72 Mark of the Lightbringer

"Your meals, your Grace, my Lady." The large man - not their usual servant - bowed, setting a tray before them. Sansa could see something far more scrumptious than the normal barley gruel and unseasoned bacon. Pork, braised with honey and oat mash. A meal fit for a highborn. "I made sure the cooks improved the lot… as fitting for ladies of your blood and stature." While the scent was pleasant to her, Sansa stared instead at the man. She had seen him before. The likeness was so uncanny.

Finally smelling a meal that didn't incite another bout of nausea, Dany smiled at the man. "Thank you." Her voice was filled with gratitude.

Nodding, the man lowered his voice. "There are many that support the claim of the Dragon Queen and White Wolf. Drink secret toasts to their health."

At the words, Dany couldn't help but burst into laughter. "I'm sorry…" The words were exactly what Illyrio told Viserys all those years. Lies then, but the man clearly was completely sincere now. Fitting that she and Jon gained the support of the people, while Viserys languished in pain and muck in the Winterfell dungeon.

Sansa didn't pay attention, trying to figure out where she saw the man before… And then it hit her. "Ser Dontos?"

"Aye, my Lady." He beamed, grateful the woman who he thought about every night for years remembered him. "Dontos Hollard, formally a Knight of the Realm."

"Joffrey made you his fool… at my suggestion." Sansa felt shame upon her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I would have died had it not been for your words. No one cared for the last scion of House Hollard, drunk and oafish. But you did, just as the Starks are the ones that care about the people of the Realm." Shifting on his feet, Dontos moved toward the door. "As evil reaps what it sows, so does good. Remember that, my ladies." The door closed behind him.

Sweat coated his forehead in a sheen. It soaked the tunic and breeches underneath his armor. The anticipation and nervousness overwhelmed him in a torrent of liquid, but Ser Jaime Lannister was not deterred as he walked quickly down the halls of the - as of now - deserted Red Keep. At this time of night, most had fled to their chambers, or to their mansions within the city behind thick walls of stone and even thicker walls of professional mercenaries. He knew some were still scurrying about, but not in this part. He needed the solitude. He needed the quiet.

For the sounds of treason would reverberate through the chambers that night.

Pain and disgrace had dogged him his entire life. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Murderer. Traitor. Veneers of arrogance and self-confidence had brushed off the majority of the taunts, but that shield had died with the loss of his hand. Now he didn't bother, the stoic exterior of a hardened warrior in the Army of the Divine Chimera accepting every barb, attack, and accusation levied against him.

Everything Jaime had fought for, strived for in his entire life had led to this. A state of slaves and slavemasters, one of black magic and delusions as an undead horde hung over its neck like an executioner's axe. His own daughter killed by his own son, products of an incestuous union between himself and his increasingly unstable sister. It was as if the shadows, cast unto the walls by the various torches and lanterns, were a jury condemning him to the deepest hell. For betraying the memory of the man with whom he had so idolized to this very day. The man he had hoped to emulate.

As had his mentor, Ser Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister had always hated himself for not being able to protect Rhaegar from the drunken oaf he would later call his brother in law. But he could protect his sister and son. Reaching the specific room, guards standing in front, that was what he planned to do.

"My Lord," the Goldcloaks stated in unison, clicking their heels.

"You are dismissed," he said flatly. "I intend to interrogate the prisoners, and I would rather no one hear the screams." The two bowed and hurried away. Jaime had deliberately assigned two of the greenest guards to watching over the prisoners. It worked like a charm.

Entering, he found the Dragon Empress and Sansa Stark sitting upright. Eyes widened as they recognized who was visiting. "Your Grace," he offered to Daenerys. "My Lady."

Initial shock wearing off, Dany crossed her arms. Anger at such an avowed enemy of her family bubbled forth, once it was clear Ser Jaime meant them no harm. "What do you want, Kingslayer?"

"We don't have much time." He pulled two cloaks out of a sack draped over his shoulder, threadbare woolen ones used only by smallfolk. "Put these on."

No one could claim that either of the two women weren't smart. "You're helping us…" Sansa's jaw dropped. "You sent Ser Bronn." She could have sworn it was Littlefinger. "Why are you doing this?"

"There's a boat at the dockyards heading to the Citadel…"

"You killed my father to save the city from burning." Dany relayed what she had heard from Tyrion. "Even though you served my family, you had to do what was right."

