped ship. I haven’t seen her,” Bjorn was dismissive. He shook the water from his boots.

Anger took Daemon. His armored gauntlet struck Bjorn’s bone helm. The Skag dropped to a knee and with a grunt responded with a fist to Daemon’s ribs. All air left his lungs, and he doubled over.

Shiera stood between the two men before the fight could continue.  “Enough, Daemon. Fighting amongst ourselves does nothing for us. Ashara is perfectly capable of defending herself.”

He relented.

Two score and ten unicorns had survived the harrowing sail and just under two hundred men. Many men of the were grievously wounded and exhaustion fell upon all, but they marched in under an hour.

Daemon sat mounted on a unicorn with Shiera behind him. The beast was shorter than a destrier, at height with a large donkey. It was stockier than both with a great thick horn that emerged from its wide skull. Its shaggy wool coat was dark brown and spurs in its iron shoes helped the beast claw up the side of mountains with the weight of an armored warrior on its back.

His mood was dark, and his mind was consumed with visions of Stannis screaming. Shiera squeezed his thighs. Her lips brushed against his ear and her words for him alone. “Your focus should be elsewhere. Ashara is not a simple mortal woman to worry over.”

He soared skyward on powerful wings. Rhaegon flew above the beach; above the army that was amassed at the shoreline. The great eagle did not fly alone. Two owls flew at his wings. More ravens flew behind.

The infantry poured from the great war galleys, carracks and cogs. A lit by flames in the maw of Skagos burned one of Stannis’ carracks. Another carrack floated besides the burning ship, rescuing the sailors who jumped from the burning decks into the frigid sea.

Rhaegon and the flock circled above the gathering of Stannis’ men. He did not spy Ashara’s dark armor and robes nor Stannis’ Red Priestess. There were only men. Westerosi men-at-arms and sellswords from the free cities.

The eagles’ sharp eyes scanned the faces of the men, but none presented themselves as particularly regal. The birds flew further inland. Their many eyes scanned the rolling black sand dunes. Scattered across the faces of the black sand dunes was the dark purple fleshy moss. It stretched in patchy fields across the black sand.

Daemon screamed as his third eye burned. Rhaegon’s cry echoed his pain, and he was forced from his skin. The cruel touch of the master of the Stoneborn struck without notice.

Shiera stabilized his place in the saddle before he could tumble. “What was it?”

Daemon squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in between his eyes was intense. “Fuck!”

Their march halted. He beat his fists against his thighs and rocked back and forth in the unicorn’s saddle. Shiera stroked his back. It took him several minutes to recover enough to speak.

Val’s eyes were wide. She turned to Shiera. “What devilry is this?”

Shiera ignored the blonde woman. Her fingers massaged his temples, and her cool touch was a reprieve from the throbbing pain that assaulted his skull.

Val of Skagos

Daemon was not the only Skinchanger to fall suddenly ill. A score of other skinchangers cried out in agony. Their comrades rushed to help. Bjorn cursed darkly as their march was halted.

“What the fuck happened?” Bjorn cursed darkly. The big man lumbered over to the trio.

Shiera shrugged her attention focused squarely on Daemon. He leaned heavily against the vampire woman. Frustration in the big warrior rose. His heavy exhale escaped as a wispy cloud of steam. Bjorn’s giant cave bear sat behind its master. The massive creature dug a wide depression in the black sand. They were on the flat back of a wide dune. The dunes stretched from the sea to the ice-carved hills of the mountains. Great glaciers dug into the dark rock. Narrow canyons were carved into the wall of rock and ice.

“The stoneborn,” Daemon glared at Bjorn. “It felt like it ignited a fire in my brain.” The Targaryen sat up in his saddle. Shiera massaged his shoulders. Val took notice of the man’s fast recovery. The other skinchangers were not so fortunate. Many still writhed in pain in the sand. His mismatched eyes were fierce. “They draw close. They know the horn can harm them and will not leave us be.”

“As does the other southern king,” Bjorn shook his head. “What now? My people have come too far to accept defeat. “

“We do not make camp until we are in the canyons. Stannis will want to meet us on the sands where his numbers will matter most. The unicorns are nimbler than any horse over rough terrain.”

Val bit her lip. The canyons were the corridors into the interior of the island; to the valley Daemon and his vampires presumed the dragon slumbered. They were also the perfect hiding place for the Stoneborn to ambush. No uncorrupted Skagossi had been this far north on the island for decades. They were wholly ignorant of what lay in wait in the canyons.

Their march began again in under an hour. Val watched the silver-haired warrior go to each of the affected skinchangers. His eyes were afire with a fierce determination. The words he spoke were soft, but each man arose with a renewed will to fight.

“The Old Gods are with him,” her comrades whispered. Val agreed. He fought the Old Gods. Now they ride with him. She eyed the silver-haired vampire. And he has his demon. As if she could read her thoughts, the vampire turned her red gaze to Val.

She sat atop a shaggy unicorn. Her lacquered mask was stored away, and her blood-red eyes were luminous in the shadow of her hood. The long-silver mane of the vampire poured from the hooded cloak. Val could not decide if the unrestrained hair was a decision made out of idiocy or confidence.

Daemon jumped back into his saddle. His vampire pressed close against his back. “We ride! For victory!” He thrust his weirwood spear above his head. Behind the slits of his helm, his eyes were ablaze.

“We ride!” Val and over a hundred echoed.

“For victory!” Their voices carried across the dunes.

The canyon walls swallowed them. Sharp jagged rocks crunched under boots and unicorn hooves. Val’s eyes scanned the canyon walls but not even Nyx’s sharp eyes could pierce the gloom of the many crevasses dug into the rock face. Her shadowcat’s fur was raised and the beast was restless.

Their many warhounds barked ceaselessly. Every skinchanger shared their skin’s agitation. Her heart thundered in her chest. We are being stalked.

The canyon narrowed and widened as it winded for miles. Multiple pathways presented themselves and in the growing darkness, it was difficult to discern what was the true path from slot canyons that ended in walls of impassable rock.

They lined their camp with torches and slept in tight clusters with their weapons never far from reach. The warhounds were too agitated to sleep and roamed the camp ceaselessly, nose to the ground. Not even the Nightstalkers could attack undetected.

Val rested her head against Nyx’s side. The shadowcat exhibited was calmer than the hounds but her muscles were still tense beneath her fur. Nyx rested her head on her wide front paws and her pointed ears twitched and rotated at the slightest sound.

Daemon settled beside her. “May I,” he asked. His hand hovered above Nyx’s fur. Val nodded and a smile touched her lips when he stroked her shadowcat’s side.

“You long for your wolf,” Val observed.

He nodded. “More than you can imagine.”

For the first time in hours, he was without his vampire. Val had seen the silver-haired woman earlier. She scaled the vertical cliff face and disappeared into the darkness above. For any other creature, even Nyx, Val would call solitude a death sentence. Yet the elder vampire was something other. Otherworldly even.

Their unicorns were close. Their formed solid furry walls stood bastion against the chill the wind carried. Val had conversed with the spirit of the unicorn’s former rider earlier. This close to his first death, it was easy to distinguish man from beast. His human name was Halle.

“What is your demon up to now?” She asked him. Daemon shook his head. He was too handsome she had decided soon after their first meeting. Even caged and chained he had looked magnificent. Now he was unbound, clad in fur and armor. His hair was braided, and the loose strands stuck to his brow. They were both filthy from battle and the difficult march, but Daemon wore it well. Unlike her, exhaustion had seemed to have not yet touched him. His eyes were bright, and he rested lightly on his side.

“Searching for Ashara,” He answered. The question in her eyes was evident. “They have a special bond. Shiera turned Ashara sometime after I was born. They have been together ever since.”

There were more questions she had for him. The nature of the vampires was a mystery. She had seen their bloodlust firsthand. Never would the memory of the women gorging themselves on the lifeblood of half a dozen guardsmen exit her mind. They had sustained grievous wounds that would permanently maim a mortal, endured weeks of focused torture, and yet were somehow stronger now. They are terrifying. Val admitted to herself. Even with Nyx and Dark Sister in hand, she doubted she could match the dark-haired one, let alone the elder vampire.

“The southern king’s priestess is she kin with your vampires?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. I’ve never seen his witch but the rumors of her have spread throughout Westeros. She is not without power, I’m sure, but Shiera is ancient and for her kind strength comes with age. Even if she is a match for Shiera, Ashara tips the odds in our favor. Not even the Seeress would have stood against us if Ashara was conscious when we met.”

His words were no boast. The vampires had wholly overcome the Seeresses. Val remembered her sister’s burning body and the dying gurgles of the Seeresses as the vampires feasted on their blood. The grizzly death of their matriarchs was shocking. Demoralizing even. Yet now they rallied behind this silver-haired outsider. How many times had she prayed to the Old Gods? Were they the same gods he fought? Had she led her people astray? In service to a false idol?

Val eyed him. His youth was unmistakable. Younger than her by close to three years but he was not without wisdom. And his strength stretched beyond the physical world.

“You look half asleep,” Daemon grinned at her. He should smile more.

“I am,” Val admitted. A long yawn followed her words. She kept her heavy eyes open. Her sore ankle throbbed.

“Sleep,” He commanded. “I will watch over you.”

“I have Nyx,” Val retorted. Her eyes closed.

“And you have me,” His words were soft and for her ears alone.

Most of their supplies, including their wood, lay at the bottom of the bay. Val shivered and patted the ground next to her. “Come keep me warm.” He settled beside her.

She wiped away the drool at the corner of her mouth and rose to a sit. Her back and shoulders were sore, and her ankle swelled in her boot. Her sleep seemed concluded in an instant. Daemon helped her to her feet. “What is it?”

His expression was grave. They would be swept in the tide of battle once again. “I can feel them.”

It was a miracle she slept. No matter how brief. The hounds bayed loudly. None strayed far from the pack and men. The Skagossi were roused, and Bjorn’s bellow shook loose a hail of stone. “Shield wall!”

Val limped to her unicorn and saddled the beast with a grunt.  She turned her mount in place, gathering herself. Dark Sister was revealed to the world in a song of steel. Skagossi smiths could endeavor for a thousand years and produce no weapon as fine as the blade she wielded. The slender grip felt one with her hand. Val brought her shield tight to her chest.

Daemon drew beside her. Alone in his saddle. His weirwood spear was held high. Strapped across his back was the massive dragon horn.

They both donned their helms and guided their mounts into formation beside the other riders. On either side of the shield wall, the unicorn riders guarded the flank. Their backs were to the canyon wall.

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her hot breath mixed with the cool air. The shaggy unicorn between her legs was tense and snorted loudly. Halle was eager for revenge. Nyx was at her side. Crouched and poised for battle.

With the wind came a low, harsh whisper. The voice, if it could be called that, was alien to her ears. She could not understand the words. It was rhythmic. Almost musical. Unpleasant. Her muscles seized. Her body was made of stone. Stiff and immobile. Breathing became impossible. Halle was screaming at her. He had no voice. No mouth but his soul remembered its human body. The unicorn belted and stones cracked beneath its powerful hooves.

“Enough!” Daemon’s terrible hellhorn blared. Light poured from the runes of the horn. For a moment the darkness was driven back. The scream of countless souls echoed throughout the canyon. The spell was broken, and Val slumped in her saddle. She gasped for breath. Others shared her discomfort.

Invisible Nightstalkers fell upon the shield wall which had gone lax under the spell. Men were thrown from their feet. Shields splintered beneath invisible claws. Bones broke and blood spilled across the stones.

Bjorn led the counterattack. His ferocious bellow stirred the courage in his men. His armored cave bear swatted at a Nightstalker. The beast attacked with fang and claw and terrible strength. Its wide maw locked onto something.  Bjorn’s bear was short-faced with massive jaws and paws. Thick spiked hides protected its torso and thick neck. On its hind legs, it stood taller than any man.

Bjorn was beside his beast. On his head was the skull of the slain Nightstalker, infused with the metal of his helm. He swung his pole axe in a two-handed arc. It landed with an audible crunch. Blood sprayed from the crater made in the creature’s body. Its dark blood stained its invisible skin.

Their hounds lunged at the Nightstalkers. Even as they tore chunks of their masters. Fearless the hounds hung from their jaws on the limbs of the invisible beasts. Spearmen stabbed from behind their shields. It was as if fighting blind. They could only guess where the Nightstalkers were. They were fast and strong.

“Hold!” Daemon ordered. Their unicorns snorted and dug their hooves into the ground. They were aggressive beasts and did not shy from battle.

A beautiful song reached her ears. Shiera. Val realized. The vampire’s voice resounded throughout the canyon. A great wind conjured and with the wind came a cloud of fine dust. She shielded her eyes.

“We can see them!” The fine dust clung to steel, bone, and skin. Val spotted the outline of the creatures. A score of those monstrosities wreaked havoc against the foot soldiers. And more crawled up the canyon walls. They were positioning themselves to flank and ravage them from behind.

Her anger grew. “Charge!” She held Dark Sister above her head and dug her heels into her unicorn. Nyx and Daemon were right beside her. Their unicorns scaled the near-vertical walls. Their speed over uneven terrain was incredible.

Daemon drew ahead of her. His spear was straight, and he plunged the spearhead into the stalker’s chest. Val came on the other side of the beast and delivered a slash across her body. Dark Sister sliced deep into hardened flesh and bone.

Before the nightstalker could turn. Two unicorn riders gored the nightmare on their thick horns. Their charge was overwhelming. For once the nightstalkers could not hide in the unseen. They were formidable and even in their retreat, their claws savaged the riders.

Men took their bows then. Mounted archers struck the nightstalkers.

“For Skagos!” Arne roared. The fierce redhead rode at the other side of Daemon. His war axe had tasted blood.

“For Skagos!” Their fury drove back the Nightgaunts. Daemon turned his unicorn’s charge and they fell on the Nightgaunts amidst the shield wall from behind. Val tightened her grip on her unicorn’s reins. It speared its horn into the back of a Nightgaunt. Six spearmen advanced and skewered the beast. She finished off the beast with a stab to the base of its skull.

Nyx savaged any Nightstalker that drew too close to her. Her guardian was fierce and agile. The shadowcat leaped over unicorns and riders to attack the Nightstalkers from above.

“Close the gaps!” Bjorn ordered. The shield wall stepped forward, slowly but surely. With each step, the wall of the shield became more complete. The men paused to stab with their spears. With each step, they drove the Nightgaunts back.

“March!” The foot soldiers bellowed. Their footsteps fell into one cadence.

Every step of their miles-long march was contested. The Nightstalkers harried them constantly. Shiera’s voice drifted down from the top of the canyon. She remained unseen but the effect of her sorcery was incredible. The wind followed their slow march, revealing the ambushing Nightstalkers.

Dust covered every inch of Val. Even the sheen of dark sister was obscured. She and the riders rode before and behind the foot soldiers. The dust storm grew in intensity. It splashed against the walls of the canyon. To her horror, a dozen more Nightstalkers crawled from the crevasses in the rock.

“Daemon!” His eyes followed the point of Dark Sister. They widened. Each of them was on either side of the shield wall. Val rallied the unicorn riders beside her. They rode across a shallow stream.  Her unicorn charged confidently through a field of infant-head-sized rocks. The slope steepened. Her abdomen tightened and Val held her shield high.

A Nightstalker charged on all fours toward her. The grey dust on its invisible skin revealed its massive form to her eyes. Her unicorn dropped its head and they collided. Val clenched her teeth and braced herself against the force of the impact. Her unicorn’s horn glanced off the Nightstalker’s flank. A heavy claw slammed into her shield and Val was knocked from the saddle.

She rotated twice and the padding on her shoulder protected her body from the step of stone that arrested her momentum. Nyx held the Nightstalker at bay as she climbed to her feet.  The Nightstalker bucked her shadowcat from its back. Nyx landed neatly on her feet and bared her fangs.

Val lunged and Dark Sister met air. The Nightstalker pivoted and its fist struck the center of her shield. Val fell against the rocks. She swung Dark Sister wildly and the spell-sharpened sword sliced into flesh. Blood spilled on her gauntlets.

The screech of the Nightstalker was defeaning. Something heavy hit her with the force to crack the wood of her shield. Val’s vision blurred. Nyx’s anger boiled over through their bond. The shadowcat tore rents in invisible flesh before it was slapped away. It was her unicorn that saved her from being crushed. The heavy horn of the great goat gored into the side of the Nightstalker.   

The nightmare did not fall. It dug bloody rents into the thick hide of the unicorn before lifting the enormous goat and slamming it against the side of a boulder. Val rose to unsteady feet. Her unicorn struggled mightily against the legendary strength of the Nightstalker. It was a losing struggle. Halle’s terror of a true death reached Val.

Rhaegon dived from the skies; its talons extended. The Nightstalker abandoned her unicorn to swat at the great eagle, but the bird was too swift.  Three beasts harassed the terrible creature. Nyx exploited the opening in the Nightstalker’s defense to attack its back. Halle smashed into the Nightstalker’s gut and Rhageon’s talons ravaged its head and eyes.

