---

“I hear they call you Silvertongue.”

The silkily rich voice curled in the air, a pleasant note that quieted the background chattering to near perfect silence. Brightly hued heads turned to watch the figure delicately float through their presence, towards the man who had betrayed and sacked his own city. To the man who now gripped the free-city in a tyrannical fist and wielded it against its neighbors.

The figure was in no hurry, nor would she be. Cloaked from head to toe with layers of silk and lace, her face remained obscured with delicate silver lace, she moved with a confidence that a path would clear for her. And it did. A small sea of people parted for her approach, curious stares were followed by whispers in the wake of her greeting.

“They do.” Alequo Adarys spoke in return, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. The self-declared king ran a hand through his beard, flamboyantly pink and jade. “You are not Tyroshi, who are you?” The once-merchant prince’s personal retinue had formed behind him.

While Adarys was swaddled in vibrant - garish even - robes of purple, gold, and jade, his men were simpler in their presentation. They seemed as out of place in the sea of colors as the unannounced guest was in pure white. Where she effused mysticism, they menaced in monochromatic indigo.

A few feet away from the man and his retinue, the figure stopped without fear or uncertainty. A half circle of sycophants formed behind her. Curious still, yes, but tense, questioning, worry and excitement melded into an unpleasant perfume. Her head cocked softly to the side, an action that sent a ripple of movement down the layers of silk.

“I am here to finish work that started many years ago.” A long pause tempted the new king to speak. She undid a silver pin and pulled the veil away from her face. It was an aged visage, but it was difficult to place just how aged. Her skin, though lined, still seemed supple and full. The hand that removed the lace from her vision was flawless but for a few arthritic knuckles. One eye sparkled a brilliant green but the other was clouded blue with cataract.

“Such vague-” He began only to be promptly cut off.

“Do not worry, it is nothing that will impede your little conquest, Silvertongue. Or that of your fellow kings who wage war now in the Stepstones.” Her lips spread to a pleasing smile. “Your deposed Archon and I had an agreement, one I now seek to have with you.” She withdrew a scroll from a voluminous sleeve and offered it to Alequo.

He broke the seal easily, eyes flicking across a scrawling script, one eyebrow arching as he neared the end. “I see.”

The succinctness betrayed the flourish that followed. When one of his men took the scroll from him, he clapped his hands together loudly. “It is agreed, welcome to my new Tyrosh, Riña se Kasta.” The men behind him did not relax, but the crowd behind her began to whisper and chatter, a few scattered claps echoed their king.

“How gracious, thank you..” The smile returned slowly, a small bend of her neck to bow her head revealing hints of silver beneath the fabric. “If you would be so kind as to have a few young women made available to aid me, and when you are done here, come speak with me more on that matter.”

---

---

The city had been sacked but from what Riña se Kasta had seen so far, it seemed eager to ignore such trivialities. Outside the palace walls the din of the mundane continued on much as it would have if the Band of Nine hadn’t sought to bring the Free Cities under their control.

She had passed walls singed and blackened from fire and smoke. The harbor contained the broken ships, still being salvaged for their wood and metals or to recover what dead could be found. The Tyroshi king had planned his conquest well, a betrayal from one of the city’s own merchant princes.He had had the gold and means to bribe many to inaction even if he had not won them to his cause.

The slaves of the city surely had seen no difference to their lives, they carried on the same as they had when there was an Archon ruling from behind the palace walls. The pleasure houses still called out for those lonely, depraved, or needful souls. Priests of the many religions welcomed their faithful. The city’s common folk carried on, what else could they do when rich and powerful battled one another for power?

Men, always playing at these games. She thought as the warmth of her bath soothed aching joints and relaxed weary muscles. Her head leaned back with each brush stroke the young girl pulled through the elder’s long strands. A heavy sigh escaped her, a long life and yet she still had so much more to do.

“Enough, I will call for you when my bath needs refreshing.” She dismissed the girl without opening her eyes. Small and quick footsteps were followed by the quiet slam of a door.

