The chains were cold, and they bit into Ser Barristan's wrists and ankles as the guards hauled him down a flight of steps that led deep beneath the castle, where the prisons were kept. Each step echoed inside his head, a dull thumping sound that seemed to mark his descent not merely into the underbelly of the castle, but into the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Edric Storm stumbled behind him, smaller chains clutched cruelly around his thin wrists. The boy did not cry out, though his breath came in sharp little gasps whenever the guards dragged them too sharply. Barristan admired that. The Baratheon blood in the boy kept him braver than most in the situation.
The air grew colder the deeper they went, damp with salt and rot. Water seeped through cracks in the stone, trickling down the walls like tears, making Barristan suspect they were closer to the sea. He could smell the salt in the air the longer they walked. Torches burned at intervals across the corridor, their flames fluttering low. Frosty winds slipped through the cracks in the walls, making him shiver as they flitted past his body.
"Move," a guard barked, shoving Barristan forward.
He did not resist. He had learned long ago when resistance served a purpose and when it only wasted strength better saved.
They reached the bottom at last. A long corridor of iron-barred cells cut into the rock greeted his eyes, each one a narrow space carved into the stone. Somewhere, he could hear water dripping steadily in the cell. It was either that or his ears were playing tricks on him.
One by one, the guards shoved them into separate cells. Barristan was thrown hard against the back wall, the breath knocked from him. His chains were yanked free from the wall ring, then slammed back into place around his wrists. The iron bars screeched shut as the guards made their exit.
The torches moved away, plunging the cell into darkness. His eyes strained to adjust to the lack of light. Still, it was daytime, and there were cracks in the walls that allowed some light into the cell.
The guards' footsteps faded, and silence crept in.
Barristan leaned back against the cold stone, breathing slowly, feeling the ache in his ribs and back where the guards punched him.
'I should've died in the field.' Barristan thought morosely.
Again, the thought came back to him, but there was nothing to be done now. Instead, he was here—imprisoned by the daughter of the king he had served to the best of his ability.
He closed his eyes, and all he could see was his fellow sworn brothers and the melancholic smile of Prince Rhaegar. They were all gone, and he alone was spared to carry their memories all these years. It was a bitter memory to carry and he cursed himself for being so beholden to the past.
He shook his head, trying to shake off the bitter memory, and tried to steady himself. Then…a voice spoke from the darkness of the opposite cell.
"Well," it said mildly, "you don't see many white cloaks dragged down here. I gather even fewer are still breathing these days."
Barristan's eyes snapped open. He turned his head toward the sound, looking through the iron bars into the darkness. He squinted his eyes to get a better look as his eyes slowly adjusted to the diminished light. At first, he saw only a shadow, then the faint glimmer of torchlight caught a familiar shape: a broad-shouldered man sitting on the floor with a long, unkempt beard and clothes torn here and there.
Barristan's breath caught as he recognised the man despite the overgrown beard.
"Seaworth?" he said hoarsely. "Ser Davos Seaworth?"
The man leaned forward, and the light found his face fully then—the scars, the weathered skin, the eyes that had lost almost all hope after meeting nothing but silence and darkness for a long time.
"Aye, I'm Davos." Davos said with a tired smile. "Or what's left of him."
Barristan stared as if seeing a ghost.
"They said you were dead. Slain at sea. Stannis's fleet… Euron Greyjoy…" Barristan said with wide eyes.
Davos chuckled softly, though there was little humour in it.
"Aye, that's what most men believe when you go missing for over a year. I suppose I ought to feel flattered. Dying at sea suits a smuggler's son, doesn't it?" Ser Davos said with a cough.
"You survived," Barristan said slowly. "How?"
"By being stubborn," Davos replied. "And by knowing how to cling to wreckage when everything around you is washed away in a storm."
Davos' face darkened as memories he tried to forget surged forth.