Val circled the beast. Blood spilled from its many wounds, it intermingled with the dust coating its translucent skin and made a dark paste that was easy to follow. Nyx’s fangs crashed into the back of the Nightstalker’s skull. It lifted its head and reached over its shoulders to claw Nyx. She jumped and stabbed upward. Dark Sister entered at the base of its jawline. The longsword plunged into the brain of the nightstalker. Its arms and shoulders slumped. Nyx jumped from its back under Val’s order and the force of her jump toppled the Nightstalker forward.

Halle drove his hooves into the fallen Nightstalkers skull over and over again until naught was left save for a puddle of the brain and a grizzle of the skull.

“Val!” Daemon rode toward her. His helm had been lost. His long silver mane streamed behind him. He had traded his weirwood spear for a steel war axe. Six unicorn riders rode with him. “Mount your unicorn and ride with me.”  

Val climbed into her saddle. She worriedly touched the wounds in her unicorn’s back. Halle shook away her concern. There was naught time to gather her breath or ask questions. Daemon’s terrible hellhorn blared once again. With the sound of screaming souls came a great flood of light and heat. The battle’s focus shifted.

His unicorn surged forward beneath him, and Val and the six other riders followed. The shriek of the Nightstalkers assaulted her ears. She did not chance a glance behind her. The pace they kept was perilous, even for a unicorn.

The canyon walls became a blur in her peripheral. Val eyed the ground before her and squatted low above her saddle. Her knees and thighs absorbed the impact of each leap of the unicorn.

“Ride!” Daemon shouted. His strength of will was undeniable. Courage filled her heart.

The Nightstalkers could not match their pace. The canyon walls fell away. They emerged into a forest of dead trees. Their branches were barren of leaves, and their bark was petrified and hard as stone. Dark moss pierced the snow. Above the tree line, the glacier that dominated the highlands could be seen. White and blue. Greater than the mountains it carved into.  

It was a blighted land. The Seeresses’ healing touch had never reached this far. “We cannot linger here, Daemon,” Val told the Targaryen. He scanned the trees and his eagle soared above them.

“I do not intend to,” His eyes burned with purpose. “The stoneborn amass an army at the base of this valley. Stannis cannot be far behind. All of our enemies gather against us. Now is the time to destroy them.”

They found a single-track trail through the trees. The basin of the canyon revealed itself. It was a land of fire. Pools of molten rock as large as lakes smoked and churned. Vents of foul-smelling gas poured their fumes into the air. Beyond the plain of molten rock, melt from the glacier formed a great pool. At the center of the pool, the waters were dark blue. Closer to the shoreline the waters altered colors. Bands of copper melded with green.

Something massive churned in the largest lake of molten rock. A leviathan. It was colossal. Impossibly large. A jagged chasm opened in the rock. Great slabs of earth were moved and shoved aside. The army of stoneborn at the shore of the lake were dwarfed by the emerging creature.  Val eyed the corrupted men. From this distance, they looked almost ordinary. A war party of more than a thousand.

Daemon blew his horn once again. The note of the hellhorn spilled across the valley. Heat and light swallowed the Targaryen entirely. Val squeezed her eyes shut. The power of the horn felt absolute. The cold of the frigid North has driven away.

She had stood near Daemon multiple times when he sounded the horn. This time felt different. A thousand souls screamed in agony, ecstasy, and all the emotions in between. Her eyes were shut tight, but Val could still see the Targaryen before her. He was awash in light and fire. His eyes shifted from mismatched grey and indigo to opal and amethyst, to tourmaline and jade. His humble armor gave way to raiment befitting of a king.

The vision faded. His visage turned terrible. A cruel warrior. A conqueror. An enslaver.

Daemon held the power of the world in his fist. The six other riders screamed as an otherworldly force tore their souls from their bodies. Val watched in horror as their shadows were swallowed in the light of the horn. Their bodies collapsed into piles of ash. Even their unicorns were not spared. Halle fear was monumental as his soul and that of his unicorn were dragged into the horn. She collapsed to her knees in the ashes of her unicorn and braced herself for the same fate.

Val’s eyes opened. Her breath hitched. Daemon’s magnificent mane was made of starlight. Smoke billowed from his nostrils. His eyes were two burning stars. The heat that poured from the horn was intense. As great as a forest fire. The Targaryen did not burn, even as the snow beneath the petrified trees melted.

Great ribbons of light lanced from the horn. They traveled across the valley at a speed no arrow could match. Val’s mind struggled to make sense of the scale of the beast. The rings of light collided with walls of black scale and burned runes as tall as she into the monster’s flesh. Lava poured off the creature and even from this distance she could feel the heat exposed by its emergence.

The beast was a moving mountain. Each of its movements came with the sound of pulverizing rock. Its head was larger than any house in the village beneath king’s house. A high-pitched cry left its great lungs as the rest of its long neck emerged from the earth.

Death came to the force of stoneborn by accident. The lava poured off the scales of the emerging dragon onto dozens of fleeing stoneborn. Chasms opened in the earth as the dragon pulled itself from its depths. Men were swallowed and crushed and burned by the molten earth.

The winged forelimbs of the colossal dragon emerged, and the muscles of the beast surged as it pulled the rest of its body from the earth. Waves of molten rock met the glacier and the base of the valley exploded as countless tons of ice were converted to steam in an instant.

Each step of the dragon shook the earth. Its high-pitched cry seemed great enough to wake the heavens. Runes sparked along its side, visible even through the thick steam. Its head emerged from the low cloud and Val’s body quaked in fear at the sight of its great green eyes.

Daemon gave a shout. A command, Val realized. The dragon turned its colossal head. Black smoke emerged from its nostrils. It was a savage-looking creature. Two Enormous horns emerged from its skull, curved forward while its snout ended in a great spike. Its lips peeled back exposing a maw of enormous black teeth. Its growl shook her bones.

“Dohaeris!” Daemon shouted. He struck the butt of his weirwood spear into the earth. The rune on the black dragon’s chest flared bright and the beast screamed in outrage. Its tail lashed and shattered stone.

Val’s mouth tasted full of ash. She clutched the hilt of Dark Sister and used the sheathed sword as a cane to return to her feet. Her ankle ached and she stumbled to Daemon. He embraced her without taking his eyes off the dragon.

The beast approached. It loomed tall over the two humans. Its scales were spiked armor and the heat that emanated from the creature was incredible. It lowered its head. She was sure its jaws opened wider than the main doors of kingshouse. The smell of brimstone wafted from its nostrils. Daemon laid a hand on the beast’s colossal snout.

“They were good men, Val. I will not hold their sacrifice in vain.”

Val nodded but she was at a loss for words. What could she say to him?  Thank him for not condemning her to the same fate as her comrades? Curse him for the doom of loyal men of Skagos to such a cruel fate? Blood magic.

The Targaryen marveled at the size of the creature. “I name you Ivaryx. The Cannibal.”

“Come, Val. We end this war now.” Val noticed his eyes then. Gone were the mismatched irises of grey and indigo. They were as gold as the light of the rising sun.

They mounted the dragon just behind the base of its massive skull. Its long neck lifted, and Val’s stomach lurched as they rose higher and higher above the earth. Her arms wrapped around Daemon’s torso and his fingers dug between the dragon’s scale.

To her surprise, the dragon did not take to the skies. Petrified trees were crushed under the dragon’s bulk as it strode across the earth on great earth-shaking strides.

“He has not flown in age. His wings need time to gather strength.”

The canyon was too narrow for the width of the dragon. Instead, the great wyrm scaled rock and ice. It moved like a massive four-legged snake. Claws on its forelimbs gripped into ice and rock. The dragon flexed its wing and for long moments they glided over the land before returning to the earth with great clashes of dragon claws against stone and ice.

They came upon the beach with great speed. Stannis knights were gathered before the maw of the canyon. A thousand men there were. They scattered like ants upon the dragon’s landing.

“Dracarys!” Daemon screamed. Infernal flames poured from the dragon’s maw. The flames poured just above the heads of the men and collided with the face of a black dune. An explosion shook men from their feet. Horses screamed in terror.

The dragon swept its flames in a wide arc constructing a wall of fire. Stannis’ army was trapped.

“Stannis!” Daemon called out once his dragon stopped its flames. A rumble sounded deep in the dragon’s chest. It was a force of nature. These men could be destroyed with a single sweep of its fiery breath. “Tell your men to kneel before their true king. Tell them to lay down their arms and submit. Do this and I will accept your surrender.”

A half dozen arrows were launched at them. Daemon grunted as an arrow buried into his shoulder padding. Ivaryx responded with a tongue of flame that engulfed the archers. An armored knight rolled away from the burning men. His cloak was on fire.

Daemon bid his dragon to lower its neck. The Targaryen jumped into the sand. He approached the prone knight with his weirwood spear held at ready. The knight abandoned his cloak and drew his sword.

The Targaryen paused as the light of the sword was revealed to the world. Its blade was awash with all the colors of the sunset.

“There is no heat. Nothing more than an illusion.” His golden eyes were stern.

“The steel is real.” The knight gripped the hilt of his luminous sword with two hands.

“This does not have to end in a fight. Submit and I will restore you to Lord of Storm’s End. My uncle saw you as an ally. There is no reason why we cannot be.”

The knight’s voice was bitter. “You had my wife and daughter murdered. My priestess is lost or dead and you expect me to submit? To ally with you?! I will see you dead before I leave this world.” He charged Daemon.

Daemon backpaddled and kept the king at a distance with quick stabs of his spear. The king parried and slashed at Daemon’s unprotected face. The silver-haired warrior was already out of range of the blade. His speed and agility were too much for the southern king to match. The steelhead of the weirwood spear punched through padded armor at the junction of the knight’s arm and chest.

The spearhead came back wet with blood. Daemon stood poised in a fighting stance. Wounded, the opposing king was still defiant.

“Our is the Fury!”

Sword and spear clashed. Val watched anxiously but there was little to worry about. The southern king was older, slower, and could not overcome the longer reach of the spear. Daemon methodically targeted the gaps in the southern king’s armor. Bleeding, the warrior king continued his attack until his feet grew sluggish and his sword pointed low. Then Daemon went on the offensive. His strikes were precise. Brutal. Without mercy.

He assaulted the gaps in the southern king’s armor. Pressed the knight back until he stumbled. The butt of the weirwood spear smashed against the king’s helm and the armored man fell to his side. The next thrust put the spearhead between the slit of his visor. Daemon yanked the spear back.

He turned from the slain king and strode towards the mass of terrified men. His confidence was undeniable. He drove the butt of his weirwood spear into the sand. “What will it be?” He shouted. “You followed Stannis to the edge of the earth. Will you follow him in death? Kneel or burn!” Ivaryx hissed. It was a terrible noise. A promise of fiery death.

They knelt.

Chapter Text

Lady Ashara Dayne

The shadow warrior stood taller than both women. It bore the visage of a naked man. Bald and muscular. Its red eyes were two stoked coals fresh from the fire. She had not seen Stannis Baratheon for many years, but she was almost certain this shadow shared his face. His features were twisted with malice.

Ashara fought back her rising dread.

“The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows. I am servant of R’hllor, go forth and strike down the enemy of our lord,” The Red Priestess zealously proclaimed.

In a sudden burst of action, the shade lunged. Ashara rolled away from the shadow, but she was too slow to avoid its sword. A cry of agony left her lips as the shadow sword cleaved deep into her armor and tasted the flesh beneath. The smell of burnt flesh reached her sensitive nose.

She crashed into a barrel of oil and narrowly avoided a vicious slash that would have cleaved her in two. The shade’s fist sent her crashing into the side of the hold. Oil spilled from the overturned barrels.

It was just as fast as her, and far stronger. The vampire recovered and hurled a barrel at the shade. It neatly sliced the barrel in half. Flaming oil splattered across the floors, and the walls, of the hold. The pools of oil from the spilled barrels were ignited filling the hold with smoke and fire. Not a moment later, an explosion knocked Ashara from her feet.

Sea water raced into the hold. It expanded the cracks in the weakened wood. A thunderous boom was the only warning before the entire side of the ship’s hold collapsed under the force of the rushing sea. Ashara did not have time to breathe before she was swept away in the tide.

Val of Skagos

The great black dragon shook the earth as it landed. The surf surged around the winged beast and the spray showered Val and the rest of the men on the frozen beach with salt. Weeks of cold wind turned the snow dominating most of the beach into hard ice. Val stood on a narrow strip of sand preserved from the snowfall by the high tide.

Ivaryx loomed above them all. His scales were soot black and seemed to drink in all light from the ghostly sun above. His wings were a deep and vibrant green, as were his molten eyes. His body was long and lean. Scales stronger than armor covered its body from tail to snout.

Seven massive horns sprouted from the dragon’s massive skull. Two of the seven horns curved forward like the horns of a ram. The other five rose vertically, twisting upon themselves like ebony black roots. They had metallic sheen to them, as if the dragon was a melding of flesh and metal.

His shadow fell upon the army gathered on the beach. The dragon’s neck was as thick as an oak tree, and it swept its wide head over them. The men froze under the gaze of its great green eyes. Ivaryx snorted with agitation. A great cloud of steam rose around the dragon as the cold seawater came in contact with its coal-hot scales.

A golden rune burned on the chest of the dragon, like a fresh brand a farmer might apply to its livestock. The dragon lowered its long neck so its master could dismount. The dragon king was clad in steel and fur from head to toe. In his gauntleted hands, he clutched heavy chains that served as his dragon’s reins. They were once the anchors to the slain southern king’s warship. Now they were wrapped around the two forward-curving horns protruding a dozen feet from the dragon’s skull. A crude leather saddle had been fashioned for the dragon king in haste. It sat at the crest of the dragon’s back, where its neck met its body.

Southern knights and sellswords shivered but all men waited patiently for their king to dismount. Daemon had soundly defeated Stannis only two days ago. The sight of his dragon brought Stannis’ fleet and army to an immediate surrender.

Val had not dreamed such a thing possible but the end of the Skanen finally seemed possible. Daemon flew on the back of his dragon to alleviate their rear guard under assault from the Skanen who controlled the mountain passes. The dragonlord singlehandedly slaughtered the Skanen on Skagos to the man, and their forces were now bolstered by full might of Skagos.

In those two days, the dragon king flew endless sorties across Skagos. His dragon’s fires turned thousands of acres of the corrupted forest into raging infernos. Ash rain choked the skies. It clung to their skin, their armor, she could taste it in their rations. The power of the dragon was undeniable. Absolute. The boy king had awoken a vengeful god.

“King!” Skag warriors started the chant. They banged their weapons on their shields in rhythm. The southerners were not long to follow.

“King!” Val did not join the chant. The memory of Halle’s terror as his soul was devoured by the hellhorn was not something she could forget. She could still taste the ash of the other riders in her mouth. Still remembered the horror present in their dying screams. The betrayal on their faces. They were good men who did not deserve such a death. Her mind returned to her sister. Dalla died in a struggle over the horn. Does she share Halle’s fate? For her soul to be trapped in that horn for all eternity? Val knew with certainty that her sister’s death was not the end of her suffering. She angrily wiped away the tears on her cheeks.

Ivaryx buried its belly in the sand. The king climbed down his dragon’s long neck, using the scales and spines as hand and foot hold until he dropped several feet onto the beach.

Thousands of knees touched the beach at once. The dragon snorted and the heat of its breath along with the smell of brimstone washed over them. Val looked up, to see the black beast spread its wings. A spray of salt and hot water warmed by the heat of the massive dragon’s body  showered the army as the dragon flew over their heads to the sea cliffs.

“The Stoneborn know their end is coming.” The dragon king spoke. His voice was heard by both ear and mind. He removed his helm and held it under the arm. His silver mane was made grey with the ash and was plastered to his brow by sweat. His eyes gleamed like two bright mismatched stars. Evidence of the foul power he wielded. Strapped tight across his back was the massive hellhorn. He stood tall and his gleaming eyes scanned the army strewn across the beach. He seemed taller now and possessed an undeniable dominance.

“We will bring their end with Fire and Blood!” The Dragon King promised. His pride and rage washed over them. They could not help but be influenced by his confidence.

“King Daemon!” The entire beach chanted in fervor as they rose to their feet. Hundreds surged around the king. Many were eager to simply touch him. To lay their hands on his armor and share in his greatness. Val grew dizzy trying to resist the intoxicating wave of emotions.

They had raided the southern ships of their wares. A great array of tents were constructed on the beach. Temporary shelter before they set sail to invade Skane. Time was of the essence. This invasion would need to be a quick one. They did not have the provisions for several weeks of fighting and even with the Skanen defeated on Skagos, a resupply from their village was impractical.

Skane was a narrow, mountainous isle. There were few beaches that could support the landfall of an army. A number of them were likely swallowed by the glacier that covered nearly a fourth of the island in summer. Their options were limited, and the limited options would allow the Skanen to prepare for their invasion.

This was all being discussed now. Loudly.

Val sat at the high table in the command tent. Daemon insisted she was present and at his side. The leaders of the Skagossi warband were all present. Bjorn and Kormack. Fat Bjalfi and his eldest son.