Alone. Alone with her memories that played freshly in her mind as if it were yesterday. How had they become such a shadow of their founders? It wasn’t her problem to solve, it had never been anything she cared to assist when he lived and breathed. But to see what the legacy had become was disappointing. He would be disappointed, angry, disgusted. So would the other one, no worthy opponents remained, who would he find to be his equal in this cohort of imposters. The silence was broken with a groan of frustration.

“More loose ends, more mistakes come back to haunt me.” She spoke to no one, she spoke to the memories. “To haunt us and the choices we made.” It was nothing to set right, nothing that could be set right. What had begun would carry on, on its own accord. Unless…

She rubbed her hands over her arms and crossed them beneath the warmth of her bath. The bath water splashed, droplets of red hit the cool marble floor beneath her, dripping from her fingertips that curled around the edge.

“Girl!”

The patter of footsteps returned. The woman stood, but had to shift her weight onto the girl for assistance in getting fully out of the bath. A waiting robe was draped around her, soaking away the remaining water and moisture, staining the white fabric a pale pink.

“Has the Silvertongue arrived?”

“Kessa, ñuha riña. He is in your sitting room.” The girl was nervous, her eyes darting about as if she wanted to run but fear held her legs in place.

“You’re not needed tonight, return tomorrow.” She eagerly ran off, disappearing from the rooms as Riña se Kasta left the most private chamber to the small adjoining room.

The king of Tyrosh was there, waiting, as promised. It was a greedy eagerness, a hunger that she knew well enough. Age had not stolen everything from her.

“I expected more of a challenge from you.”

“I have heard stories that tell me it would be unwise. If what this contained is all truth.” He gestured to the scroll that he had placed, still furled, on the table beside him. He sat back in a plush chair, one leg pulled square over the other.

The woman’s slim shoulders shrugged dismissively. “Those that play with fire are often burned.” She poured a measure of pear brandy into a silver cup. “Especially when they ignore advice offered freely - or near enough.” She tipped it to her mouth, savoring the rich warmth. “Will you follow in the same folly?”

Her eyes met his, the eye that had been clouded seemed clearer now. The bulge of age on her knuckles decreased, her body eased and soothed. “Silvertongue.” She repeated his name as she approached him, her hands gripping his knee as she knelt to eye level. “What makes you think you can succeed where no one else has?”

The king grunted in annoyance. “Stay, advise me, and only me. You will be given access to whatever it is you want.”

“Of course, my king. Only you.”

It was time. Godric wished they had more opportunity to plan, but damn Slimes had given up the plot. Slimes was no idiot, Godric knew. That’s why he’d managed to convince the damn guard to let him take the oath, because they knew not the full extent of his crimes. But Gods new and old, his mouth was the most vile and wild he’d ever heard. It was thus unsurprising he’d let slip what he planned to a pair of fellows that weren’t vetted. Karol and Bob. Both were liked by all, but they were good boys through and through, they’d need to be eased into this sort of thing, convinced over time. Instead, the nuisance had blabbed and got them bloody terrified. Someone had overheard poor little Bob praying for the strength to reveal what he knew now.

Well, at least they did a mercy to these men by killing them in their sleep. A pair of knives to either eye and that was that. Men at their posts had throats slit, or in a few cases were simply given a kick to the back to make them fall off the wall to an inevitable death after a quite long and probably terrifying fall. Those were the most unfortunate ones.

“Putting a torch to the Torches.” Godric murmured, watching his fellow deserters set flame to several buildings.

Though the plans of the mutiny were cut short by that damn mouth on Slimes, they were still very thorough. They had been assembling or fabricating wildling arrowheads and clumps of fur from beyond the wall to sprinkle about the place. Bodies were moved around, and slashes were put on wood and stone to simulate a struggle. A few heads were cut off and put on sticks, and any stocks of food that the mutineers couldn’t take with them were put to flame to make it seem as if the savages from beyond the wall had taken them.