"Euron's fleet was hell loosed upon the water. Black sails, screaming horns and men screaming. Half our ships never had a chance. There was a storm out of nowhere, and the fire was spreading unnaturally on our ships. It was as if someone tore open the seven hells."
Barristan's jaw tightened. He had heard rumours of that battle—whispers of sorcery, of ships exploding into unnatural flame. The royal fleet amassed by Stannis under Ser Davos' command was nearly fifty strong, and yet they had lost the battle against a numerically inferior enemy.
"Your sons?" Barristan asked tentatively.
Davos shook his head.
"I don't know. I lost sight of their ships when the Ironborn broke into our line. Last I saw, the sea was full of burning men." he swallowed audibly, remembering the horror he witnessed. "I washed ashore days later."
"There were rumours of many sailors of the royal fleet coming ashore at Sharp Point." Barristan tried to console the man.
"That'd be for the best. If the gods are merciful, I may yet see mi' sons." Davos said with a hopeful look.
"How did you end up in the cell?" Barristan asked.
"Dragonstone fishermen found me half-dead and turned me over to the queen for a handful of silver."
"The queen?" Barristan repeated, knowing that Daenerys had not yet assumed the role, as Viserys was alive then.
"Aye. Daenerys Targaryen," Davos said with a sigh. "Seems she has little love for men who served House Baratheon. She was passing judgment on the enemies captured while her brother was out there fighting. 'Tis only thanks to Lord Velaryon I was spared a chopping block."
"Fortunate for all of us, Ser Davos." Barristan said, recalling that Lord Velaryon was the one to advise caution into the ears of the queen.
It was at this point that Barristan explained what had happened leading up to this moment. He talked of the war in the mainland and Renly's capture in the Stormlands. He narrated the story of his death at the hands of the one claiming to be Aegon Targaryen, and his subsequent revival by Thoros of Myr. Then he spoke of the terrible nightmares plaguing him and the war in the North, which led to their travel to Dragonstone on Thoros's behest.
"It seems interesting things have been happening outside this cell for some time." Ser Davos said with a sigh.
"You believed all that." Barristan said with surprise.
Because he'd never believed most of the things that happened to him to be remotely possible.
"Ships can fly in the sky, and that boy there could lift a hammer no one else can so much as move a hair's breadth. A supposedly dead boy now prances around as a Targaryen." Ser Davos said with a snort. "Your story sounds tame compared to everything else that is happening."
An uncomfortable silence fell in the presence as they realised how twisted and impossible the world around them had become in a few years.
"Ser Davos." Edric spoke up in the silence that followed. "What will happen to us?"
"I cannot say." Ser Davos admitted with a defeated look. "The Red Woman burned prisoners for her Red God."
"She burned them?" Edric asked fearfully.
"She burned them all in the beginning, saying they were sacrifices for her Red God. But she stopped burning them since last month."
"Why?" Barristan asked curiously.
"Because of the rebels."
"The rebels?" Barristan asked in surprise, as he had not heard anything remotely of any rebel activity in Dragonstone.
Even Varys had failed to mention any such rebel group working against Daenerys in Dragonstone.
"Aye. They call themselves the Zealots. They are the followers of the Old Gods and believe that Harrion Stark will come to eradicate all the Targaryen forces on the island."
"How did you learn all this?" Barristan asked with a frown.
"Many a Zealot had come to these cells in the past moons, Ser. Most of them met their end at a pyre made by the Red Woman." Davos said with a shrug.
Barristan felt an eerie sense of dread at the thought that a woman like that was influencing the last Targaryen. He felt a twinge of responsibility towards Daenerys Targaryen out of respect for Prince Rhaegar.
"But something happened out there that forced the Red Woman and her band of mad followers to stop picking on the followers of the Old Gods. No one said anything, but I know the Zealots remain a threat to the queen's reign to this day." Davos said.
Barristan sat against the iron bars of his cell, pondering what all of this meant. It was heartening to hear that people were resisting the foreign faith taking root in Dragonstone. He just hoped there was less bloodshed in the days to come.