The southerners bolstered their numbers. Stannis sailed with fifteen hundred men to Skagos. Casualties were inflicted heavily during the fierce fighting against the Stoneborn but those that remained were tested and hardened. As aware of the threats from Skane as any native of Skagos. The leaders of the Southerner warriors sat at a table opposite them. First amongst the southerners was Salladhor Saan. He was once the admiral of the slain king’s fleet. Now he and his captains served Daemon.

The men were locked in a heated conversation.

She listened absently to the arguements. Her mind strayed to the memory of her mother. A fierce woman and a talented warg. Closer to their grandfather’s legendary abilities than she. Val wondered what she would make of this foreign king. This dragonlord.

What would mother make of me? Our people are safe, but my sister and her child are dead. My family is almost extinct. She never thought this great victory would taste so bitter.

The king squeezed her leg. His long fingers curled around her inner thigh. Val met his eyes. They did not glow. His dragon slumbered as did the sorcery that controlled the great beast.

“We cannot forget the clans of giants that once roamed Skane. If the Stoneborn were once men then imagine what has become of the giants? They may be beasts that can challenge a dragon!”

“They can try! Let the Skanen throw their best against Ivaryx and all will be reduced to ashes,” Daemon Targaryen silenced the long hall with a raised mug full of mead. Conversations stalled as the warriors from both Skagos and the south took notice. Every man grabbed a mug and raised it skyward. The dragon king was still clad in his armor. He stood tall. His long silver hair was loose, and his eyes were fierce. His helmet rested on the table before him. If battle came the king would be ready at a moment’s notice.

“Stannis Baratheon is dead. His priestess is my prisoner. The Stoneborn have been forced back to their island. None of you would have thought any of this possible.” He spoke in the Old Tongue with much greater ease than when she had first met him. He repeated his statement in the southern tongue. His eyes scanned the tent. Val noticed the hope and pride in the faces that stared back at the king.

The southern warriors seemed unsure of what to make of the king. Daemon had imprisoned or executed the slain king’s most ardent supporters almost immediately. A dozen men were fed to his dragon before those with wavering loyalty bent their knees.

Submit or die does little to inspire loyalty but it does inspire fear.

“Long has Skagos suffered but now we will seize your salvation with fire and blood!” Daemon took a long drink from his cup and the commanders followed. His eyes were wild. He slapped his fist across his chest. “I will rain fire down on their heads. Their armies will be broken. Ivaryx will melt the very bones of any abomination we face, and we will force those that survive into the sea!”

The king’s exuberance uplifted the room of commanders.   

The flap of the tent opened with a surge of wind. The silver-haired vampire entered the command tent. Every eye fixated on the woman. The last of Seeress’s curse had been expended. There were no horns now and the crimson eyes, startling visual reminders of her unnatural state had softened to green and lilac. Val understood why the Seeresses forced their people to see the vampire’s true nature. With their deceptive loveliness, it was easy for men to forget this beautiful woman was a monster. She uttered a short sentence of High Valyrian to Daemon before exiting the tent.

The men paused their discussion to stare at the king.

Val stamped down the urge to refuse the vampire’s summon when Daemon looked at her pointedly. “Continue, I will return when I can,” Daemon told the men.

An incredible chill assaulted her the moment they left the tent. It was considerably colder here on the northernmost portion of the island than in the valley. There were no stone walls to shield them from the wind that churned the sea into thirty-foot-tall waves. Ash rain stung her eyes and settled in her hair and on her armor.

Shiera was already dozens of feet away and did not spare a glance over her shoulder to check if they were following. Her unbound silver locks danced wildly in the wind. She was without her armor. Her grey dress was form-fitting and thin, but the woman was unaffected by the bite of the wind.

They followed Shiera’s quick strides to the tent near the center of the camp. The interior of the tent was very dark. So much so that Val’s eyes had trouble adjusting.

Shiera muttered something in a foreign tongue that Val was sure was a curse.  A candle burned atop a table in the center of the tent. No, not a candle. Her eyes had difficulty reconciling what was the source of the light. It was as long as her arm, jagged with many sharp edges. A single piece of obsidian illuminated with an unpleasantly bright light. No flame. No heat. Her heartbeat quickened and a sharp pain grew behind her eyes.

“Do not stare at it unless you wish to lose your wits,” Shiera commanded, and Val tore her eyes away.

Mutilated carcasses hung from the beams of the tent. The vampire disappeared for a moment behind the bisected torso of a Nightgaunt. An exceptionally muscular Stoneborn hung opposite the Nightgaunt. The crown of its skull had been removed along with both legs below the knee.

“What dark magic do you perform now?” Val accused.

The vampire scoffed. “My dark magic is the reason why your people have a future. Be grateful, wench.” Incense burned in scones spread across the tent. Val sneezed.

“Have you learned anything?” Daemon questioned.

“Their anatomy confirms my suspicions. They are remarkably similar to normal men. Even their organs are still largely in the same places. The winged ones are all women. Their bones are thinner, hollow like a bird. Their breasts have receded, more space for their expanded chest and ribcage but the reproductive parts are all still there. Their lungs are larger as is the nasal cavity despite not having nostrils.” She pointed with a small sharp knife, directing their eyes at the different sections of the mutilated corpses. Not mutilated., Val corrected herself. The vampire’s cuts were precise. She discarded the knife on the table and manipulated the chains to lower the half-decapitated Stoneborn.

Shiera gestured for Daemon to step closer. “His skull is much larger, thicker too, but the size and shape of the brain is roughly the same as a normal man.”

“Roughly?” Daemon questioned, sensing some deeper meaning behind the vampire’s words.

She gently lifted the brain from the creature’s skull cavity. Slimy, red-grey flesh oozed in her palms. “The area near the front and base of the brain is noticeably enlarged.”

“I will have to take you at your word,” Daemon admitted. “What purpose does the change serve? Are they smarter than us?”

Shiera shrugged. “Even vampires do not have answers to all of nature’s mysteries. Indeed, the more I know, the more I know what I do not know.” She lowered the brain back into the skull cavity and scrubbed her hands in a bowl of soapy water. “They remind me of the products of Valyrian flesh forges. Goggossos still harbors some of the descendants of the of the products of the Flesh Forges but I have never seen nor heard of anything of this scale.”

Shiera took a seat at the table bearing the obsidian candle and gestured for Daemon to do the same. Val stood awkwardly, trying not to stare at the strange source of light. The king had no such restriction.

“Stannis’ Priestess birthed another shade. I suspect she meant for it to be your assassin, but Ashara foiled that plan.” The two stared intently at the strange light. Val noticed Daemon’s shoulders tense.

“Another?”

“Renly Baratheon and the castellan were murdered under suspicious circumstances. How do you kill a king camped in the middle of his army? How do you take an impenetrable castle without a siege and no casualties? Only the faceless men rival a shadow assassin’s effectiveness.”

Val swallowed. More dark magic.

“Why wouldn’t Stannis have his priestess create an army of shadows if they are so effective?”

“Birthing one is not without cost. It requires a fraction of a soul and souls do not replenish. Stannis’ soul must have been nearly depleted to have been used in three. They have a single purpose, point it at a target and they are relentless until that target is destroyed. Ashara and I knew that once the Red Woman learned of you, she would try this art if she could. Successful twice, why not a third time?”

Daemon swallowed. “And Ashara? Have you found her?”

Shiera’s face twisted. “Even with the Glass Candle, she remains obscured to me.”

Daemon’s fist slammed against the table. “Damn that witch!”

Shiera shook her head. “That magic is beyond most mortals. Stannis’ priestess is talented if nothing else. Even in Asshai, where no practice is forbidden, Shadowbinders summon shades with caution. The flickering of the candle indicates that it endures. Empowered even.”

Shiera unlocked the chest. “This was supposed to be a gift for when you were coronated in King’s Landing but the circumstances dictate otherwise.” Daemon deftly caught the cloth-wrapped bundle with one hand. The anger coursing through him caused him to shake. “Another gift?”

“Kingmaker, gift-giver, greatest sorcerous to ever live, I am the bearer of many titles. Open it,” Shiera commanded.

Daemon unwrapped the bundle to reveal a large dagger in a golden sheath. There was a ruby embedded into the hilt of the blade that was identical to that of Dark Sister’s. Val was unsurprised to see the characteristic swirls of Valyrian steel revealed when the blade was unsheathed.

“I would prefer if you were armed with Blackfyre alongside the dagger, but Aegor irks me even in death. It matters not, a dagger is quicker to draw, and it will destroy the soul fueling the shadow warrior all the same.”

“This is Bittersteel’s dagger?” Daemon asked.

Shiera’s laughter pierced the air. “No, think bigger. Much bigger,”

Daemon paused to stare at the dagger. He rotated it twice, tested the balance of the blade, and admired its craftsmanship. “The conqueror.”

“Visenya had it commissioned for her brother before their wedding. Aegon had the last of his pyromancer’s modify this blade and likely Blackfyre before his death.” She produced the great dragon horn from the chest and knelt before the king. “There is an inscription in the steel only visible when the blade is heated.”

Daemon contacted the dagger to one of the Valyrian steel bands that encircled the horn. The runes ignited and the wave of heat was as comforting as a lover’s embrace. Glyphs shone on the hot steel.

“From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire,” Daemon and Shiera spoke in unison.

The vampire smiled. “Aegon’s prophetic dreams were lost after the Dance of Dragons, but the Targaryens did not forget. Not entirely. Those dreams are embedded in our bloodline. There were many Targaryen dreamers throughout the centuries. Many were tormented by their dreams and driven to insanity. Others like your great-grandfather were granted greater clarity to make sense of their dreams.”

“You were the clarity.”

“Guilty,” Shiera’s tone was almost playful. “I could not leave your birth to chance. You see Aegon the Fifth would have derailed prophecy and left the world to its doom. I corrected the path set by the conqueror and you are the end result.”

“Is this the Doom my ancestors foresaw?”

“What else could it be?” Shiera answered. She stood over the king and squeezed his shoulders. “This is what you were made for. Save the world before you rule it.”

The king took a moment to compose himself. He turned to Val. “Val, sit down. I can feel your discomfort from here.”

“I prefer to stand,” Val answered, drawing a frown from the king.

Shiera’s eyes turned predatory. Val squeezed the hilt of Dark Sister. “What more could you want, child? Your people have a future. Thanks to us and yet your anger grows on the eve of a great triumph. Pathetic.”

Val grew defensive. She affixed a scathing glare on Shiera. “Fuck you. I lost my sister! I watched my comrades have their souls devoured by that blasted hell horn. They were people. My friends and that means nothing to you! You only see us as fuel. Fuel to grow your power. Do not pretend your intentions have a shred of nobility.”

“Val-” Daemon began, and she interrupted him.

“And you. I know there is still compassion in that heart of yours but you grow colder and more callous each day you spend with her. You did not hesitate to steal the souls of men who ready to lay down their lives for you! Do not deny it! I saw it with my own eyes,” She angrily wiped the tears running down her cheeks. “Do they still suffer in that horn of yours? Did I doom my sister to an eternity of agony?”

“Those were warriors. They knew the risks,” Shiera said flippantly. “You stood by and watched as your Seeresses sacrificed children born without the gift. No, not only watch. You were part of their inner circle. Your hands are not clean. You are not innocent. Stop pretending to be,” Shiera’s words bit like a knife.

“That was a sacrifice agreed by my people. The Seeresses led us but we all shared responsibility. It was necessary so our children could have a future. This is different. Every sacrifice benefits you and you alone. You claim to be a savior but all I see is a leech.”

“Enough!” Daemon snarled. His fury was sudden and explosive. Val took a step back in surprise. The king was inches away from her, close enough that she could feel his breath. “Shiera, leave us.” She did not argue and departed swiftly from the tent.

“Have you forgotten what we are up against? We are men who dare defy a god! If there is any advantage to be had then I will take it,” Daemon gripped her by the shoulders.

“My sister-”

“Her soul burns in Dragonbinder,” Val flinched at his words. His gaze froze her in place. “The second your sister put the horn to her lips she damned herself. I told her not to challenge me. I warned her, Val. But it was either me or her.” The king’s eyes grew pensive. Distant. “And the men…they… You saw it, didn’t you? Ivaryx was resisting the horn…They died so Skagos could live.”

Val tried to step away from him, but Daemon held her tight. His eyes burned with a feverish intensity. “None of you know what we are truly up against. This isn’t a monster. It is an abyss.”

“And that abyss gazed into you,” Val leveled her chin. “That horn is cruel, the souls that power it will never know peace.” His grip on her arms grew lax. She cupped his cheek. “You are the greatest skin-changer alive, if there is anyone able to control that dragon without the horn then it is you. When this is over, I implore you to destroy the horn when this is done and let the souls trapped inside finally know peace.”

Daemon Targaryen

Sleep remained elusive for the dragonlord. Shiera, a creature of the night, did not require much rest herself. They were in his sleeping tent now. She was a welcome companion in his insomnia. Thoughts of Ashara kept him from finding any rest.

He laid with his back to Shiera’s belly. She cradled his head between her bare breasts and her lithe long legs were on either side of his torso. They were entirely nude save for the jewelry the vampire wore. Her long silver-gold hair tickled his skin wherever it touched and mixed with his own mane.

Shiera’s cold skin felt therapeutic against his. Ever since he blew Dragonbinder to claim The Cannibal, he felt almost feverishly hot. The feeling had not dissipated in the days since. It was a blessing in the frigid northern winds but a curse when he sought sleep.

She traced his chest, running her long nails across his skin. “The heat is a consequence of the additional power you now possess. That horn not only strongly binds a dragon to its rider but induces a physical change in the rider as well. Your dragon shares its power with you. Fire made flesh. You are more than just a man.”

“Sounds dramatic,” he responded dryly.

The vampire pinched his nipple, drawing a wince from him. “You have grown accustomed to the extraordinary. This is a power the conqueror would have killed for.”

Her tone gave him pause. Shiera was rarely forthcoming with details beyond what she thought necessary. “What do you mean? The conqueror had all the power a man could wish for.”

“Not the power of the Dragonbinder,” Shiera’s mismatched eyes glowed with confidence. “You have only tasted a fraction of its power. The sacrifices we made to master the horn are necessary.”

He could not suppress his guilt. Val’s words stuck with him long after she departed. Shiera sensed his inner turmoil. Her thumb caressed his lips. “Will you be this gentle in a hundred years I wonder?”

A hundred years. His mind whirled. “What are you talking about? A hundred years.”

Their gazes met and her silver hair fell in a curtain around their faces. “Do you think I toiled for a century to breed a man that could die from the common cold? Do you think I waited a century for your bones to become brittle or your heart to weaken in just thirty seasons?  You have felt the change, haven’t you? Westeros will look at their King and say that Age of Heroes has come again. That I promise you.”

He swallowed heavily. Every man eventually learned he was going to die at some point. Death was a fact of life. Unavoidable. Inescapable. Inevitable. Not if Shiera has her way. “What is your gain in this Shiera? This has to be more than just willing my birth into existence. Why do you need me? Why didn’t you claim the horn or the dragon for yourself?”

Shiera chuckled. “The horn was never meant for me. Even if I wanted it, I could not claim it. The horn requires a soul. Mine is long gone. That is not my destiny. It is yours.” She traced his cheekbones. “Do not deny it.”

Daemon could not dismiss his unease. Shiera’s certainty was unnerving. Perhaps he should have been grateful of her gift but once again she had made major decisions with consulting him first. “You need to understand Shiera that I am beginning to grow tired of your secrecy.”

“Secrecy?” Shiera cocked her, pondering the word. “Does a mother protecting her child qualify as secrecy?”

“I am not a child,” He insisted but winced internally at just how juvenile that sentence sounded. He pushed away from the vampire to sit on his knees.

“You are to me,” Shiera replied. “I have seen the birth and death of more than a dozen kings. I have watched the seasons change countless times. Your ten and seven years is naught more than a heartbeat.” She tilted her head. “Do you not trust me? Have I not proven unequivocally that I act in your best interest? Power, immortality, an endless line of women to satisfy that beautiful cock of yours are within your grasp because of me.”

“The real question is do you trust me? I have followed you blindly but that must change,” Daemon insisted. He did his best to ignore Shiera’s playful pout. She tilted her head. If he was not mistaken her back arched slightly, pressing her breasts forward.  He could not hide his body’s reaction to her beauty. Shiera did not fail to notice.

“Come here, Daemon.” She patted the bed. Her knees opened slightly, giving him a tantalizing peak of her succulent cunt. “Do not the let the words of the priestess nor my former lover cloud your opinion.”    

Daemon stood instead. “I cannot do this with you tonight.”

Shiera played coy. “Do what my king?” She stretched one of her long legs and tapped his chest with her pretty toes. “Come relax your mind and body before battle.”

“Do you think I am simpleton? I know what you are doing. Tonight, your charms will not work.” Daemon turned away from her. That was a mistake. Shiera launched herself on his back. Jon grunted in surprise. The two fell over. They rolled once and then twice. Shiera’s claws bit into his skin. She nearly matched his strength and resisted his effort to push her away. Dragonlord and vampire settled with her astride his hips.