The hardest part in truth was assembling enough clothes for everybody to change into, truth be told. All the rest could largely be dismissed as trophies and the like. But getting clothes and shirts and trousers, hiding them and keeping them clean and dry and not eaten up and shit in by rats and moths? That was tough. But they had managed, just about.

All was done or being done, except for something very petty. On the tips of his toes, Godric made his way to commander Blackburn’s room. “Knock-knock.” He announced, rapping his knuckles twice against the door before putting stolen keys into it and opening it. Blackburn was already up, sword in both hands. “Don’t worry, commander. I want this to be fair.” the Stark boy said, dropping a bag that had a suit of armour therein. “It is yours, put it on.”

Blackburn knew what was happening, he didn’t need an explanation. “You always had a darkness about you, boy.”

“I know!” Godric replied, taking a seat and balancing hid sword’s pommel on the tip of his index finger. “They always told me that, you know? They say they look in my eyes and see no soul. But I tell them, was it my fault both mother and father had such dark eyes that mine came out darker? I think everyone puts so much stock into what people look like, you know? You for example, Mr. Blackburn.” Godric had to resist a smile as the commander snarled when he was addressed without honorifics. “You’re not even forty and you’ve white hair. Well, alright, silver. But I don’t think anybody is going to claim you’re a Targaryen or any kind of Valyrian, would they?” The final clanks of plate being donned were coming about, and thus Blackburn stood, staring the young Stark-traitor down.

Godric got up, and gave his sword a quick flourish. It was a bit too artistic and exaggerated, a joking “ouch” coming out of the Ranger as the blade nicked his own cheek. “Are you ready?”

“I was ready to put you in the dirt the moment I laid eyes on you, bastard.”

“Oi! I’m not a bastard! Mother never betrayed father!” He spread his arms as if to take exaggerated offence, and then lunged at the commander. Naturally, his sword was swatted outside. Godric was an excellent fighter, but he was less experienced, shorter in arm and leg, and certainly far less muscled than the Blackburn that had enough meat to feed a family of cannibal wildlings for a week.

The two circled each other in the tight confines of the bedroom, knowing neither had any room to back out. Godric decided to try a bit of dirty fighting, again trying to lunge as a mere feint for giving his opponent a kick in the groin. But Blackburn was ready for this, the man foregoing the stereotype of the slow brute to neatly sidestep the attack, performing a simple parry of the feint in the event Godric chose to commit to it, and to try and humiliate the traitor he gave him a kick on his ass too. With a roar the Commander went to try to finish him off, but with a panicked cry Godric picked up a stool and threw it in Blackburn’s face. A pained grunt came from him as the furniture bounced off of his helmet and Godric didn’t waste the opportunity he’d been given. He picked up his sword by the blade, the weapon the wrong way around. But it was perfect for the moment, taking it in a death-grip he did an underhand swing, using the crossguard to sneak a nasty hit right between Blackburn’s legs. Blood ran as the commander screamed in pain, the moment intensifying as Godric then pulled the blade to have that same crossguard like a hook. His own blood ran through his gloves, but flesh was torn out of his opponent’s backside and he fell screaming in pain.

Getting upright, Godric wiped a bit of sweat and red hair from his brow. “Thought you had me there!” he taunted, jumping into a handstand that he was forced to turn into an awkward half-cartwheel as he lost his balance. “I promised you that you’d pay commander. I promised you when you kicked me into the gravel on that first day, didn’t I?” He chuckled as he kicked the man in the jaw. “I’m a man of honour, I keep my promises!” he joked, amidst the breaking of his vow to the black.

Finally, he leaned in to the man and whispered. “I know where your kindred live. My vengeance has only started.” It was a lie of course, he didn’t know and he wasn’t quite so petty as to harm them. After all, it wasn’t they that insulted him. But he did like to see the fucker’s last moments be of agonized fear. Taking Blackburn’s head off of his shoulders, Godric thus proceeded to the castle’s courtyard to address the assembled mutineers.

Looking them over, they all awaited what he would say. He was obviously the leader, he was the one that planned this, he was the one that got people that hated each other into working together, he was the one that convinced several men who had taken the Black willingly without it being a last resort to suddenly decide and turn on it.