Jaime allowed himself a moment to look at his true King's sister. "Aye." The facade dropped, the pain and anguish of over two decades written on his face. But he had a job to do. "Let's go…"

With a whoosh and clang, torches flickering wildly from the sudden gust of air, the door was thrown open and slammed against the wall. Three Goldcloaks marched in, fully armored and swords in their scabbards. Behind were five Faith Militants, chains draped over their black shifts and truncheons in their hands. All in a foul mood, clearly not here to support Jaime's efforts. Dany flinched, angling her stomach away from the door out of instinct - protecting her baby, the unborn Prince or Princess. Jaime, turning towards the door, discreetly put himself in front of the Empress. Something Dany noticed and made note of.

Startled by the sudden entrance, Sansa recovered quickly. Acting in stealth, she gingerly lifted a small dagger from Jaime's belt while no one was noticing.

At the lead of the guards, Lancel Lannister by his side, Qyburn stared directly at Jaime. "I had to see it to believe it." While the Goldcloaks kept some semblance of discipline - from the trail of tortured slaves and raped girls, it was only a semblance - the Faith Militant thugs openly leered and hefted their truncheons sadistically.

It infuriated Jaime. "My interrogation of these prisoners is none of your concern!" he shouted indignantly, slapping Sansa across the cheek - and hoping she understood and forgave. "I am the Lord of Casterly Rock while my father is a prisoner of the Bastard of Winterfell…"

"Which only makes such treachery only more horrid," Lancel spoke, the guards advancing for Jaime with their hands on the hilts of their swords. All noticed Widow's Wail attached to the great knight's hip, Valyrian steel forged from the captured sword of House Martell.

He reached for his sword, red with fury. "You have no right, you spineless worm…"

Lancel's smirk was quite smug and self-satisfying. Unlike the supposedly pious man he made himself out to be. "We have a witness, Ser Jaime. One of complete impeccability." Jaime's face started to fall, not expecting such a statement.

"Said witness documented conversations between you and Maester Pycelle. He has already been arrested." Qyburn shook his head as the Goldcloaks disarmed Jaime of his sword. "The heir to House Lannister and His Highest's own uncle, committing the blackest treason upon the realm? Greatest of dishonor to your House." He waved him off dismissively. "Take him to the dungeons."

Shaking off the hands of the guards from his shoulders, Jaime held his head up high and walked to the door with the dignity of a Lannister and a Knight of the Realm. As he reached it, a wisp of blonde hair caught his gaze. Jaw dropping, he stared at his sister in complete stupefaction. "It was you?" A flicker of shame crossed on Cersei's face, of grief. But as before - when he arrived home from his journey through the Riverlands - her emotions gave way to a hard gaze. "Why?"

"You plot against my Joffrey," Cersei replied, voice hard as steel.

"Ou…" Jaime caught himself. "Joffrey is a monster."

"How dare you." Cersei hissed. "You could have killed the Stark bastard. Killed the Targaryen whore, yet she stands there, alive and with child." Everyone present watched the interaction, quite the addicting entertainment.

"He is a monster. He murdered Myrcella. He will kill Tommen. He has enslaved hundreds of thousands and will enslave all of us if he so wills it."

Fury coursing through her, Cersei wanted to lash out. Claw her brother and lover until his eyes were wrenched from their sockets. But somehow she couldn't, merely putting the cold facade back together. "One must do what is necessary to save her children, no matter who the threat may be."

"And if Joffrey threatens us all with death?" Had she gone completely insane. "You saw that undead monster."

"I intend to stay among the living. My son is the chosen of the Seven. He will vanquish all our enemies, living and dead. You commit treason against our King, the rightful King."

His question was answered. She had lost what was left of her sanity. "I swore to defend the rightful King, a King worthy of the crown." He looked down, not willing to see the hate in his sister's eyes. "Rhaegar was that ruler, and now I fight for his son." Cersei's eyes widened, as did the two Imperials. "My conscience is clear."

Sparing one last glance at him, feeling the decades of love and affection tearing themselves apart, without a word Cersei turned and walked towards her own chambers. "Take him away," Qyburn commanded softly, the Goldcloaks complying. With Jaime Lannister disposed of, the Master of Whisperers now focused on the two women. "We have been more than generous, but I now feel that both of you shall need more secure accommodations."

"My husband will burn all of you if one hair on our heads is harmed," Daenerys stated, voice of fire.