Daemon breathed heavily. He felt blood sliding down his arms and his thighs. Shiera’s claws were dug into his shoulders. “I could have killed you a thousand times. Drained you while slept, while we fucked, and even just now. I know every artery; where to slice to bleed you dry in minutes.”

Daemon glared at the vampire. “What is your point, Shiera?”

“You are not food like the other humans. Even though your blood is exquisite. I do not see you as cattle.” Daemon winced as she withdrew her claws from his shoulders. Shiera watched the blood flow across his skin with feline like focus. “You do not know the significance of that statement.”

With a surge of strength, Daemon flipped her onto her back. Shiera’s legs wrapped his waist while her claws dug into his side. “Enlighten me,” he ordered.

“Do you not feel it? Just months ago, you were a boy in a swamp. A bastard with no inheritance with a fabricated name and identity. Now these people look at you as their savior. Rightfully so. Imagine where you will be in a century?”

Shiera angled her hips. He grunted as her wet core slid against the underside of his cock. A flood of potent pheromones enticed him even further. He grew as hard as Valyrian steel. Shiera licked his throat.

“Few men have ever wielded the power I promise you. With enough time you will eclipse them all.” She rolled her hips, spreading her wetness across their sexes. He tightened his grip on her arms. Her elongated claws dug into his biceps. “If I wanted a thrall, I could have chosen any other man. If I wanted a powerful thrall, an archon or a triarch would have been suitable. Human or vampire, I could have any man I ever wanted.” She hissed when his cock brushed against her clit.

Despite their situation, a spark of jealousy flashed in his chest at the thought of her with other men. Shiera did not fail to notice his expression. She bared her elongated fangs in challenge. “Do you understand? You are different from other humans. Even the other wargs.”

“Why does Bloodraven hate you?” he questioned.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“He was like me, a powerful warg with Targaryen blood.  I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“He was the mold. Brynden showed me the potential of wedding two old and powerful bloodlines together. The man left something to be desired, but his abilities were undeniable.” She gripped his bottom with one hand and the root his cock with the other. They both grunted when he slipped inside of her. The vampire pulled him closer till he was buried in her slickness to the root. Shiera’s lips swallowed his moan.

Daemon shuddered as she tightened around him. She kissed him deeply. Her intoxicating flavor drove him wild. Their sexes crashed together. He pulled his hips back and then pressed forward. A hungry noise emanated from the vampire.

She spread her legs wide, showcasing her considerable flexibility. Daemon gripped her breast. His cock relentlessly pumped in and out of her juicy cunt. “Fuck me you bastard.”

He pinched her nipple and tugged on it roughly. Shiera growled at him, and her spine arched. She was exquisite. Gleaming silver hair, full perfectly round breasts capped with prominent pink nipples. Her belly clenched as his cock hilted inside of her, Daemon eyed the lean muscles beneath her soft skin. “You are sexy bastard yourself.” Shiera bit her bottom lip and stared at him full of lust. He pressed her thighs against the floor and bent the vampire in half. They both grunted as his hips smacked against her upturned arse.

Ivaryx soared high in the frigid skies. Massive storm clouds rose in every direction so high that not even his dragon could reach the top of them. Lightning occasionally rippled across the black clouds accompanied by claps of thunder. Shiera’s sorcery and the Dragonbinder held the storm at bay, enabling his fleet to cross the treacherous waters and make landfall on an icy beach. Yet the storm did not dissipate. Instead, it seemed to grow in power. He wondered how long they could hold it at bay.

He was alone on the back of Ivaryx. Ivaryx’s great wings created an enormous amount of turbulence with every stroke. Daemon felt like he was astride a living storm made of scale, muscle, and fire.

Daemon tightly gripped the chains anchored to The Cannibal’s forward curving horns. His gauntlets made maintaining the grip on the chains more difficult than he liked. Even with the cold air coursing around his body, the dragonlord felt feverishly hot in his furs and armor.

Dragonbinder was strapped across his shoulder and rested on his lap, ready to blow at a moment’s notice. Below his army moved spread into two groups. One much smaller would stay behind to establish a beachhead and fortified camp. The bulk of his forces would assault the island.

Daemon knew little of the history of Skane. Not much was written in the books in the library at Greywater. Barren and rocky, that was all he remembered. Those words could not be further from the truth. Corruption was present. Stronger here than anywhere in Skagos. The land itself was entirely modified. An alien world, one not meant for men.

A thousand feet above Skane, Daemon realized the moss on Skagos was in its juvenile phase as the overgrowth here was tall enough to nearly swallow a man whole. Plains of the growth stretched for miles on end. The heavy snow littering the earth did not seem to impede the growth. Stalks of the growth swayed in the wind like tentacles of some great grotesque beast. Most disturbing were the pulsating structures rising from the growth. Daemon guided his dragon closer to the structure.

It was vast. Black with vibrant sections of purple. The structure was bulbous and resembled an oversized organ than something built with conventional tools. It was alive, Daemon was sure of it. Ivaryx snarled and flames boiled in the dragon’s throat without Daemon’s command. The dragon loosed a river of flame and the entire island seemed to shudder.

Daemon heard an inhuman noise, as loud as an avalanche. A mental lance pierced his skull and he and Ivaryx both writhed in agony. They fell several hundred feet before coherence returned to Daemon. He blew Dragonbinder in desperation. Power poured into the dragonlord. The souls screamed in the horn screamed in agony as they were churned into fuel. The rush of power was instantaneous. Intoxicating.

Ivaryx caught their fall with a sudden spread of his wings. Anger surged through the dragonlord and the dragon. The Cannibal responded to the mental attack with a barrage of fire. His powerful flames were altered by the sorcery of the horn. The river of fire divided into three swirling columns of fire that pierced and hollowed into the structure.  

Another inhuman scream sounded, and the structure exploded in a brilliant flash of light and heat. Ivaryx roared his triumph. Daemon reveled for a moment in the pain that the master of the Stoneborn felt. He could not forget how the creature violated his mind. It felt like retribution to return the pain. In the midst of the smoldering debris, Daemon spotted the remnants of a grove of Weirwoods.

A legion of Nightgaunts was the answer to the dragon’s attack. They moved in silence and approached from above. Their inky black skin camouflaged the creatures against the dark sky. Rhaegon’s alarmed screech alerted Daemon to the threat above. Ivaryx could not turn in time and Daemon was forced to defend himself with his spear.

His spear tip pierced the thigh of one attacker. Another tried to impale Daemon and the sharpened weirwood glanced off his breastplate. The dragonlord grabbed the spear before the creature could ready another attack. With a roar of anger, he pulled the creature close and grabbed its horn in his armored fist. In a burst of strength Daemon pulled downward and impaled the Nightgaunt’s faceless head on one of Ivaryx’s many sharp spines.

The surviving Nighgaunt lunged at Daemon, intent on avenging his comrade. Man and monster wrestled. Claws scrapped against steel. His legs were bound to Ivaryx’s saddle, and Daemon struggled to find leverage against his aggressor.

The massive dragon rolled suddenly and both attackers, alive and dead, were dislodged. The relief he felt was brief as another Nightgaunt grabbed at Dragonbinder’s shoulder strap. Rhaegon descended with talons extended and tackled the Nightgaunt off Daemon’s back.

Two more landed Nightgaunts landed on Ivaryx’s haunches. They wielded long lances of weirwoods. To Daemon’s shock, the lances pierced Ivaryx’s steel hard scales and buried into the dragon’s smoldering flesh. The dragon quivered in rage under Daemon’s saddle. Ivaryx contorted his neck to tear apart the Nightgaunt perched on his haunches.

“Soves!” Daemon commanded his dragon over the roaring wind. They climbed higher into the sky as the lance-wielding Nightgaunts swarmed the dragon. Rhaegon fiercely defended Ivaryx’s vulnerable eyes but the attackers landed a score of blows across the dragon’s back and belly.

Their attacks were more agile than the dragon, but they could not match the sheer strength of the dragon’s wings. Ivaryx’s climb outpaced the swarm of winged demons and Daemon could feel the dragon’s desire for vengeance.

He blew Dragonbinder as Ivaryx’s maw opened. A lance of light and heat exited the dragon’s maw. It expanded rapidly in the center of the legion of Nightgaunts below them. Half the legion was annihilated in an instant. Dragonbinder devoured their twisted souls.  

Ivaryx descended on the remaining Nightgaunts like an avenging god. Each time an enemy fell to the dragon’s fire another soul was devoured by the horn. In turn, the horn fed Daemon its prodigious power. Ten thousand souls screamed in agony.

The dragonlord roared alongside his dragon. He longed to feed the horn. “Give me your souls!” He screamed in High Valyrian. Daemon now understood why the Dragonlords of Old Valyria considered themselves equal to the gods. Every enemy that was consumed by his dragon’s infernal flames empowered him and Ivaryx further. They fought for the entire day and throughout the entire night. He could see the denizens of the island hiding in their hovels. They tried in vain to shelter against the dragon’s fury. Their souls burned bright even as their bodies were protected beneath several feet of soft soil.

Gale-force winds forced the ancient dragon to the ground. The storm descended on Skane finally. Inclement weather would not deter the dragonlord from the fight. Grounded, Ivaryx tore open their hovels and bathed the Skanen in dragon fire. They killed the corrupted men by the hundreds. His army joined in the slaughter. They shielded each side of the dragon. As the Skanen ran from their burning hovels, they were trapped by the fist of steel that was his army.

Young and old, none were spared. His army was cheering as they killed the corrupted men, women, and their progeny. This was retribution. A generation of nightmares was being brought to an end in a brutal fashion.

They marched even as they were battered by powerful winds, snow and hail. Shiera’s sorcery lessened the bite of the storm, but she could not calm it. Even Dragonbinder’s call did not banish the storm. The army marched behind Ivaryx. The dragon cleared a path through the snow and slowly but surely they marched up the mountain.

And then the giants came. The twelve-foot-tall humanoids were armored in stone and wielded sharpened clubs carved from the trunks of weirwood trees. Heralding the giants was a song. Madness spread amongst his men like flames in dry bush.

Before Daemon could raise Dragonbinder, a powerful set of jaws clamped around his armored forearm.

Nyx’s immense strength yanked him sideways with savage force. The shadowcat shook its head violently, and Daemon felt like his arm was being torn from its socket. The world spun. He lost his grip on the Ivaryx’s saddle chains and fell more than a dozen feet, crashing hard into a deep snow drift.

Nyx leapt from Ivaryx’s back with terrifying speed, launching herself like a black missile through the swirling snow.The impact drove the breath from his lungs. Pain exploded through his left shoulder as Nyx dragged him several yards before he managed to punch the beast square in the nose with his free gauntleted fist. The shadowcat released him with a snarl. Daemon gasped in relief, rolling away and scrambling to his feet.

He could hear Shiera shouting his name somewhere in the chaos, but her voice was distant, muffled by the roar of battle and the haze of pain.

Daemon pulled the Conqueror’s dagger from its sheath, the ruby in the hilt flashing as he snarled at the circling shadowcat. His left arm hung useless at his side; he was certain the shoulder had been pulled from its socket.

“Val!” he screamed. “Control your beast!”

Val did not answer him.

The shadowcat lunged. Daemon struck at it with his mind, a mental spear aimed straight at its consciousness. The creature sailed into him anyway, knocking him from his feet once more. They rolled violently down the snowbank in a snarling, thrashing tangle.

Its claws scraped and screeched against his armor. The shadowcat was far stronger than him. Even as Daemon drove the Valyrian steel dagger into its side again and again, the beast was relentless.

Finally, its massive jaws crunched down around his helmet. The bite force was monstrous; the metal bent inward with a tortured shriek. Pain lanced through Daemon’s skull as the pressure crushed against his head. He screamed in agony and rage.

With one final, desperate thrust, the Conqueror’s dagger found the shadowcat’s heart.

Nyx stiffened, then slumped heavily on top of him, dead.

Daemon snarled and shoved the massive shadowcat’s body off him with his good arm. Pain flared white-hot through his left shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the arm with his right hand and slammed his shoulder back into its socket with a sickening pop. The agony nearly made him black out, but he forced himself upright, breathing hard.

A shockwave of power knocked several hysterical men from their feet as Ivaryx leapt forward to engage the giants. The sound of the dragon fighting the armored giants,  the thunder of claws on stone, the roar of flame, the crash of weirwood clubs against black scales, was enough to shake his bones.

He searched wildly through the swirling snow and chaos for Dragonbinder.

There.

His horror grew

Val stood a dozen yards away, Dark Sister raised high overhead. The gleaming Valyrian steel blade looked sinister in the dim light, poised to come down and destroy Dragonbinder where it lay in the snow before her.

Daemon snarled in pure rage and struck at Val’s mind with his own. His consciousness slammed into hers like a spear. She stumbled slightly, eyes widening as his invading presence filled her mind.

Val was strong. Far stronger than he expected. He could feel the presence of the Old Gods around her. Bloodraven, he realized with a jolt.

Daemon charged at her through the deep snow and barged his good shoulder into her chest before she could recover. The impact sent them both tumbling. He screamed at her in raw fury.

“VAL!”

She answered through clenched teeth, eyes blazing with desperate resolve.

“I need to free my sister!”

Val swung Dark Sister in a vicious overhead slash meant to cleave his head from his shoulders. Daemon barely brought the Conqueror’s dagger up in time. The two Valyrian blades crashed together with a ringing screech that sent sparks flying into the snow.

They fell into a desperate, savage dance of steel. Val had the longer blade and the advantage of reach, forcing Daemon onto the defensive. Twice her sword bit into his armor — once across the shoulder, once high on the thigh — drawing hot lines of pain.

Jon caught Dark Sister against the Conqueror’s dagger and held it there with his gauntlet. White-hot agony flared up his arm as the magically sharpened edge cut into the steel, biting deep enough to draw blood beneath the metal.

With a roar he drove his armored fist into the side of her helm. The blow landed hard enough to knock the helmet askew, but Val was relentless. She ripped her sword free and came at him again, eyes blazing with grief and fury.

“You could not let her die in peace!” Val roared.

Her stab was aimed straight at his gorget. Daemon turned in time and closed the distance between them in a rush. He crushed Val to his chest, lifted her clean off the ground, and drove her down into the snow with all his strength.

The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Dark Sister tumbled from her grip. Daemon snatched the black blade out of the snow before she could recover.

“You’re beaten,” he growled down at her.

Val screamed in pure rage and lunged at him with a dagger pulled from her belt. Daemon moved faster. A single swipe of Dark Sister sheared off three of her fingers. Before she could even scream, he drove the Valyrian steel straight through her heart.

He asked her, voice cracking with raw anguish, “Why did you make me do this?”

Val’s eyes widened, then softened. Blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth as she looked up at him.

“Dalla…” she whispered, voice fading. “Forgive me, sister… I tried…”

Her body went limp in his arms. Those fierce blue eyes stared up at him in anger and disbelief even as the light left them.

Wynafryd Manderly

She was awoken by a sudden boom of thunder. The brunette blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes. Another boom sounded overhead, and it seemed as if the very sky was falling.

“By the seven,” She rolled from the bed and shivered from the cold. The fire in her hearth had died and the cold seeped into her nightdress.

Her door opened before she could gather her bearings. Her sister charged into the room, bustling with excitement. “Did you hear that?” Wylla’s excitement turned to fear as the entire castle shook. Wynafryd’s shutters were forced open. A sudden gust of wind made a mess of the letters piled on her vanity.

Both sisters jumped and they hugged each other in fear. Several moments passed before they released each other. The rhythmic thunder still sounded but this was more distant.  

“What was that?” Wylla asked. Instead of waiting for her sister’s thoughts, the green-haired girl leaned out of the now-open window. She craned her neck to stare skyward.

“Do you see anything?”

“No! It is too dark,” Wylla responded, shouting out the window. Wynafryd pulled her sister back into the room by her nightshirt.

“Be careful before you fall,” Wynafryd scolded her younger sibling. Two sets of eyes scanned the dark skies. The entire castle must have been roused from sleep by the thunderous noise. They could hear the voices of the bewildered residents of New Castle.

Searching the dark sky revealed nothing. The moon was but a memory. Wet snow touched her cheeks and dotted her little sister’s brow. Wynafryd released a breath she did not know she had been holding. Wylla smiled at her, wordlessly communicating their shared relief. “At least we didn’t hide under the bed,” they giggled.

And then the sky was set afire. Both girls clutched each other in absolute fear. The fire flowed across the sky. Green flames ignited the clouds and illuminated the city below. Wynafryd’s eyes traced the flames to its source. She could see a cavernous opening from where the flames poured forth. Her mind struggled to reconcile what her eyes saw. The cavern moved, swaying, and the flames followed the path of its source.

The enormous river of fire could engulf entire buildings in seconds. Mercifully it never strayed to the city below. The river of fire lasted for nearly a minute before ending suddenly. The sky returned to darkness.