Now he was the one to slay Commander Blackburn, the symbol of their invisible shackles being broken.

“This is it lads.” he roared. “We don’t have time to sit around and bellow much, and I bet half of you wouldn’t understand half the words I’d say in a speech, what with me being a well read and poncey arsehole. But we won, comrades. They put us to do this because they wanted us gone. They punished us for crimes we didn’t commit. They punished us for crimes that oughn’t be crimes. They sent us to the frozen ass-end of the world to get rid of us in a job they’re all too lazy or cowardly or stupid to do. Well no more. It doesn’t matter what part of Westeros we come from, we won’t be taken advantage of. We’ll write our own stories, we won’t let any other man write them for us. One-nil against a world that wants us dead. One-nil!” As he raised the commander’s head, all the different men cheered, and repeated his last words as a rallying-cry.

“One-nil! One-nil! One-nil!”

They ran to the stables, finishing up the last of the burning. The deception would almost certainly be seen through with sufficient investigation, but it would at least buy a little bit of time if all went well. Still, they had to get as far South as possible, ideally having gone at least past two towns before a carrier pigeon was sent out.

The Bastard of Claw Isle sat upon a perch of craggy rock, overlooking wide-dark waters that mirrored the colour of the night sky.

She was tucked into a discreet corner, away from the bustling crowds that flowed through Tyrosh’s coiling streets. Emnyra had chosen a quiet walkway, running along the waterfront, where the noises of the Free City became a muffled hum.

An ale mug rested in her hands, projecting the appearance that she was indulging herself, when all it contained was clear water.

That was deliberate. Her brew-stained tunic was deliberate. Her location was deliberate.

It had taken a few nights of studying the self-proclaimed “Swift Serpent”’s movements before Emnyra put her plan into action, yet the tedium of her work would soon bear fruit.

They had always told her that she was an impulsive, hotheaded wretch without a thought in her head. They had mocked and belittled her. They had told her she lacked patience.

She could be patient when she wanted to, though. She could be clever and cunning. She had grown into quite the schemer.

As soon as her eyes fell upon that delightful sword, with its striking pommel and deliciously decadent design, Emnyra knew that it had to be hers.

That was when she started scheming.

The Serpent came swaggering into view, his hair dyed a rich and vibrant blue.

The whore that was tucked beneath his arm had dull brown hair.

The Serpent’s namesake, a stunning blade with a pommel fashioned into the likeness of a hissing snake, was fastened to his belt.

His sea-green eyes narrowed into slits as they fell upon Emnyra.

“You’re in my way, bastard,” he snarled, “Move.”

Emnyra had watched from the shadows as the Serpent dragged a different slut down to his secret waterfront cove each night, so that he could fuck them on a ledge of rough stone that looked out over the sea.

“I was here first,” she mumbled, theatrically spilling some of her drink onto the ground, “Find your own spot.”

“This - IS - my spot, bastard,” the Serpent snapped at her, “The Old Mother isn’t here to protect you. If you don’t leave, I - WILL - kill you. I’ve killed far more beautiful women for far less.”

Emnyra hiccuped, dribbling out of the side of her mouth for dramatic effect.

She noticed the Serpent’s eyes flick between her and his dull-haired whore.

The Serpent stood in a loose stance, with relaxed shoulders that conveyed how utterly unthreatened he was by Emnyra.

What risk was some drunken, pampered brat to the fearsome Swift Serpent?

“Are we fuckin’, or what?” the Serpent’s tart grumbled.

“Get out of my way, bastard,” the Serpent hissed, fingers coiling tightly around the hilt of his sword, “I won’t ask again.”

Emnyra rose from her perch, making sure to stumble a little. Her movements were wobbly and she was softly slurring her words.

“Or what?” she shot back.

The Serpent took an arrogant stride towards her, shoving Emnyra backwards.

“Move, you blundering sow - !”