"And yet he hasn't," Lancel chuckled, the Faith Militant advancing. "Paper wolf, it would seem."

Suddenly, Sansa drew the knife, bringing it to her neck to the wide eyes of her sister. "Do not take one step." She would not be Joffrey's plaything once again. The Old Gods as her witness, she wouldn't.

While there were horrified or angered looks on the faces of the Faith Militants, Qyburn was nonplussed. He extended the palm of his arm. "The knife, please."

Despite the sting as a small patch of skin was nicked by the blade, Sansa kept it where it was. "One more step and I deny Joffrey his trophy."

"Don't do it sister!" Dany yelled, the title muffled as a Faith Militant wrapped a gag around her head, shutting her up.

Wagging his finger, Qyburn stepped forward. "Do not be foolish, young lady." Expression that of a confident old grandfather, he still kept his movements hesitant. "Hand me the dagger."

"Hand it over, young Stark," chimed Brother Lancel, several steps behind Qyburn.

"I would rather die." But Sansa's voice quivered for an instant, her resolve weakening. The pain didn't bother her, or the uncertainty of death - but the memory of her family. Those she loved… the one she loved…

The moment's hesitation brought two simultaneous movements. Just as Qyburn dashed towards Sansa, so too did Daenerys elbow the goldcloak behind her and use his shock to break his hold. Closer to her sister by marriage, she managed to wrest the blade away as Qyburn reached them. "Give it here!" hissed the Master of Whisperers, scrambling with the Dragon Empress. He was taller, but she had all the fire and grit of a Targaryen warrior.

It was Lancel Lannister's arrival several seconds later - ever the coward, zealous faith notwithstanding - that finally ended the scuffle. "I'll have it, you insolent…" Grabbing at her hand, he yanked at the knife while exposing the back of her hand for both to see.

Presented with the pockmark of scars upon the pale skin, Qyburn placed it together first. A wrenching gasp flew from his lips, wrinkled face growing white with terror. "No, it can't be?!" The prophecy… his Highest's visions…

"What?" As his own Faith Militants subdued Sansa Stark, Lancel shoved them aside to grab Daenerys' palm from beside Qyburn. "By the Maiden…" His eyes widened to saucers, recognizing the pattern of scars as a true believer.

Dany watched it with complete confusion - their behavior not comprehending in her mind. "It is his sigil. The Mark." Such was even more confusing… before she was thrown into a whirlwind of activity and interest dwarfing that of her initial arrival in the city.

The majority of the small council was hunched over the table, studying the map of the city with hushed voices and pained tones. Defensive positions, left mostly to rot since the vanquishing of Renly Baratheon's army at the Battle of Blackwater Bay years before, were woefully undermanned. All plans depended on Tywin's Army of the Divine Chimera proactively defending the city in the outer fields and forests of the Crownlands, but said army had been vanquished and captured at Highgarden. Ten thousand Goldcloaks and mercenaries could barely fight against Renly's army, hobbled by wildfire. Even adding an additional ten thousand among the Faith Militants and various slave overseers, against 120,000 soldiers and six dragons of the Imperial Army if all captured bent the knee, the city would fall.

Only the vaunted scorpions and rockets of the air defenses were viable, plus wildfire stocks, but none were willing to use the latter and the former would collapse upon a full assault.

Things would be far more grim, however...

"Your Holiness!" Looking up from the maps, the High Sparrow was greeted by Qyburn. "The Mark has been found."

He did a double take, as did the others gathered around him. Daario, however, looked confused. "What mark?"

"Truly?" asked the High Sparrow. Not good. Not good at all. "The symbol of Azor Ahai, etched into the surface?" All knew the constellation of the Lightbringer, from the Free Folk of the far north to the merchants of Qarth to the east. "Where is it?"

Qyburn nodded, hand shaking as he outlined it on the back of his other palm. "On the Dragon Queen's hand."

"Fuck me blind." As the group shuffled out, Littlefinger quietly whispered a command to one of his personal servants. It was time to set into motion an old arrangement.

While the city slept - some soundly, others restlessly - the Red Keep saw a flurry of activity. Officials, guards, and servants dashing about the grounds like ants within a disturbed anthill. Goldcloaks and Faith Militants formed a protective screen around Daenerys as she was led up the staircase towards the main keep by Sovereignguards. Arms pinned in hands that could encircle her tiny wrists twice over, she was literally frogmarched, feet not even brushing the ground. All was dealt in a stoic silence. 'A dragon sheds no tears.'