Neither sister slept that night. Nor did anyone in the castle either. And while she could not say for certain, Wynafryd would wager no one in White Harbor slept either. For dragons had returned to Westeros.

Chapter Text

Skane

The snow on Skane had long since surrendered its color. By night it had become something worse: a vast, churned mire of frozen blood and mud that stretched for hundreds of yards in every direction, the ground itself drunk on slaughter. Torches sputtered and hissed along the battlefield, their orange-red flames the only light left in the world. They cast long, restless shadows that danced and clawed across the dead, making the corpses appear to twitch and writhe each time the wind guttered the flames. Pools of wavering light slid over pale skin and dark blood, turning the slaughter into something almost living.

The army had spent the long afternoon imposing order upon the dead, and now those grim labors were revealed in the torchlight. The corrupted Skanen,  men, women, and children warped beyond recognition by whatever ancient rot had claimed the island — had been dragged together into great pyres six feet high. Their bodies were stacked like cordwood, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in screams. In the flickering glow the piles looked almost alive, the flames licking across open mouths and staring eyes, making the dead appear to stir and moan with every shift of the light.

The few fallen warriors of Daemon’s own Skagossi host had been laid out with stark honor in a single neat line directly before him. Each man or woman rested upon their shield, helm placed upon the breast, their warg hounds curled beside them in death as faithfully as they had fought beside them in life. Torchlight glinted on frozen blood crusting fur and steel, on the dull gleam of helms and the glassy, reflective eyes of the hounds.

Val lay directly before him.

She had been prepared with care. The two fingers he had sheared from her hand with Dark Sister had been reattached by Shiera’s blood and sorcery; the stumps were now ugly pink scars, still raw but whole. The terrible wound he had driven through her heart could not be closed — Valyrian steel dealt a final kind of death — but Shiera had cleaned the torn flesh around it as best she could. The edges of the puncture had been drawn together with silver thread until only a small, ugly dimple remained above her breastbone. She looked almost peaceful beneath the black fur cloak, silver hair fanned across the snow like a fallen banner, her features gilded and shadowed by the restless torchlight.

Daemon knelt beside her, eighteen years old, golden eyes burning with the lingering power of the Dragonbinder. Dark Sister rested across his knees like an accusation he refused to acknowledge.

He raised the cracked Valyrian hellhorn to his lips and blew.

The sound that tore across the battlefield was not mere music. It was predation given melody, a hellish symphony born from the cracked throat of the Dragonbinder, ancient and ravenous. The notes twisted through the frozen air like living serpents, each dark chord striking the fabric of the world itself and unraveling it. Golden light exploded outward in a howling vortex, the music carrying the weight of ten thousand damned souls.

The piled corpses of the corrupted Skanen convulsed as one. Their souls were ripped free in a swirling storm of stolen life, devoured, consumed, drawn irresistibly into the hellhorn’s maw by the inexorable pull of its song. Daemon felt the foul energy flood into him, raw and tormented and utterly his. The horn no longer fought him. He was learning its language, discovering the hidden notes of mastery hidden within its terrible melody. With each measured breath and deliberate shift of his lips he bent the music to his will, weaving command into the symphony like a conductor of the damned, the notes becoming extensions of his own will rather than a force he merely endured.

He redirected that devoured power with growing precision, careful now, almost tender. He fed it back into his own dead, leaving their souls untouched and whole. One by one the fallen Skagossi twitched, gasped, and sat upright, coughing blood but alive. Their warg hounds stirred and whined, licking at familiar faces with desperate joy. The army watched in stunned silence for a single heartbeat — then the entire host dropped to their knees in the snow. Some wept without shame. Others rushed forward to embrace brothers, sisters, lovers returned from the dark. Cheers and sobs rose together across the blood-soaked field, a chorus of desperate gratitude.

But Val did not move.

Daemon lowered the horn, chest heaving. Torchlight guttered across the battlefield, the flames hissing and spitting in the wind, casting long, restless shadows that made the dead appear to stir. The snow on Skane had become a vast, churned mire of frozen blood and mud, every footprint and drag-mark thrown into stark relief by the orange-red glow. The great pyres of corrupted Skanen rose six feet high, their stacked bodies flickering and writhing in the firelight as though still fighting the souls that had been torn from them. The few fallen of his own host lay in their honored line, shields gleaming dully, helms catching the torch-flames like dying stars, their warg hounds curled beside them in perfect, frozen devotion.

Shiera stood at his shoulder, armored plates of dark steel lacquered to a mirror sheen worn over her black robes. No featureless mask hid her face tonight; her features were bare, her beautiful face bearing a cold, impassive expression, silver hair bound back, crimson eyes steady and uncaring. She had never liked Val.

“Valyrian steel deals a final death,” she said quietly, her musical voice carrying over the wind. The torchlight flickered across her features, painting her pale skin in shifting hues of blood and gold. “The horn cannot bring her back. Not even you can force it.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened. His golden eyes, sharpened by the Dragonbinder’s power;  saw every detail with unnatural clarity: the faint tremor at the corner of Shiera’s mouth, the reluctance she could not quite hide. He saw it all as if the night itself had been peeled back for him alone.

“You have the power to revive her,” he said.

Shiera held his gaze. For a moment he saw the reluctance there, the flicker of genuine opposition. She did not want Val back, never had. And for one heartbeat Daemon believed she might refuse him outright. The first true fracture in their bond.

“If I do this,” she said at last, “she will not come back human. She will become like us. Feral. Hungry. A creature of the night. It takes many years for our kind to master their bloodlust. Val would not want that, Daemon. You know she would not.”

He rose slowly to his feet. Eighteen years old, Dragonlord, conqueror of these bleak islands, yet in that instant he was only a boy who could not bear the emptiness he had carved into the world.

“I don’t care what she would want,” he said, voice low but iron-hard. “Do it.”

Shiera studied him a moment longer. Then she inclined her head, the smallest possible concession.

“As you command, my king,” she answered, and the warning in her voice was quiet, almost gentle. “But you may regret this. More than you can yet imagine.”

Together they lifted Val’s still body and carried her across the blood-soaked snow to the roughly carved weirwood coffin the soldiers had prepared at his command. The pale wood wept red sap like tears. They laid her inside, wrapped her in black fur, and sealed the lid with iron bands.

Shiera drew her silver blade across her own wrist and let the dark, ancient blood drip through the narrow gaps in the coffin lid, murmuring words in the tongue of Asshai. Daemon sat down in the snow beside the coffin, back against the weirwood, Dark Sister planted point-down at his side. The wind howled over the battlefield. The piled corpses of the Skanen loomed like black monuments behind him. His army kept a respectful distance, still kneeling or embracing their returned comrades, watching their lord keep vigil over the woman he had killed and now refused to let die.

Inside the sealed coffin, the transformation had begun.

First of his Name

The wind screamed across the ash-veiled strait like the last breath of something already dead. Skane lay behind them, smaller, bloodier, finished. Several days had passed since the final battle there, since Val’s death. She still had not awoken.

It was the raw power of the Valyrian hellhorn, Dragonbinder, that had truly destroyed the island. When he had blown the ancient instrument at the height of the conflict, its terrible sorcery had awakened the dormant volcanoes beneath Skane. Rivers of molten rock had erupted across the land, cleansing the rot of the hivemind in fire and stone. He and Ivaryx had finished what remained, burning the last strongholds of the Stoneborn until the smaller island itself bled lava and collapsed into the sea.

He believed, with a cold certainty that sat like iron in his gut, that the combined power of Dragonbinder and his dragon had killed everything that was or had once been human on Skane. Nothing remained but ash and memory.

Now the army waited on Skagos, the larger island to the south, loading the last of Stannis’s captured ships and the few seaworthy Skagossi vessels that had survived. They were already beginning to leave. Massive volcanic eruptions, triggered by Dragonbinder’s cataclysmic use and Ivaryx’s awakening, had split the earth open across both islands. Rivers of molten rock carved new scars through petrified forests. Hillsides slumped into glowing chasms. Skagos would not be far behind Skane.

An army of Skinchangers followed him to Westeros.

Daemon sat rigid at the crest where the dragon’s long neck met its shoulders, legs locked into the crude leather harness lashed from anchor chains and giant hide. Behind him Shiera pressed close, silver hair whipping beneath her hood, one arm circled tight around his waist. Dragonbinder was strapped securely across her back.

Ivaryx rumbled beneath them, a deep seismic growl that vibrated up through saddle and bone. Even with the horn intact, the dragon fought him constantly. Never had the dragon been bound by a Dragon rider. Now it was enslaved to his will. The beast hated him with every fiber of its being.

Daemon’s gloved left hand rested on the pommel of Dark Sister. The Valyrian steel warmed beneath his fingers, almost alive. Unbidden, his grip tightened.

Her eyes. Hard blue orbs, filled with hatred.

He saw it again: not as it happened, but as it nearly had. Val on her knees in the snow and ash of Skane, golden light exploding outward as Dark Sister cleaved cleanly through the heart of Dragonbinder. The ancient horn shattered completely in a blinding burst of light and sound. Ten thousand souls screamed in relief as they were freed… and then Ivaryx roared in fury, the bond between them severed in an instant.

In that vision, the dragon went feral. No whip, no will, no sorcery could hold him. Ivaryx turned on his own army, burning Skagossi and southerner alike without distinction.

He exhaled sharply through his teeth and forced his hand away from the hilt. Val’s victorious dream had never come to fruition, but it had been close. So close to losing everything. He thought with a grimace.

His right hand dropped to the dragon-rider’s whip coiled at his belt, six feet of braided leather studded with inch-long steel spurs. Another of Shiera’s gifts, at times it was easier to assert his will over the dragon by whip than sorcery.

Daemon cracked the whip. The steel spurs sang a vicious note through the ash-laden air. Scales rippled. Steam hissed where hot hide met cold wind.

Shiera’s breath ghosted against his ear. “We are close.”

She had spent long, frustrating hours bent over the obsidian candle, wrestling the shadow-magic that stubbornly obscured Ashara even from its all-seeing flame. Only after considerable effort and repeated attempts had the candle finally pierced the interference and shown her the vampire, alive, but gravely injured on Skagos’s western shore.

He cracked the whip again. “Soves!”

Ivaryx answered with a roar that shook fresh boulders from the crumbling cliffs below. The dragon banked sharply, wings slicing through curtains of ash and cinder, and swept low over the eastern coastline of Skagos.

From the air the larger island looked like the spine of some ancient, frozen beast torn open by fresh wounds. Jagged black mountains thrust upward through thick white ice, their peaks lost in low-hanging clouds, while half a dozen volcanoes erupted simultaneously across the interior, rivers of molten rock glowing orange against the snow, thick pillars of ash and steam boiling skyward like the breath of waking giants. Harsh northern wind howled between the peaks, carrying the sharp reek of sulfur and salt. Sheer cliffs plunged straight into the sea, ringed with shelves of frozen sea-foam that clung to the rocks like dirty lace. The beaches were narrow strips of black shingle buried under crusts of ice and wind-scoured snow; waves crashed against them in slow, heavy swells, flinging spray that froze mid-air and fell back as glittering needles. It was a place built for giants and winter, not men: bleak, unforgiving, and beautiful in the way only the far north could be.

Daemon leaned forward in the saddle. Behind him Shiera did the same, her vampire sight cutting through the haze where his could not.

Her arm tightened around his waist. “There,” she said, voice sharp and certain as she pointed. “On the rocks below the headland. Grey skin against the ice.”

Daemon followed her finger. At first he saw only the frozen shoreline and the black surf boiling white against stone. Then the crumpled form resolved: Ashara, half-buried in sea ice and wind-driven snow, her raven hair matted with blood and frozen seawater. Her grey skin looked almost translucent beneath the ash-fall, the shadow-sword burns across her torso still smoking faintly against the cold.

His chest tightened with something raw and painful. He would not lose Ashara.

Ivaryx flared his wings and landed with bone-jarring force, talons gouging deep furrows into the black sand and stone. Steam exploded where superheated scales met frigid seawater.

Daemon was out of the saddle in an instant, boots splashing into the freezing surf. Shiera followed close behind, holding the Dragonbinder across her back.

He dropped to his knees beside Ashara and gathered her into his arms with a gentleness that belied the violence still thrumming through his veins. She felt impossibly light. Cold. Deep, blackened burns scored her torso and side, still smoking faintly at the edges, the flesh weeping dark ichor that hissed where it met the seawater. Her left arm hung at a sickening angle, clearly broken, and her breathing was shallow and labored, suggesting cracked ribs beneath. Whatever had wounded her looked unnatural, the burns refused to close, resisting even her vampiric healing.

One lilac eye cracked open. The other was swollen shut, crusted with salt and dried blood.

“Daemon…” Her voice was a broken rasp, weaker than he had ever heard it. Dark blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “You… came.”

“Always,” he whispered, cradling her head against his armored chest. His voice cracked despite the days of hardening himself. “I’ve got you. Stay with me.”

Ashara managed the ghost of a smile, cracked lips pulling tight with pain. “The shade… wore Stannis’s face. Grew stronger when he died. The hold… exploded. Currents dragged me under. Melisandre… swept away separately. I think… she still lives.”

Shiera knelt on Ashara’s other side, gloved fingers already probing the smoking wounds with clinical precision. Her crimson eyes narrowed behind the lacquered mask. “The shadow magic is festering. It is lethal to our kind. It poisons the blood and resists every healing we possess. She needs blood, and lots of it, to flush the curse out before it consumes her entirely. We have to get her south of the Wall and spill a great deal of it if we are to save her.”

Daemon’s grip tightened. He knew exactly what “a great deal of it” meant: the murder of several innocents whose lives would be traded for hers. The thought twisted in his gut, but it lasted only a heartbeat. He considered it a price he was willing to pay to save Ashara.

He did not pretend to understand the exact workings of vampire sorcery, but he could see the truth in Shiera’s face: Ashara was slipping. He looked up at Ivaryx. The dragon watched them with unblinking green eyes, restless.

Daemon rose carefully, lifting Ashara as if she weighed nothing. Shiera was already moving. She produced a thick woolen cloak she had prepared in advance and spread it across the frozen shingle. Working quickly, they laid Ashara upon it. Shiera bound her broken arm tight against her side while Daemon gathered thick, salt-hardened driftwood branches from the tide line — sturdy spars longer than a man’s leg. They rolled Ashara carefully into the cloak, then lashed her body between the two branches, creating a rigid makeshift litter.

“Grab as much ice crust as you can,” Shiera ordered sharply. “Pack it between the cloak and her skin. We must keep her temperature very low. The cold will slow the shadow magic’s progress and help preserve her until we can reach the blood she needs.”

Daemon obeyed without hesitation, scooping up large chunks of the frozen crust from the rocks and layering the ice thickly against Ashara’s fevered torso and sides before they finished wrapping and binding her. The snow hissed faintly where it met her unnaturally warm flesh.

Together they carried the litter to Ivaryx’s side. Shiera climbed first, then helped Daemon hoist the branches up and secure them crosswise across the dragon’s shoulders just behind the saddle, tying them down firmly with thick anchor rope from their harnesses. Ashara now lay strapped securely between them, pale and still.

Only then did the sheer scale of his mount truly strike him. Ivaryx’s body was a living mountain of soot-black scales and corded muscle; the wings alone were vast, leathery sails longer than the longest warship in Stannis’s fleet, each beat capable of hurling them across leagues in moments. Hours, Daemon realized with grim wonder and determination. We can reach White Harbor in mere hours.

-

-

-

The streets of White Harbor were quiet and cold under a thin veil of falling snow. Most lanterns had already been shuttered for the night, leaving only the occasional smear of torchlight from a tavern door or the pale glow of the moon reflecting off fresh ice.

Shiera walked ahead with the easy, swaying confidence of a predator playing at prey. Three men, sailors from the Sisters by their salt-crusted cloaks and the distinctive Vale lilt in their voices trailed after her like dogs on a leash. She had enthralled them in the space of three heartbeats outside a dockside tavern.

Daemon moved like a shadow along the narrow alley behind them, unseen.

The glamor they had woven before entering the city clung to them both. His own silver hair was now a deep, ordinary brown, cropped shorter and tucked beneath a plain wool hood. His eyes had been dulled to a common Northern grey. Shiera had done the same to herself: her legendary silver-gold locks were now dark chestnut, braided tightly and hidden beneath a simple wool scarf. Her striking features had been softened just enough to pass for a handsome Northern woman of low birth.

“Come on, lads,” Shiera purred, her voice low and teasing as she glanced back over her shoulder. “It’s much warmer outside the walls. I know a quiet spot by the Ring Fort. No eyes. No ears. Just you three, me, and whatever you can manage between the lot of you.”

The tallest of them, a bearded brute named Joss, grinned wide enough to show several missing teeth. “Seven hells, would you look at the arse on this one? Been sailing with these two ugly cunts for eight years and I’ve never seen a finer piece of tail in all the Narrow Sea.” He elbowed his shorter companion. “Hake, you remember that whore in Gulltown? This one makes her look like a bloody sack of potatoes.”