Blood bubbled in the serpent’s mouth as Emnyra’s dagger plunged through the soft flesh of his throat. She pulled the knife free, and he crumpled onto the ground in a bent heap.

She pried the ornate sword free from its scabbard, admiring the decadent etchings on the hilt and the sturdy yet graceful steel of the blade itself.

“That's a damn fine sword,” she said with a grin, “Wasted on the likes of you.”

Emnyra kicked the Serpent’s limp corpse into the sea, watching it sink down into a tomb of inky black water.

The Sepent’s whore let out an ear-splitting shriek, scrambling over the craggy walkway as her feet floundered beneath her.

Emnyra darted forward, grabbing the wench by her bland, ugly hair. Emnyra gripped hold of her, smashing her face against the crag again and again and again, until it was a messy heap of torn, wet flesh.

Emnyra delighted in the opportunity to use her new sword as she hacked the whore’s mangled head from her shoulders.

She watched the served head bounce across the ground, nestled in a mess of dull brown hair and dark blood.

A booming laugh erupted out of Emnyra Waters.

It may have been a lot of effort for a sword…but it was a damn fine sword.

“I still believe I should be commanding this effort, my Lord Hand.”

The words stirred the small party from their view across the port as the royal fleet was sitting at dock, a rare enough thing at any occasion for it to be gathered so, least of all in preparation for an aggressive landing. The scope of it was vast, and even somewhat removed by distance, the noise was almost enough to drown out the words.

It was a good enough thing they did not, for it would not do to miss the words of a King, even one that could be considered a friend by some of the present company. Few songs would be written about the stature of King Jaehaerys II, and none of them kind, but those who judged things purely on how tall or broad a man stood had little enough sense, at least to Tywin’s mind. The young Lannister knew well the perils of an uninspiring liege in physical stature, but unlike his Lord father, there was a passion and fire behind the purple eyes of the Targaryen which belied his weaker physical nature.

“None who know you, your grace, question your dedication.” The rumble of Ormund Baratheon cleared the distant din of the shipworks with ease, a manner that was both affable and authoritative, even when addressing the King. “But our foes are pirates and rogues, to send our King himself would be to legitimise them in the eyes of friends and foes alike.” It was true enough, although a political answer. All those present could see the contrast between King and Hand, something that no amount of Targaryen intensity could equal. The Hand was a warrior born, the King might not survive the crossing should he take ill as he had often before.

“Perhaps you are right, still, I do not treasure this feeling, of sending my brave lords and sers to die in my place, on foreign soil.” The King’s gaze swept away from the Hand to the full group, the lords and knights who commanded positions of prestige among the invading force. Three of House Lannister were present, Tywin and his brother, one a newly made knight, the other a young and promsing squire, as well as their uncle. Ser Jason Lannister was an able warrior, unlike his own brother, and Tywin at last felt some pride in a living family connection as the Lions of Casterly Rock bowed to their King.

“My father fought often in the Westerlands, Sers, much to his struggle, but he spoke well of you Ser Jason, and I am told your Knighting was a worthy achievement, Ser Tywin.” The King’s words were measured, but there was a hint of a smile to them. “My Son is keen to renew your acquaintance.”

“I am sure his keenness leans more towards the battles to come, your grace, but I am pleased to hear.” Tywin kept his head dipped as the King’s words seemed to focus most on him, before eventually dipping out of the brow to speak. “My Cousin speaks only dear things of the Princess.”

“Do make sure to speak with them before you depart, Ser Tywin, or I will not hear the end of it, you are certainly missed at court.” A slight, rare, laugh left the King’s lips, echoed in a greater rumble from the Lord Baratheon. Tywin didn’t quite share their outburst of mirth, but he was pleased enough to smile, dipping his head one further time before stepping backwards to allow the greater lords to continue their discussions.

“It seems strange to see those ships as allies.” Kevan had moved to watch the ships again as Tywin stepped towards him, his own eyes now drifting across the rows and rows of Ironborn ships currently at dock.