And thus she was thrust into the throne room itself. The Iron Throne, the twisted hulk of steel and iron that she had so long fought for, loomed large over her. Towering like a leviathan over her. In person, it seemed so… miniscule. Something one would take to be metal scraps, not the great throne that her ancestor forged with the fire of Balerion the Dread. Curious, Dany began to approach it, only for a harsh hiss from Lancel Lannister to stop her. The scrawny monk didn't scare her, but Ser Boros Blount gripping his blade was rather disconcerting.

Servants heaved open the brass-plated doors as the retinue entered the throne room. At the lead was the High Sparrow, Daario and various members of the small council trailing behind him. Whispering something to Brother Lancel, he then approached the glaring Daenerys.

"Where is Sansa?" Daenerys demanded. There was no doubt as to who this was - the same man that introduced Joffrey and led the procession at the dragonpit. "Where is the Kingslayer? I demand to know where they have been taken…"

A gloved hand clasped over her mouth. "Shut it." While she struggled, Daario held her tightly in place as the High Sparrow approached. Time slowed still, her skin crawling. 'Gods, protect me," she thought, begging whatever deities existed to spare her unborn child from malicious intentions…

But the High Sparrow merely took her hand, tracing it with his fingerclaws. "By the Stranger," he murmured, finding the pattern of the scars easily. They were long since healed, a combination of powder burns and pinprick gashes. Faded red/pink contrast greatly with the pale skin of the Targaryen Queen. What resulted was a mark so uncannily in resemblance to the pattern of stars most infamous in the winter skies.

Nearly an hour later, precise measurements through optical lenses borrowed from the now imprisoned Grand Maester's office and the star charts used by the Septon's Augurs, the impression was confirmed. The High Sparrow was as ashen-faced as the rest of the small council. All knew about the young King's visions, and the ancient tale of the fall of the Golden One rang true to this very day.

All that had to be done now was to inform the Chimera himself.

A full moon bore down upon King's Landing that night, shining a brightness only the midmorning sun could top upon the city. Not a cloud marred the starry canvas draped over the earth. While this was ominous in and of itself, those from the most sightful augurs to the lowliest peasant trembled at an event so rare it could only be a sign from the gods. A comet streaked across the sky. While the one that signalled the return of the dragons from extinction was blood red, this one glowed a blinding white, matching that of the moon. Some stated it heralded the coming victory of the great Chimera. Others quietly admitted something far different.

"The Lord of Light prepares himself to reclaim this land from the demon!" From atop an impromptu dias, Kinvara proclaimed the gospel to the gathered slaves. "The Long Night approaches, and only he will unify those under his banners and those under the grip of the Golden One."

"Fuck that!" Jeers rang out from the crowd, mostly from Dornish captives and bondservants sold into slavery for their debts - the large collections of Essosi stayed silent, both sympathetic to the priestess of R'hllor and cowed from lives of servitude. "Where was the Prince that was Promised when Tywin burned his way through Dorne?!"

"He has vanquished the Scourge of the West," Kinvara answered simply. "He will free us from bondage, as his wife the Dragon Queen did in Meereen." The crowd broke out in whispers, mulling it over.

One rabble rouser was not buying it, swaying the majority of the crowd. "The wheel crushes us all. What did the Mad King do for us?! What did Ned Stark do for us?! They are no different than the Lannisters!" The jeers turned profane, only the line of thugs surrounding Kinvara keeping them back. "Jon Snow the Bastard will never show up! He will burn us to death with his dragons!" the rabble rouser proclaimed. "He doesn't care about us, only that damn throne."

"We must stand with him. He has risen from the death, and soon the Prince that was Promised will wield the sword of flame and bring the New Dawn for all of us!"

"Sword of Flame," Thoros of Myr mused, visibly drunk. "Shouldn't that make you the Lightbringer, Beric?"

Beric Dondarrion rolled his eyes. "The downsides of a happy drunk. He can't shut up before he deploys bad jokes." He looked over at the hooded figure to his other side. "Still, do you believe in the prophecy."

The hooded figure spared a quick glance at the still preaching priestess. Her eyes were alight with the fire of her cause, one he had seen often in Daenerys. In the mirror, not as much - not for a cause. "They are just myths." He dropped his gaze. "Hope to those who crave such, but nothing more."