Hake, stocky and red-faced, let out a wheezing laugh. “Aye, and twice the tits! I’m gonna bury my face in ‘em till I can’t breathe. Then I’m bending her over and splitting that sweet cunt wide open. You can have her mouth first, Rudge. I know how you like to hear a girl gag.”

The third man, younger and wiry with a patchy beard, was already breathing hard. “Fuck that, Rudge gets her arse,” Joss declared, clapping the lad on the back. “Boy’s been whining about wanting to try a proper tight one since we left the Sisters. Tonight’s his lucky night. I’ll hold her down while you two ruin her. Then we’ll switch and I’ll fuck her raw till she’s squealing my name.”

Rudge grinned eagerly. “I’ll fuck her so hard she won’t walk straight for a week. Maybe two. Bet she’s never had three Sistermen at once. We’ll stretch every hole till she’s dripping.”

Shiera laughed, a bright, playful sound that carried down the empty street. She spun on her heel, walking backwards for a few steps so she could look at them all. “Big promises from three big-talking sailors. I hope you can keep them. Most men talk a good game until they’re faced with something they can’t handle.” She bit her lower lip, eyes gleaming. “I like it rough, boys. Think the three of you are man enough to break me?”

The three sailors groaned in unison, crude laughter echoing between them as they followed her out past the city gates. Joss was already loosening his belt. “Oh, we’ll break you, love. We’ll fuck you till you forget your own name.”

Daemon followed ten paces behind, silent as death. His hand rested lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt beneath his cloak. He watched the way the three men stared at Shiera’s swaying hips, the crude hunger on their faces, and felt only cold detachment.

Shiera led them through the twisting alleys and out past the city walls, laughing and teasing, promising them everything they wanted and more. The snow crunched under their boots as the walls of White Harbor fell behind them and the dark silhouette of the Ring Fort rose ahead on its low hill.

They wanted her. They thought they would take her.

They had no idea what they were walking toward.

Daemon studied the three sailors with clinical detachment as they followed Shiera out past the city gates and into the black countryside.

The tallest, Joss, was a broad-shouldered brute with a thick beard and the scarred knuckles of a man who had won more than his share of dockside brawls. He walked with the confident swagger of a longtime sailor who believed himself dangerous. Hake was shorter and stockier, with a heavy gut and the red face of a heavy drinker, but his thick arms spoke of real strength. The youngest, Rudge, was wiry and eager, barely more than a boy, clearly the follower of the group.

All three were from the Sisters:  Vale men, rough and crude, the kind who spent months at sea and viewed every port as a place to drink, fight, and fuck. They carried knives at their belts and the easy camaraderie of men who had sailed together for years.

As the last lights of White Harbor faded behind them and true darkness swallowed the road, the sailors grew visibly uneasy, their footsteps slowing.

“Easy now, lads,” Shiera cooed, her voice sweet and reassuring. She reached back and took Joss’s hand, then Hake’s, then Rudge’s, pulling them into a single file line behind her. “Hold on to me tight. I know the way even in the black. Wouldn’t want you getting lost before I can show you a proper good time.”

Joss chuckled nervously. “Bit dark out here, love. You sure about this?”

Shiera laughed softly and squeezed their hands. “Don’t worry your pretty heads. When we get to the Ring Fort I’ll get on my knees and suck all three of you at once until your legs shake. Then you can bend me over and take turns ruining my cunt and arse. I want every hole filled tonight. I’ll even let you finish wherever you like, on my face, my tits, or deep inside me. How does that sound?”

Hake groaned. “Fuck… keep talking like that and I’ll spill in my trousers before we even get there.”

Rudge, voice already thick with lust, added, “I want that tight arse first. Been dreaming about it since you first opened your mouth.”

Shiera’s tone turned playful and wicked. “You’ll get it, sweet boy. All of it. And I have a little surprise waiting for you at the fort. My sister is there,  she looks just as beautiful as me. Same dark hair, same wicked mouth, and she’s even hungrier than I am. The two of us together will drain every last drop from the three of you before dawn.”

The sailors let out a collective groan of anticipation, their earlier nervousness forgotten as they stumbled after her through the snow, hands tightly linked with hers.

The road climbed a low, windswept hill. Snow crunched louder beneath their boots as the last scattered trees fell away. Ahead, the dark silhouette of the Ring Fort rose against the night sky — an ancient circle of weathered stone, low and thick, built by the First Men long before the Andals ever set foot in the North. The outer wall stood no more than twelve feet high, but it was solid and unbroken, the kind of defensive ring meant to hold against raiders and winter alike. In the pitch blackness it looked almost like a crown of jagged teeth encircling the crest of the hill.

A faint, flickering orange glow leaked from within the walls. The soft, wavering light of a single brazier or small fire someone had left burning inside the old fort. It was just enough to paint the inner stones with a dull, bloody hue and cast long, wavering shadows across the snow, but not bright enough to ruin the darkness.

Shiera led the three sailors straight toward the open gateway, her hips swaying with every step.

“Here we are, boys,” she murmured, voice low and thick with promise. “My sister’s already waiting inside. Warm. Wet. Ready. You three are going to remember this night for the rest of your lives.”

Joss let out a hungry laugh. “Fuck yes. Lead on, love. I’m hard enough to split stone.”

The men followed her eagerly through the dark archway, still holding her hands, their crude laughter echoing off the ancient stones as they stepped into the faint orange glow of the Ring Fort.

Daemon remained ten paces back, still hidden in the outer darkness. He could hear their boots crunching on snow, their crude jokes, Shiera’s teasing laughter… and then the laughter died.

Daemon stepped through the archway.

The moment he crossed the threshold his glamor fell away. Brown hair bled back to silver; his grey eyes sharpened into their natural mismatched hues.

Inside the low stone ring, a narrow circle of candles cast a weak orange glow across the center of the courtyard. Everything beyond that ring remained swallowed in blackness.

Ashara knelt in the middle of the candlelight with no glamor at all. Her grey skin was stark against the snow, her raven hair wild, her lilac eyes already glowing with hunger. She looked weakened, movements slow, breathing shallow, but even in such a state the dark-haired vampire was exquisite.

Joss stood over her, grinning like a fool, reaching down to grab her. “Well, hello there, love—”

Ashara surged up, arms sliding around his neck as if to kiss him. For one heartbeat the sailor looked triumphant.

Then his eyes bulged in sudden, animal terror.

Ashara’s fangs sank deep into the side of his neck with a wet, sucking sound. Joss’s scream became a wet, gurgling shriek.

Hake and Rudge lunged forward, knives half-drawn, shouting in shock.

Shiera moved like liquid shadow. She had already let her own glamor slip; even with the hood still raised, the sailors could see the pale grey skin and the crimson gleam of her eyes beneath it. She struck with the butt of Daemon’s Weirwood spear, two precise strikes that shattered both men’s knees with sickening cracks. Hake and Rudge dropped instantly, legs folding beneath them, howling in agony. Not a single drop of blood had been spilled. Shiera had been careful.

Sheira straightened, crimson eyes flicking toward Daemon as he stepped fully into the light.

“Took you long enough,” she said, voice cool and amused. “They were very eager.”

Her glamor had slipped completely. Two small, obsidian-black horns curved back from her brow, catching the candlelight like polished blades. Her skin was the color of cold ash, and her eyes burned blood-red, unmistakably inhuman.

Hake and Rudge stared up at her from the snow, faces twisted in agony and dawning horror.

“What the fuck are you?” Hake screamed, voice cracking. “What the fuck is this?!”

Rudge tried to scramble backward on his shattered legs and only succeeded in howling louder. “Demon! You’re a fucking demon!”

Shiera ignored their panic. She glanced down at Ashara, who was still latched onto Joss’s neck, feeding with wet, greedy sounds.

“Careful, Ashara,” Shiera said, tone sharp and commanding. “Do not make a mess. We cannot meet the Manderlys covered in blood. We need to make the best impression.”

Ashara made a low, frustrated noise against Joss’s throat but obeyed, slowing her feeding just enough to keep the blood from spraying.

Shiera turned to Daemon. “Drag the other two over here. She’s still weak. She needs more.”

Daemon moved without a word. He seized Hake by the collar and began hauling the screaming sailor across the snow. Rudge, still on the ground, suddenly snarled in defiance. The younger sailor’s hand flashed to his belt, yanking out a long sailor’s knife.

“You fucking demon cunt!” Rudge spat, slashing wildly at Daemon’s legs. “I’ll gut you!”

Daemon’s hand was already on Dark Sister. The Valyrian steel whispered free in a single fluid motion. He parried the desperate slash with contemptuous ease, the flat of the blade ringing against Rudge’s knife and sending it spinning away into the darkness. Before the sailor could even register the loss of his weapon, Daemon reversed the blade and cracked the flat of Dark Sister across the side of his face with brutal force.

The wet crunch of breaking bone echoed off the stone walls. Rudge’s jaw shattered. He collapsed sideways into the snow with a strangled, gurgling cry, blood now leaking from his mouth and nose.

Daemon stood over the crumpled sailor, Dark Sister still in hand, the flat of the blade now glistening with a thin smear of blood.

Shiera clicked her tongue in mild disapproval, crimson eyes flicking from the spreading red stain in the snow to Daemon’s face. “Careful, Daemon. You’re spilling blood. We can’t afford to waste any tonight, she needs her strength.”

The elder vampire was not truly angry, more like a teacher correcting a careless student.

Ashara lifted her head from Joss’s neck with a wet, satisfied sound. The big sailor’s body had gone stiff and heavy in her arms, his shoulders and arms twisted at grotesque angles where her hunger had crushed bone and muscle. She let the unconscious man drop heavily onto the earth and turned her hungry gaze on Hake.

The stocky sailor tried to crawl away on his shattered legs, sobbing. Ashara simply crawled forward, grabbed him by the hair, and yanked his head back. Her fangs sank into his throat with a fresh, greedy pull. Hake’s scream choked off into a wet gurgle as she began to feed in earnest.

Rudge lay on his side where Daemon had dropped him, clutching his ruined jaw with both hands. Broken teeth and blood leaked between his fingers as he whimpered through the shattered bone, a bubbling sound that never quite formed words.

Daemon wiped the flat of Dark Sister clean on Rudge’s cloak and sheathed the blade. His voice was calm, almost conversational.

“Plenty left for her,” he said, nodding toward Ashara.

Shiera’s small black horns caught the candlelight as she gave a faint, approving nod.

Without a word she reached up and unfastened her cloak, letting the heavy wool fall to the snow. Her gloved hands moved with deliberate grace, unlacing the simple dress beneath until it slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She stood naked in the narrow ring of candlelight, pale grey skin gleaming like polished marble. The small black horns curving back from her brow, the blood-red eyes, and the sharp points of her fangs made her look every inch the demon the sailors had screamed she was.

There was no moon tonight. Only a scatter of cold stars pricked the blackness above, while the distant orange glow of White Harbor’s lanterns smeared the horizon like a dirty sunrise. No one in the city knew they were here. No one had seen the massive dragon that had flown low over their rooftops hours earlier, nor would they ever learn what was happening inside this ancient ring of stone.

Ashara continued to feed on Hake with wet, rhythmic pulls, the sailor’s struggles growing weaker. Rudge lay on his side, still whimpering through his ruined jaw, broken teeth and blood leaking between his fingers in a pathetic, bubbling chorus.

Shiera’s crimson eyes flicked from the feeding to Daemon. She stood naked in the candlelight, grey skin gleaming, small black horns catching the glow like polished obsidian.

“Strip,” she ordered him, voice low and commanding. “All of it. We’ll need the clothes clean when we reach the Manderlys.”

Daemon obeyed, unfastening his cloak and letting it drop, then peeling away tunic, mail shirt, and breeches until he stood bare in the cold night air.

Shiera moved to Ashara with surprising gentleness. She slid one hand into the raven-haired vampire’s hair and tugged her head back, pulling her fangs free of Hake’s throat with a wet pop. The sailor slumped, whimpering, blood still trickling from the punctures.

“Easy, love,” Shiera murmured against Ashara’s ear. “Let’s get you out of these rags before you ruin them. You’ll need them presentable soon.”

Ashara made a frustrated, needy sound but allowed Shiera to guide her upright. Together they stripped away the torn remnants of Ashara’s clothing. As the last layers fell, Daemon’s gaze traced her body in the flickering candlelight.

The shadow-sword burns across her torso and side were already closing. The blackened, weeping edges had begun to knit together, angry red fading to raw pink. The deep bruises along her ribs were lightening, and the unnatural heat that had radiated from her skin only minutes ago was cooling. She was still weak. Her movements slow, her breathing shallow but the blood was clearly working. The curse was being pushed back.

Shiera’s hand lingered on Ashara’s bare hip, steadying her.

“There you are, my sweet girl,” she murmured, her voice dropping into a low, maternal croon that seemed at odds with the horns curving from her brow and the blood still glistening on her lips. “Look how well you’re healing already. My strong, beautiful daughter… you’re coming back to me.”

Ashara swayed slightly, still weak, but she leaned into the touch like a child seeking comfort. Shiera’s crimson eyes softened with open pleasure as she traced the shadow-sword burns across Ashara’s torso with gentle fingertips. Where blackened, weeping flesh had been, the edges were already knitting together, angry red giving way to raw pink. The deep bruises along her ribs were lightening before their eyes.

Shiera leaned in closer, lips brushing Ashara’s temple as she whispered a slow, sibilant spell in the harsh, liquid syllables of Asshai’i. The words curled through the cold air like smoke,  ancient, guttural, and strangely intimate.

With every syllable her fingers followed the worst of the burns, coaxing the shadow-curse to recede. The unnatural heat radiating from Ashara’s skin cooled further under the touch.

Shiera smiled, proud and tender all at once. “That’s it… good girl. Drink deeply now. We still have a little way to go, but you’re already so much stronger. My perfect daughter.”

Daemon stepped forward. For the briefest moment his eyes flicked past them, toward the far wall of the Ring Fort where shadows pooled thick and heavy. There, half-hidden in the gloom, stood the sealed weirwood coffin. Val still had not stirred inside it. The pale wood wept slow red sap that glistened like fresh blood in the candle-flame. Shiera had warned him it would take time — Ashara herself had required weeks to complete the change — but the silence from within the coffin gnawed at him all the same.

He was completely naked now, steam curling off his bare skin in thin, lazy tendrils, the lingering magic of Dragonbinder still burned hot inside him, keeping his body temperature unnaturally high even in the freezing night air. His cock hung soft between his thighs.

Shiera’s crimson gaze drifted downward and noticed at once. A faint, amused smile curved her lips.

“Feedings are always more enjoyable with beautiful virgins,” she said lightly, still stroking Ashara’s side with slow, possessive fingers. “This meal is merely functional.”

She crooked one finger at him in silent command, beckoning him closer into the candlelight.

For the briefest moment Val’s face flashed behind his eyes, the horror and disgust she would have felt watching this ritual, this casual slaughter dressed up as healing. This was exactly what she had hated: the easy way he let the vampires turn men into meat.

He shoved the memory down hard. He cared too deeply for them both to lose either one. Ashara was still healing, still fragile, still fighting the shadow-curse that wanted to unmake her. The guilt over the three sailors:  three crude, living men reduced to nothing but blood and broken bone sat heavy in his chest, but he justified it without hesitation. Their lives were a small, necessary price to keep her.

Shiera’s smile widened as he reached them, her finger trailing down his chest in approval.

She slid her cool hand lower without hesitation, wrapping her long fingers around his soft cock and giving it a slow, possessive squeeze.

“My king,” she purred, voice low and dripping with lust. “Look how heavy this royal cock already feels in my hand… so thick and warm for us even when it’s soft.”

She extended her long, sinuous tongue from between her full lips, letting it wag obscenely in wicked invitation between her elongated fangs, the glistening tip hovering just above the head of his cock.

“Your King’s Blood is essential for Ashara’s full healing,” she whispered, stroking him with languid, deliberate motions. “The shadow-curse is buried deep inside her. Only your hot, thick blood and every drop of this royal cum can burn the last of it away. Will you help me heal her?”

She sank gracefully to her knees before him, those perfect breasts swaying with the motion, nipples brushing his thighs. Her crimson eyes never left him as she took him into her mouth — not gently, but with reverent hunger. Her full lips sealed tight around the soft length, sucking slowly, worshipfully, as though his cock were a sacred relic she had waited centuries to taste. The heat of her mouth was shocking against the freezing night air, and when her impossibly long tongue uncoiled, it wrapped around him like warm, living silk, stroking every inch even as she swallowed him deeper.

Daemon groaned, one hand sliding into her silver hair. He was already hardening, thickening against her tongue. Shiera moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to his spine. Her tongue curled, licked, teased the underside of his shaft, then slipped lower to cradle and lap at his heavy balls while she took him to the root. She swallowed him whole, throat working, eyes locked on his the entire time — crimson, ancient, and utterly devoted.

Behind her, Ashara continued to feed.