“I doubt such ships have docked in this port in any number before, strange times indeed.” Tywin mused quietly, although without shame, should the Ironbron have drawn closer.

“Mayhaps that is why Lord Ormund suggests the King remain home, in case this is some Greyjoy plot to cast the royal house into the Sea.” Kevan spoken with some degree of good humour, but it was not entirely a joke.

“Perhaps, but they’re unlikely to manage that with the whole host, we outnumber them, even if it is their ships.” Still, Tywin’s hand remained close to his swordbelt. It was indeed unusual for such a wide array of Ironborn ships to be at dock in a mainlander city without their deeds being nefarious.

“Our father could have sent more of our own fleet.” Kevan posed the idea, his hands leaning forwards on the stone demi-wall before them, as the first of the vessels began casting out, intended to range ahead of the main fleet as scout ships. The suggestion brought a snort of contempt from Tywin, but clearly not from disagreement.

“No doubt some trader suggested that it would cost his burghers too much in having to pay for their own protection for the course of the war, then that was the end of that.” Tywin sighed, before clapping a hand to the shoulder of his younger brother. “Enough thoughts of home for now, let us find whatever Ironbron has the good fortune of carrying the Lions of the West to battle, eh?”

---

The journey had not been a hard one, the Royal fleet, mostly Greyjoy vessels joined with portions of the Crownlander houses who maintained fleets of their own, before rendezvousing with a smaller fleet from Dorne, mostly vessels from the Free Cities hired to carry the Spears of Dorne to battle. By the standards of a Westerosi armada it had ended up being fully representative of the varied nation the Targaryen’s ruled, a sight rare throughout the centuries long rule of the dynasty.

The majority of the fleet had moved to land forces on Sunstone, the second largest of the Stepstones where some of the last holdouts against the rule of the Band of Nine remained, pirate lords tied closely to the Dornish mainland willing to allow the Westerosi to land without contest. Then, the tip of the spear, comprising of the greater Crownlander warships and the largest of Ironborn longships had pressed on.

The tiny island of Dwarfstone sat in the straight between Sunstone and Bloodstone, a dominating pirate fortress had sat atop it for many an age, the ownership and state of the fortifications varying as commonly as the tides. If the forces of the King did not move to take the castle before long, it would allow the Band of Nine to strike south at the landing points on Sunstone with impunity. Thus the first bloody fighting of the war had to be forced early.

The young men of greater blood among the first attack force had taken at least passably well to the trials of sea travel, and so their acquaintances had formed, or reformed in some cases, with ease over the weeks of travel. Now Tywin stood near the prow of the Longship, Drowned Man’s Fury, alongside two men of close enough age, if highly distinct nature.

“None of us will die this day, good friends, I have seen it.” Aerys Targaryen spoke with the easy good humour of a young man who was simultaneously in jest, but also entirely convinced of what they spoke. He was the most slender of the three figures, but not by much, a far cry from his spindly father, he was instead lean and wellbuilt, clad in armour that was fine but not ostentatious, to not draw too much attention to who he may be in such a brutal plan of attack.

“We are fortunate then, that a Targaryen dreamer has never been wrong, that you are all so well known for your level heads.” Steffon Baratheon’s voice was already nearing the deep depth of his lord father, but had some way to go. Powerfully built, he could be mistaken for a much older man, the fuzz of adolescent facial hair already burgeoning into a bear many older men would be envious of. His tone was exceedingly familiar for one addressing the crown prince, but the words brought a laugh from the Prince, and a grin form Tywin the moment before his face disappeared beneath the helm he was strapping on.

“Lets worry less about dreams and more about their ballista.” Tywin’s metallic voice echoed from his helm, pausing to grip arms with both young men. “Fight well.”

“May you both, I am sure the Lord Hand will keep me boringly safe.” Aerys replied, although without any harshness to either. “Death to the Usurpers.”

“Death to the Usurpers.” Both men echoed back to their Prince.

It was time enough, as the first ships of the Westerosi fleet slipped into the bay before the fortress of Dwarfstone, and suddenly the air was full with the thrum of battle.