Because he understood one thing. In the great game played by the lords, kings, queens and faiths, it was the smallfolk who suffered the most.
******
Daenerys sat on her obsidian throne while looking down on the two petitioners assembled before her. Her silver hair was bound back in a braid, her eyes furrowed as she studied the audience before her.
Before her stood Melisandre of Asshai and Thoros of Myr, their red robes vivid against the dark hall. The torches lining the walls burned bright, casting shadows in her throne room. The magical hammer that belonged to the Usurper remained unmoving at the centre of the hall like a sore insult. Godsgrief remained in her hall, stubbornly refusing to budge an inch, giving grief to the shadow binders and red priests in her service.
She had offered a hefty sum of gold to rid herself of the spell that binds the hammer. But so far, any attempts to move it ended in failure. The news of the defiant Godsgrief had spread like wildfire on the island. She was told the rebels in Dragonstone were emboldened by the weapon's arrival and were launching more attacks on her army than ever before.
With the situation as it is, Daenerys found the request for clemency for Barristan Selmy and Edric Storm to be ludicrous.
"You ask much," Daenerys said coldly. "You ask me to show mercy to men who served the Usurper, the most hated enemy of my family."
"Most of the continent served Robert Baratheon, including myself. If you intend to punish anyone who served Robert Baratheon, you'll be left with headless corpses in Westeros, your grace." Thoros reminded her calmly in the face of rage on Daenerys's face.
Daenerys's violet eyes flashed with anger.
"Do not preach to me, priest." she thundered from her throne. "I have had enough men tell me what wisdom is while standing atop my family's graves."
"Your anger is justified, your grace. You seek to punish those who stayed silent while your family was wronged. I understand." Thoros spoke with an air of wisdom he seldom exuded. "But would a Targaryen monarch be one who heals the realm of the bloodshed that grips it and unites it, or the one who perpetuates more bloodshed?"
For a moment, Daenerys grappled with indecision. It was times like these she wished Viserys were alive. Her brother was the one supposed to be making these decisions. Yet, he remains as ash with the rest of her family in the burial ground of Dragonstone. She was the last one in her family and that grief too she had to bear.
"Sending them to the North seems unwise. The Starks are my enemies." Daenerys said, finding some excuse to keep the disloyal knight and his squire in her prison cells.
"A darkness is stirring beyond the Wall. The Great Other gathers strength while the kingdoms of Westeros squabble, my queen." said Melisandre. "It is a war older than Valyria, older than dragons."
"I have heard this before. You told me this story, but I still have to pursue the Iron Throne, and may I remind you that the North has not sworn itself to me. Why should I bother to defend them from the Great Other when they clearly have no intention to embrace my cause?" Daenerys asked, her eyes narrowing as she stared defiantly.
"All false kings and their lords will kneel before you. The Red God has said so." Melisandre said, taking a step forward with a knowing smile.
"Has he?" Daenerys asked with a raised eyebrow. "Then why is he unable to burn the tree gods some of the people in Dragonstone worship? Why is it that your power, which comes from the Red God, is no match for the Weirwood groves the Zealots take as sanctuary?"
Melisandre's confident smile turned into a frown in an instant. That particular topic was a sore point, as she had failed to eradicate the false gods of Westeros. The followers of the Seven were easy to conquer, and their septs were destroyed under her orders. The effigies of the Seven were dragged into the open and set on fire as sacrifices to the Lord of Light.
But her attempts to burn the godswoods on the island suffered crippling failure. Not one of the faithful she had sent to set fire to the false tree gods had returned. They were all ambushed and killed by those who call themselves the Zealots.
She had looked to the flames for support from her Lord, but her god remained in an eerie silence when the matter of the false tree gods was brought up.
"The Red God has a purpose for us all, your grace." Melisandre said confidently, masking the fear creeping up in her mind. "He has given you three dragons, has he not? Dragonfire shall cleanse this world of all darkness, and we will all bask in the warmth of the Lord of Light."