She had moved to Hake now, fangs buried deep in the sailor’s throat while her clawed hands pinned his bare, shuddering torso to the stone floor. Wet, rhythmic gulps filled the Ring Fort as she drank, her grey body rocking with each pull. Rudge lay nearby, already shriveling, skin sinking against bone, eyes wide and glassy in paralyzed horror as the last of his life was drained away.

Daemon’s cock throbbed fully hard now. He began to use Shiera’s mouth in earnest — slow, deep thrusts that made her throat bulge. She took every inch without resistance, tongue still coiled around him like a serpent, licking and squeezing as he fucked her face.

He pulled free with a wet sound and turned to Ashara.

She was still feeding when he mounted her from behind, gripping her hips and driving into her in one brutal thrust. Ashara grunted into Hake’s neck, fangs never leaving his throat, her body clenching tight around Daemon’s cock as he filled her. He fucked her hard, hips slapping against her grey ass while she drank, the sailor’s body visibly shriveling beneath her with every thrust. Blood ran down her chin and dripped onto the stone in fat, glistening beads.

Shiera pressed against Daemon’s back, her perfect bare breasts cool and soft against his heated skin. She kissed the side of his neck, then bit — no pain, only a rush of liquid ecstasy as her fangs slid in. She drank from him in short, indulgent pulls, her body molding to his as he fucked Ashara. Daemon groaned, lost between the tight, wet heat of Ashara’s cunt and the velvet pull of Shiera’s mouth at his throat.

When Shiera finally pulled away, her lips were stained red with his blood. She turned Ashara’s face toward her with one gentle hand and kissed her deeply, sharing the royal blood in a slow, passionate tangle of tongues and fangs. The sight was so raw, so intimate, that Daemon could not look away. Ashara moaned into the kiss, her body growing stronger, wounds closing faster, the shadow-curse visibly receding beneath her grey skin.

Daemon pulled out of Ashara and pressed Shiera onto her back on the cold stone. He sank into her in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her slick, welcoming heat. Shiera arched beneath him with a throaty cry, legs wrapping around his waist, her magnificent breasts bouncing with every thrust.

Ashara moved behind him. She sank her fangs into the thick muscle of his left buttock, drinking deeply. The bite sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through him. She licked the wound closed with slow, worshipful strokes of her tongue, then dragged that same tongue lower, circling the tight ring of his arsehole as he fucked Shiera harder. The sensation was obscene, filthy, perfect. Ashara feasted on him there while he drove into Shiera, the elder vampire’s crimson eyes locked on his, her hands clutching his shoulders as she took every brutal thrust.

He came inside Shiera with a guttural groan, flooding her with thick, hot seed. Ashara drank it from him as it leaked out, licking and sucking greedily. He pulled free only to mount Ashara again, fucking her while she drained the last of Rudge, the sailor’s body now little more than a withered husk. He spent himself in her twice more as the night wore on, each load making her stronger, her wounds knitting fully closed, the shadow-curse burning away under the power of his royal blood and cum.

Shiera pressed against his back once more, feeding gently from his neck while he rutted into Ashara. The three of them moved together in a bloody, sweating tangle of limbs and fangs and slick flesh, the sailors’ shriveled corpses cooling on the stone around them.

By the time the candles had burned low, Ashara was whole again, healed, sated, and glowing with new strength.

Hours later the candles had burned low, their flames reduced to guttering stubs that painted the inside of the Ring Fort in weak, dying orange.

Daemon stepped out of the ancient stone circle alone, chest still heaving slightly. He wore only a light tunic and trousers, no cloak, the thin fabric clinging to his sweat-damp skin.

Behind him, inside the fort, Shiera and Ashara remained with the three drained corpses. He could still hear the soft, wet sounds of feeding and the occasional low murmur of Shiera’s voice.

Daemon walked a short distance along the cliff’s edge until the ground opened into a wide, natural grotto sheltered by an overhang. Snow had drifted deep here, but the massive black bulk of Ivaryx rested at its center like a living mountain of soot and scale. The dragon’s molten green eyes opened at his approach, reflecting the distant orange glow of White Harbor far below.

Daemon stopped a few paces away. He looked up at the colossal creature and spoke clearly, in commanding Valyrian.

“Dohaeris.”

Ivaryx rumbled, a sound like distant thunder, but obeyed. The dragon unfolded its enormous wings, sending a blast of hot wind across the snow that melted it instantly around Daemon’s boots. With a powerful surge the beast climbed to its feet, lowering its long neck so Daemon could mount.

He climbed up the spines and scales with practiced ease, settling into the crude saddle behind the dragon’s massive skull. The dragon-rider’s whip felt solid and familiar in his grip.

“Soves,” Daemon commanded.

Ivaryx launched from the cliff with a roar that shook the night. His vast wings beat once, twice, and they rose high above the dark coastline, White Harbor sprawled beneath them like a scattering of dying embers.

As they passed directly over the city, Daemon cracked the whip once.

Ivaryx opened his jaws and unleashed a roaring torrent of dragonflame, a brilliant, searing river of green fire that lit up the entire night sky like a second, blazing emerald sun. The flames arced high above the rooftops and towers, casting long, flickering shadows across the frozen harbor and turning the falling snow into a storm of green sparks.

For one breathtaking moment, the whole of White Harbor was bathed in unnatural green light.

Daemon stared down at the city, silver hair whipping in the wind, eyes hard and golden in the reflected fire.

Let them see.

Let them know the Dragon of Greywater has arrived.

Wynafryd Manderly

Two bright ovals pierced the gloom that concealed the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall. The massive eagle perched in that darkness; unseen save for its eyes. Wynafryd was not the only inhabitant of the great hall unsettled by the bird’s presence. Several of her grandfather’s knights turned worried gazes up towards the dark ceiling.

Suddenly the eagle soared from the rafters, its powerful wings beating with a sound like thunder. Gasps and cries of alarm rippled through the hall as the enormous bird glided low over the high table. It dropped something heavy onto the table with a loud, metallic clang.

A melted crown, twisted, blackened, and warped by intense heat lay before them.

Ser Davos Seaworth shot to his feet. He stepped forward, eyes wide, and leaned over the table to get a closer look. The color drained from his face. His hands trembled as he reached out, stopping just short of touching the metal.

“That… that is Stannis’s crown,” he whispered, voice breaking. “The King’s crown.”

The man looked utterly broken, as if the last pillar holding up his world had just collapsed beneath him.

The Freys burst into loud, jeering laughter that filled the Great Hall. Rhaegar Frey, their undisputed leader, threw his head back and crowed with malicious delight, slapping the table so hard the plates jumped. “Looks like your king must be dead, Seaworth!” he crowed. “Pity. I hear he was quite attached to that ugly thing.”

Ser Jared Frey and Symond Frey, the two seconds-in-command,  joined in with mocking chuckles, their voices blending with the rest of the dozen Frey men seated behind them. The family resemblance was so strong it could have been seen by a blind man: the same narrow faces, watery eyes, and sharp chins that marked every one of them unmistakably as Freys.

The massive eagle circled once more above their heads before gliding gently down to land directly in front of her grandfather. Its size was intimidating up close. Its hooked beak looked strong enough to crack a man’s skull with a single snap.

It extended one powerful leg. A letter wrapped tightly with twine was tied around it.

Lord Wyman carefully unwrapped the letter from the eagle’s leg. The bird paused, craning its neck almost as if waiting for the letter to be read.

Shock crossed her grandfather’s face for a brief moment before he mastered his emotions. A murmur grew in the crowd as everyone wondered what the letter contained.

First a dragon and now letter-carrying great eagles. What else does this day hold? Wynafryd wondered. Today seemed closer to a strange dream than reality. Yet no matter how many times she pinched herself, she did not wake up in her bed. The monsters in the dark were real.

Her sister leaned against her. Neither could return to sleep after the sky was ignited by dragon flame. Panic had overcome the castle as no one had any idea how to react to the sudden presence of a dragon. Hiding behind the strong stone walls of the castle seemed the logical decision. Yet, Wynafryd remembered her history lessons. If Harrenhal could not withstand dragon flame; New Castle would be no refuge.

Her grandfather had tried his best to restore order to his castle, but they were not doing much more than hiding and hoping the dragon would pass without decimating the castle or the city. Dragons never arrived in peace in the stories they were told as children and they rarely did in the history books either. She was certain the panic must have been worse in the city.

“What do you think it says?” Wylla whispered. For the first time since the dragon’s appearance, the castle was silent.

“It must relate to the dragon,” Wynafryd guessed.

“Dragons do not write letters,” Wylla protested. She had not time to redye her long hair. Blonde roots and eyebrows contrasted with the garish green color she had chosen.

“Their masters do,” Wynafryd offered. She watched her grandfather’s eyes move back and forth. He must have read that letter a dozen times now.

“Do you need assistance, my lord?” Maester Theomore questioned as the delay grew to an uncomfortable pause.

“I have not forgotten how to read, Maester.” Her grandfather snapped.

The Freys, impatient, demanded answers. Rhaegar Frey, their leader, leaned forward sharply. “What does it say, my lord? We demand to see it.”

Lord Wyman’s gaze hardened. He folded the letter calmly and stuffed it in his pocket.

“You will watch your tone in my hall, Frey,” he said, voice low but carrying the weight of command. “You are guests here. I respect Guest Rights as every true Northman does, but I will not tolerate disrespect in my own castle.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing.

“The letter demands a parley at the Ring Fort. I will not refuse the summons of someone who controls a dragon.”

The Freys exchanged glances. Rhaegar Frey leaned forward. “Is there a signature?”

Lord Wyman’s expression remained impassive. “The letter is unsigned.”

The Great Hall descended into loud chaos. Murmurs turned into open speculation as everyone began talking at once.

“It must be a Targaryen,” someone whispered loudly.

“Viserys?” Another questioned.

Wyman raised a meaty hand, and the hall fell silent almost instantly.

“I will personally meet with our new visitor,” he announced, “along with members of my household.”

The Freys immediately pressed forward. Rhaegar spoke first, his voice sharp. “We demand to be present as well.”

To Wynafryd’s and Wylla’s shock, their grandfather did not refuse. He simply nodded once.

“Very well. You may attend.”

The great eagle stared carefully at Wyman for a long moment, as if judging him, before it spread its massive wings and departed through the opening in the rafters from which it had arrived.

The entire castle was shaken.

Servants whispered frantically in the corridors, guards clustered in tight knots on the battlements, and even the cooks in the kitchens had stopped their work to speculate. The melted crown, the great eagle, the mysterious letter. Word had spread like wildfire through New Castle. Some swore it was the return of the Targaryens. Others feared it was a trick from the Lannisters or a ploy by the Freys themselves. None could explain how the Freys could have engineered the great flames that had lit up the sky above the city the night before.

Wynafryd was certain the dragon was real. She had seen it with her own eyes.

Everyone wondered the same thing: who had written the letter, and what did it mean for the North… and for White Harbor?

Not long after, Wynafryd, Wylla, and their mother Lady Leona were summoned to their grandfather’s solar. Two knights stood posted at his door when they arrived, and another two were stationed at the end of the hallway. Wynafryd’s stomach tightened.

When the three of them stepped inside, Lord Manderly closed the heavy door behind them and made each of them swear an oath. “What I am about to tell you stays in this room,” he said gravely. “You will not speak of it to anyone else, not your cousins, not your ladies, not even the walls themselves. Swear it.”

Wynafryd and her younger sister swallowed heavily, but both agreed, as did their mother.

They sat across from their grandfather at his great desk made of polished oak. Lord Manderly reached into his pocket, unfolded the letter, and placed it on the desk so the three ladies could read it.

Wynafryd’s eyes went straight to the signature at the bottom:

— once Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark, Daemon Targaryen, son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The Dragon of Greywater.

Lady Leona’s voice was quiet but sharp. “Have you shown this to Maester Theomore?”

Lord Manderly shook his head. “Maesters are supposed to put aside old loyalties when they don their chains, but I cannot forget that Theomore was born a Lannister of Lannisport and claims some distant kinship to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. He is all head and no heart.”

Lady Leona leaned forward, her voice quiet but sharp with disbelief. “How does Eddard Stark’s bastard son have control of a dragon?”

Wyman gave a sardonic smile, the expression pulling at the heavy folds of his face. “The better question is, how did Eddard Stark hide a secret Targaryen all of these years?”

“What is Greywater?” Wylla asked, looking between her sister and mother for answers.

“I presume Greywater Watch,” Lady Leona replied. “It is in the Neck.”

“Howland Reed,” their grandfather said, shaking his head ruefully. “The Crannogmen are slyer than most would credit them for. We all knew Eddard Stark had a bastard, but none of us ever saw the child. Lord Reed must have raised the boy in Greywater.” He let out a soft, wistful sigh. “Honorable Lord Stark.”

Wynafryd could see the sorrow in his eyes, the quiet ache that came whenever Lord Eddard’s name was spoken. She had never met the man, yet in that moment she missed him too — missed the steady hand he had kept on the North, the peace that had once seemed as eternal as the snow itself. Ever since Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, had marched south to free and then avenge his father, nothing had been the same. War, betrayal, the Red Wedding — the North had bled and bled until the very stones of White Harbor felt brittle.

She wondered, with a desperate flicker of hope, whether Jon Snow or Daemon Targaryen, or whatever name he now claimed, could restore that peace. Whether a man with a dragon at his command might be the only thing strong enough to save her father, still a prisoner of war somewhere in the south.

Wylla spoke first, blunt as ever. “Does the dragonlord even know about the Red Wedding?”

Lady Leona exchanged a worried glance with their grandfather.

Lord Wyman exhaled heavily. “I do not know. But I presume the dragonlord has not yet heard the news.”

Wynafryd’s throat tightened. “What should we do about the Freys?” she asked. “They are our guests, but if the dragonlord learns what happened at the Twins… harboring them could bring ruin on our entire house.”

Wyman’s pale blue eyes met hers steadily. “We will tell the Dragonlord the truth and nothing but the truth. Including where our loyalty lies.” He turned to Lady Leona. “Prepare gifts for the Freys — something fine enough to satisfy their pride. Bring those gifts with us to the Ring Fort.”

Lord Manderly took only a small party. Beside Wynafryd and her mother rode Marlon Manderly, her second cousin, along with a handful of their finest knights — those few who had not marched south with the Young Wolf. The rest of the household stayed behind.

Wylla had been furious at being left in White Harbor, stamping her foot and demanding to come. Their grandfather had taken her aside, placed his heavy hands on her shoulders, and spoken quietly. “If this meeting goes ill, daughter, then White Harbor is yours until I return. The responsibility — however brief — will be on your shoulders.” The words had calmed her. Wylla stood a little straighter as they rode out, though her eyes still flashed with resentment.

The Freys came in force. Nearly the entire delegation accompanied them: Rhaegar Frey at their head, Ser Jared and Symond Frey riding close behind as his seconds, and half their knights and men-at-arms clattering along in Frey colors. Symond’s wife and her ladies-in-waiting had been left behind in the city with a few guards.

Rather than mount a horse, Lord Manderly rode in an open-air carriage pulled by two sturdy draft horses. He was simply too large now to sit a saddle with any comfort. Wynafryd and her mother sat on either side of him, the carriage creaking beneath their combined weight.

Light snow began to fall as they climbed the hill toward the ancient Ring Fort. Flakes drifted down like pale ash, catching in Wynafryd’s lashes.

Lady Leona glanced up at the grey sky and murmured, “Is this a bad omen, do you think?”

No one answered her.

They saw the dragon long before they reached the fort.

It was a moving wall of scale and muscle, crouched behind the old stone ring like a living mountain. Black as night, green eyes glowing faintly even in daylight. Many of the horses shied and screamed at the sight. Riders cursed and hauled on reins as the column slowed to a crawl, struggling to control the terrified animals. One of the Freys — a knight Wynafryd did not know — was thrown from his saddle and landed with a splash in a puddle of half-frozen mud.

Wynafryd leaned close to her mother and whispered, “The dragonlord has claimed his first casualty without even speaking a word.”

Lady Leona’s mouth twitched, but she said nothing.

They halted before the Ring Fort. The ancient stones rose dark and weathered, crowned by the great eagle that had delivered the letter that morning. It perched on the roof like a sentinel, watching them with bright, unblinking eyes.

And there, waiting in the open space before the fort, stood the Dragonlord and two hooded figures.

He was clad in furs stained dark with old blood and armor that bore the scars and dents of hard fighting. His silver hair danced in the light breeze, catching the falling snow like threads of moonlight. His eyes were unnervingly bright and fixed on their party with calm intensity.

Wynafryd realized with a start how tall he was, how impossibly alive and grand he seemed. He was younger than she had expected, perhaps only a few years older than she was, yet he carried himself with the presence of a man who had already survived more than most would see in a lifetime. Handsome in a sharp, almost unearthly way.

She had never met Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, but she had heard the stories. Young, brilliant, undefeated in open battle until trickery ended him. This man before her carried the same dangerous youth, the same promise of heroism and ruin…

One of the hooded figures stepped forward.

The figure was swathed head to toe in heavy black robes. Not a single inch of skin was exposed to the pale northern light. Gloved hands clasped before her, the leather supple and black as pitch. A featureless lacquered mask covered her face entirely, smooth and glossy, reflecting the falling snow like a mirror of obsidian.

When she spoke, the voice that emerged was distinctly feminine, rich and melodic, like music carried on a summer wind.

“I present to you the definitive heir to the line of Aegon the Conqueror,” she announced, each word ringing clear across the snow-dusted ground. “Grandson of King Aerys, son of Prince Rhaegar, the Last Dragon, and his wife, Lady Lyanna Stark. Raised as Jon Snow under the orders of his uncle Eddard Stark, he now ascends as King Daemon Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.” She placed deliberate, reverent emphasis on the final title. “Rider of Ivaryx, the Cannibal.”

At her words the dragon lifted its neck and crawled up the outer stones of the ring fort.

The great shadow swallowed the Ring Fort, the horses, the men — everything. Every neck craned upward in the same instant, equal parts terrified and mesmerized by the majesty and horror of the living black mountain above them. Snowflakes spun wildly in the sudden wind. Wynafryd felt her breath catch in her throat as the shadow passed over her like a cold hand.

Shocked gasps and curses burst from the Frey ranks. Rhaegar’s face went slack with disbelief; Ser Jared made a choking sound, while Symond’s hand strayed to his sword hilt before he remembered where he stood. The revelation hit them like a blow — Eddard Stark’s bastard, a secret Targaryen, the blood of the dragon and the wolf both. A living threat to every oath they had sworn in the south.

Lord Wyman rose heavily from the carriage. The frame rocked beneath his bulk as he planted his feet on the snowy ground. Lady Leona and Wynafryd moved at once, slipping their arms beneath his to steady him. His weight pressed warm and solid against them, but he stood straight, breathing hard yet resolute. The Manderly party had naturally drawn to one side of the clearing; the Freys clustered on the other, their horses still stamping and snorting in fear.

Wyman’s voice rolled out deep and steady, carrying across the snow. “I am Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor. With me are my good-daughter, Lady Leona Manderly, and my granddaughter, Wynafryd Manderly.” He inclined his head, the gesture courteous but unyielding. “We remain subjects of the King in the North, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. We will not bow to a foreign king, dragonlord or not. But we will welcome the brethren of our honored king with open arms.”

A slow, genuine grin spread across the Dragonlord’s face — sharp, wolfish, and startlingly handsome. The expression transformed him, lighting the gold in his unnervingly bright eyes and softening the hard lines of battle. Heat rushed to Wynafryd’s cheeks before she could stop it; she looked away, mortified by her own reaction.

The Dragonlord’s voice was low, almost amused. “Robb is a King now?”

Ivaryx lowered its enormous head with a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the frozen ground. The dragon was so massive that every subtle shift of its bulk could be felt a dozen feet away, the snow trembling beneath their boots as though the earth itself feared to disturb it.

Lord Wyman answered, his voice solemn and heavy. “Yes, Your Grace. He was crowned king shortly after the Battle of the Camps. In Riverrun, it was said Lord Umber first offered his sword, declaring him King in the North. The River lords followed, declaring him King of the Trident as well.”

The solemn tone of her grandfather could not be mistaken. The smile slowly eased itself from the Dragonlord’s face.

“What are you not telling me?” he asked, quieter now, more dangerous.

Wynafryd’s heart hammered in her chest. She stared at the Freys and found she was not alone. All eyes in their party turned pointedly toward the Freys. The separation between the two groups felt even sharper now, like a line drawn in the snow.

Lord Wyman did not flinch. “Robb Stark was killed at the Twins, Your Grace.”

The Dragonlord’s face changed. Sorrow washed over his features, raw and unguarded. His voice grew thick with emotion. “How? Did he fall in battle? What happened?”

The Freys tried to interject. Rhaegar Frey stepped forward, his voice oily and eager. “Robb Stark was a betrayer, Your Grace. He attacked Lord Walder Frey in his own castle—”

“Silence.”

Daemon’s snarl cut through the air like a blade. The word was spoken softly, yet it carried such force that Rhaegar Frey’s mouth snapped shut immediately. The fear on every Frey face was palpable; several took an involuntary step backward.

Lord Wyman continued, his voice heavy. “Robb Stark and much of the Northern host were betrayed at the Twins during what men now call the Red Wedding. Our King was cut down by men he thought were allies. The Freys have since besieged Riverrun and been proclaimed the paramount house of the Riverlands by the Lannisters. Roose Bolton has been named Lord of the North.”

The words hung in the cold air, final and damning. The Dragonlord stood motionless, silver hair stirring in the breeze, his mismatched eyes burning with something terrible and bright. For the first time since they had arrived, Wynafryd felt truly afraid of what might come next.

“Freys,” he spat the word like a slur. “Why are they in White Harbor?”

Lord Wyman answered without hesitation, his voice steady but heavy. “They hold my son and heir, Wylis, hostage in the south. Just as they hold dozens of other sons of the North who answered the Young Wolf’s call. They demand both of my granddaughters’ hands in marriage.”

The Dragonlord’s gaze flicked toward the Frey party, then back to her grandfather. “And Winterfell?” he asked, the anguish plain in his voice. He sounded like a man grasping for any scrap of good news, desperate for something solid to hold onto. “Ser Rodrik must hold the castle in Bran’s name.”

Wynafryd’s grandfather shook his head slowly. “Winterfell has been sacked. Ser Rodrik fell in battle defending Torrhen’s Square. Ironborn pillage freely across the North, and Roose Bolton has more men amassed at the Dreadfort than any lord in the North. To deny the demands of the Freys invites the destruction of my house and White Harbor itself.”

A low murmur rippled through the gathered men as the Dragonlord drew his sword.

The blade slid free with a soft, hungry whisper. Valyrian steel, dark as night and rippling with faint ripples of color, caught the pale winter light. The murmur grew louder. Every eye fixed on the legendary sword as he lifted it and pointed its tip straight at the Frey delegation.

The Freys screamed in unison.

“We are under the protection of Guest Right!” Rhaegar Frey cried, voice cracking with panic.

The Dragonlord released a bitter laugh that cut through the snow like a blade. “Now you invoke the protection of Guest Right,” he snarled. “Did you give my brother the same courtesy!”

Ser Jared Frey stepped forward instead, his voice thin and trembling. “Your Grace… Robb Stark violated the marriage pact between House Stark and House Frey. He broke his solemn word. He attacked us first — came at the Twins with an army of wolves. His own direwolf slaughtered fourteen of our men before we could even draw steel.”

Lord Wyman lifted one massive hand, his voice cutting through the panic like a calm, steady drumbeat. “Peace, Your Grace. Peace. These men are under the protection of guest right while they stand in my company. I remind you of the old laws — the same laws the Freys themselves once claimed at the Twins. It would be… ironic… to break them now, in the presence of those who so recently profaned them.”

The Dragonlord’s jaw tightened. For a long moment the only sound was the wind and the low rumble of Ivaryx. Then, slowly, he lowered the blade and sheathed it. The Freys sagged visibly, some of them gasping in relief, their narrow faces slick with sweat despite the cold.

Lord Wyman nodded once, satisfied. He gestured to two of his knights, who stepped forward carrying a simple wooden trencher. Upon it lay a fresh loaf of dark bread and a small silver dish of salt.

“Bread and salt,” Wyman said, breaking the loaf with his own hands and offering a salted piece first to the Dragonlord. “We extend the protection of guest right to you and your companions in White Harbor, and we ask that you honor it in turn.”

The Dragonlord accepted the bread without hesitation, ate it, and inclined his head. The gesture was courteous, but his golden eyes remained cold.

Then Lord Wyman turned to the small chest of polished weirwood one of his knights now held open. From within he drew three objects, each chosen with deliberate care. A heavy silver cup, its rim worked with running wolves. A fine cloak, the color of Winterfell and House Stark itself. And last, a small carved weirwood figurine of a direwolf, its eyes inlaid with chips of obsidian.

“These gifts,” her grandfather said, voice grave, “are for the Freys. To release them from the protection of guest right.”

Wynafryd’s stomach tightened. She stepped forward before she could think better of it, taking the chest from her grandfather’s hands. The silver cup felt cold and far too heavy. She crossed the short stretch of snow to where the Freys clustered. Rhaegar Frey stood at their head. His narrow face had gone the color of old tallow; his watery eyes darted between her and the Dragonlord as though he could not decide which was the greater threat.

She held the chest out to him. “The Lord of White Harbor releases you from guest right,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “These gifts are yours.”

Rhaegar’s hand shook as he reached for the chest. For a moment their eyes met, and Wynafryd saw pure terror there — the kind that came from knowing the laws that had protected him had just been stripped away. He clutched the chest to his chest like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

Lord Wyman’s voice cut through the tense silence, deep and inexorable. “The Freys will return to the castle at once and gather their men and belongings. You are to leave White Harbor immediately.”

He gestured to four of his knights standing nearby. “Escort them back. No further protection is needed in the presence of the son of Lyanna Stark.”

The implication settled over the clearing like a blade drawn in daylight. The Freys were no longer guests. They were prey.

Wyman turned slightly toward the Dragonlord, his massive frame still steady despite the cold. “The Freys arrived by ship, Your Grace. At this hour, theirs will be the only vessel sailing south from White Harbor.”

The words hung there, simple and final. Wynafryd understood the subtext instantly, and she knew every soul present did as well. Her grandfather had just delivered the Freys into the Dragonlord’s hands with perfect courtesy and perfect deniability.

Rhaegar Frey clutched the chest of gifts to his narrow chest like a drowning man. His watery eyes darted between Lord Wyman and the Dragonlord, the terror on his face no longer hidden. Ser Jared and Symond looked as though they might be sick. The three of them backed away slowly, flanked now by Manderly knights whose hands rested openly on their sword hilts.

The Dragonlord watched them go. The raw anguish that had cracked across his features moments earlier had not vanished, but it had hardened into something far colder and more terrible. His golden eyes tracked the Freys with predatory focus, the muscle in his jaw flexing once, twice. Snow settled on his silver hair and shoulders, but he did not seem to feel it.

Lord Wyman exhaled heavily, the breath fogging in the cold air. “The old laws have been observed,” he said quietly, more to the Dragonlord than to anyone else. “What comes next is between you and them.”

He turned back to her grandfather. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, edged with something that sounded almost like a plea. “Tell me of the Red Wedding. Tell me what became of Robb’s army.”

Wyman Manderly stood very still, the massive lord suddenly seeming older than his years. The wind tugged at his cloak and the white fur trim of his hood, but he did not shiver. He had delivered hard truths before, Wynafryd knew — the death of her uncle Wendel, the hostage-taking of her father — but this felt different. This was a man who had once loved the Starks like brothers, now forced to speak their ruin aloud to the last living shadow of their blood.

“The army is scattered, Your Grace,” he said at last, each word heavy as stone. “Those who survived the slaughter at the Twins fled north or west or south, wherever their feet could carry them. Some reached the Neck. Some did not. The Freys spoke one truth, though it pains me to admit it. An army of wolves did fall upon the Twins that night — but they tore only at Frey throats. Without them, no Northmen would have escaped the slaughter.”

He paused, letting the wind fill the silence. Wynafryd watched the Dragonlord’s face. The gold in his eyes flickered, a brief, anguished spark, as though some small, desperate hope had been kindled and then crushed.

“The Freys now besiege Riverrun,” Wyman continued, voice quieter still. “Where the King’s mother was left behind.”

The Dragonlord went very still. “Catelyn Stark lives?”

Wyman inclined his head, the gesture almost gentle. “So the last letters claimed. But no word has reached Riverrun, nor come from it, for some time now. We do not know if she still holds the castle, or if the siege has ended in blood.”

The Dragonlord’s gloved hand tightened on the hilt of his sheathed sword until the leather creaked. Wynafryd saw the sorrow in him again, sharper this time, the kind that came from learning that the woman who had once been mother to the brother he had loved might still draw breath somewhere in the south — trapped, besieged, perhaps already lost.

Her grandfather was not finished. His voice carried the weight of every raven that had ever brought bad news to White Harbor. “The ironborn raid freely along the western coast of the North. And worse — wildlings have taken Castle Black at the Wall. The North bleeds from every side, Your Grace. We stand alone.”

Wynafryd watched the Dragonlord absorb each blow. He did not flinch. He did not roar or draw steel again. He simply stood there, silver hair whipping in the wind, golden eyes distant and terrible, as though he were watching the last foundations of his world crumble into the snow. The boy who had once been Jon Snow had come seeking family and found only ghosts. The man who now wore the name Daemon Targaryen looked as though he were deciding whether to burn the world for those ghosts or let the ashes cool around him.

Lord Wyman’s massive shoulders sagged a fraction, the only sign of the toll these words had taken. He had just handed the last son of Lyanna Stark the full measure of the North’s ruin, wrapped in the courtesy of bread and salt and direwolf gifts. Wynafryd felt a sudden, fierce pity for her grandfather — the old bear who had carried the weight of White Harbor through war and betrayal, now forced to deliver one more unbearable truth to a dragonlord who might yet decide that the entire realm should burn for it.

The Dragonlord said nothing for a long moment. The wind howled across the hill. Ivaryx rumbled low in the distance, a sound that vibrated through the ancient stones of the Ring Fort like distant thunder. Snow settled on the shoulders of every man present.

When the Dragonlord finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost gentle, and all the more terrible for it.

“Then the North has no Stark left to mourn,” he said. “Only me.”

Lord Wyman shifted his massive weight, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Not entirely, Your Grace,” he said carefully. “Sansa Stark still lives. She is in King’s Landing, a ward of the Lannisters — or so the last letters claimed.”

The Dragonlord’s head turned sharply. For the first time since the Freys had been sent away, something like hope flickered across his face, raw and desperate. “And Arya?” he asked, the name slipping out like a prayer he had not meant to speak aloud.

Wyman’s shoulders sagged a fraction. “No word of Arya Stark has reached us in some time, Your Grace. None at all.”

The Dragonlord said nothing. He simply turned his back to them, silver hair whipping in the wind, and stared out over the cliff’s edge toward the grey bay far below. Whatever rage or pain tore through him in that moment, he hid it from their eyes. Wynafryd watched the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his gloved hand flexed once at his side, and felt a strange, aching pity twist in her chest..

The Ring Fort stood on the very edge of the cliff, ancient stones overlooking the wide, icy waters of the bay of White Harbor. The Dragonlord spoke without turning around, his voice low and flat.

“Shiera. Ashara. Go with Lord Manderly to White Harbor. I will join you when I am finished here.”

One of the hooded women — the taller one, her voice rich and musical — stepped forward. “Return with an aurochs-pulled cart and several strong men to carry our belongings,” she told Lord Wyman. “We will not burden your horses.”

Wyman Manderly did not hesitate. “As you command.” He turned to the single man-at-arms who had accompanied them. “Help my daughter and granddaughter back into the carriage.”

The ride down from the Ring Fort was a slow, jolting descent along the wide cobbled path that wound through sparse, wind-scoured trees. Snow drifted between the bare branches, and the carriage creaked and swayed on its heavy springs. Wynafryd sat pressed between her mother and grandfather, the warmth of his bulk the only steady thing in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. Below them, White Harbor sprawled against the bay like a thing already half-afraid, its walls and rooftops dusted white.

Even from the heights they could hear the city stirring into frantic life. Horns blared from the harbor towers. Town criers’ voices rose thin and urgent on the wind, announcing the sudden departure of the Freys. By the time their carriage reached the lower slopes, her grandfather’s voice — despite his age and the way his breath still labored — possessed a surprising vigor as he barked orders to the small escort riding alongside them.

In minutes a large aurochs-pulled cart lumbered up the road toward the Ring Fort, flanked by a dozen strong men. The host her grandfather had summoned pushed a clear path through the streets toward the harbor, and it seemed as though the entire city had poured out to watch. Faces pressed against windows, children perched on shoulders, sailors and merchants and smallfolk all crowding the cobbled ways.

By the time Wynafryd and her family reached a vantage point near the waterfront, the banner of the Freys was already just beyond clear sight, the lone ship slipping out into the bay under oars and sail. The crowd had gone strangely quiet, every eye fixed on that distant speck.

Then every head turned at once.

High on the cliff, the great black dragon shifted atop the Ring Fort. Ivaryx climbed the ancient stones with terrifying grace, its massive bulk silhouetted against the grey sky. It stretched its enormous green-membraned wings — wings larger than the sails of any ship in the harbor — and dove from the cliff’s edge.

The dragon soared out over the water with powerful strokes, each beat sending a visible gust across the bay. Higher and higher it climbed, a living shadow against the clouds. Then, without warning, it opened its jaws and breathed.

A great river of green fire poured down from the sky, bright and terrible, engulfing the entire mass of the Frey ship in an instant. The flames roared like a forge given life. Even from the harbor Wynafryd could hear the dying screams of the Freys, thin, high, and utterly human, carrying over the crash of waves. Every voice in White Harbor had gone silent.