"It feels like an excuse, Melisandre." Daenerys said with a snort.
"It's the truth of your destiny. Like it or not, this Harrion Stark also has a part to play. He and his family may indeed follow false gods and refuse to accept you as their queen. But there will come a time when they will." Melisandre said, speaking with authority as if these events were the future to be.
"Now, you're saying I have to tolerate traitors who murdered my family for power!" Daenerys raged.
"Yes," Melisandre said simply. "Because if the North falls, your rule will not matter. One by one, the kingdoms will fall, and the world will be devoured by an everlasting night full of terrors."
For a long moment, Daenerys said nothing. Her gaze drifted to the three-headed dragon banner of her house and grew thoughtful. When she spoke again, her voice was less gripped with anger.
"And pray tell how," Daenerys asked, "do Ser Barristan Selmy and Edric Storm serve this supposed war?"
"The knight has been touched by death and returned by fire. That alone marks him. The boy carries the king's blood—powerful blood. Blood that the darkness covets." Thoros answered this time.
"What power does the Usurper's blood hold?" Daenerys asked with a scoff.
"Power that was granted by Harrion Stark's magic. This magic is beyond anything I have ever seen in my lifetime. Even the greatest sorcerers of the Shadow Lands will pale in comparison before this Northern sorcerer. The Lord of Light must have a great purpose for the boy to have blessed him with such magic and skill." Melisandre said, her eyes reverent.
Daenerys looked suspiciously at the Red Priestess, and then her eyes fell on the defiant hammer sitting at the centre of her throne room. She remembered the fear she felt when beset by those unyielding grey eyes of Harrion Stark as the Free City of Myr burned around them. She had never felt so powerless and afraid except for that moment.
Yet, the Sorcerer of the North had offered her sanctuary aboard his flying ship. The offer was for her alone, and she had refused to be so easily beguiled by her enemy.
But now, she wondered whether that offer was genuine. And she did find him attractive even though he carried the blood of the man who murdered her family.
Daenerys shook her head and cleared such silly thoughts.
She stood from the throne and descended the steps of the dais, her boots striking stone audibly with each step.
"Ser Barristan Selmy stood by while my brother was killed by the Usurper and butchered the rest of my family. He served Robert Baratheon as loyally as he ever served a Targaryen. And the boy—" Her voice faltered, just for a moment. "—the boy carries the blood of the man who hunted me to the far edges of the world."
Thoros met her gaze steadily.
"Then punish them as your ancestors did. Send them to the Wall."
Daenerys stopped walking.
"The Wall?" Daenerys frowned.
"A punishment older than the Iron Throne," Thoros said. "A sentence of service without glory, without reward. To guard the realm against what lies beyond. Kings have sent rivals, criminals, and broken knights there for thousands of years. Many past Targaryen kings have sent traitors and criminals alike to join the Night's Watch. It was a legitimate punishment established by King Aegon Targaryen."
Daenerys pondered what to do. The girl in her wanted to exact some form of revenge on the Usurper by harming his son. She wanted to deny the knight who easily switched cloaks any of his requests, no matter how mundane they were.
The doors of the throne room burst open, gaining her attention.
A guard strode in a hurry, helm tucked under his arm, breath quick with urgency. He dropped to one knee a few paces away from her.
"Your Grace," he said. "A number of ships have been sighted in the bay."
Daenerys's head snapped up.
"Whose colours do they fly?"
"Black sails. A red eye on the prow. The sails bear a red kraken." the guard said in a rush.
"Crow's Eye." Melisandre's eyes gleamed.
"I want all the Unsullied to return to the castle. Call all of them back." Daenerys ordered. "I will receive Lord Greyjoy, but under guard."
Then her eyes fell on the red priest and priestess in the hall.
"Our discussion is not finished," she said. "But it is postponed."
Beyond the walls, the sea churned against the rocks of Dragonstone, and somewhere in the fog, black sails cut toward shore—bringing with them a man feared in the open seas.
AN:
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