"I'm sure you don't believe that." Beric chuckled. "Our friend the burned dog sulking in the back certainly does, but not you." He crossed his arms. "You certainly won't be here, in the land of the living, if not for it." Looking at him, Beric smiled. "I am sure you saw something in the void of death, Jon Snow." The last was a whisper, one only Jon heard.

Dispersed among the pen were his men. The great nobles and commanders of the Imperial Army. Men that Jon trusted above all others to accomplish the greatest feat since Daenerys Stormborn walked out of the fire with three dragons. One that would most likely fail, and leave him a widower and his children motherless…

Perhaps continuing with the plan in the face of such odds required faith. Not just in gods, but in himself.

"The Night is dark and full of terrors!"

"The Night is dark and full of terrors!" Without knowing, Jon found himself mouthing the words as Kinvara said them.

Sandals slapped on the narrow steps leading downstairs to the King's private chambers. The High Sparrow did not question why His Highest ordered a renovation of the Red Keep to build a set of rooms underground. There were reasons cited, but he did not care. Joffrey Baratheon was the Seven's chosen champion in the mortal world, and he would never question his commands.

As he struggled to both maintain his balance and scramble down the steps, he said a silent prayer that his sovereign wouldn't take this too drastically.

'But it completely compliments his nightmare…' As Joffrey's spiritual advisor, the High Sparrow was one of the few who knew. Washing the worry from his body and adopting total penetrance before his King, the High Sparrow reached the bottom step.

With practiced movements, a blind servant artfully arranged the various fruits, pastries, and roasted meats on the plate. The Chimera ate little, but when he did was very picky. She rested it upon the small table resting next to where Joffrey stood, other servants removing his shroud and the other clothes. Torchlight hit the bare, pale skin. Looking at the offering, Joffrey lashed out at the servant's cheek. "Water!"

Rubbing her cheek, Arya bowed. Joffrey was more a monster than when she had known him before - and that said something. She rushed to get the bowl of water, knowing where it rested in the dark room. All the blind servant girls had seen others that had displeased Joffrey too many times - or what was left of them. She had just snatched it up when the High Sparrow burst in.

Normally resting his bare knees upon a cushion - one of the few luxuries the noble turned servant of the Seven allowed himself - in his rush the High Sparrow collapsed upon the bare stone. He winced as the rough floor bit into his skin but forced himself to ignore it. Splayed palms darted up to cover his face. "All highest, I must speak with thee."

Joffrey hadn't noticed him come in, but his normal rage was mollified by the soft hands of his servants caressing his pale skin. They were so meek, any defiance broken out of them by their blindness and his 'treatment.' Perhaps, he thought, he'd take one of them before bed. It had been a while. But for now, he had his religious advisor to deal with. "Please, Ser, say your piece." 'I haven't got all night.'

"We…" The High Sparrow gulped, feeling every one of his seventy years upon the earth in his creaking bones and dry tongue. "We found a symbol burned into the skin of the Dragon Queen, your Highest."

Idle hands toying with the fingerclaws stilled suddenly. Two beings suddenly tensed, one royal and one servant, though the latter disguised it far better than the former. "Out with it!"

Gulping, the old man looked up to the vaulted ceiling. "The Mark… of the Lightbringer!"

The basin of water was knocked out of Arya's hands as Joffrey snarled, lashing out with fury. "Impossible!"

Looking up, pausing his molars from gnawing at the wad of khat in his maw - one of the few things in abundance in King's Landing - the Goldcloak peered into the darkness surrounding the farmhouse. "Did you hear something?" His halting tone indicated him a functional illiterate.

Eyes peering through the window of the farmhouse, the other scoffed. "Stop being paranoid," he shot back, placing his attention back to the goings on inside. Feminine screams hardened his cock, the man salivating at the prospect of fresh pussy as soon as his officer and senior comrade were done. Arrogance and sadistic lust prevented him from noticing the crouching form behind him. "There are no Wolf fuckers here…"

Wrapping a mailed hand hurriedly over his mouth, Podrick Payne slammed a knife between his ribs, sharp tip piercing the chainmail. The Goldcloak's eyes went wide as the metal tore through his heart. Muffled grunts ended, slumping dead in his arms. Beside him, Podricki could see Brienne slice the other's head clean off, quickly catching it before it fell loudly upon the ground. A moment's stillness, followed by an instant relief at the sound of laughs and further feminine cries.

They lined up at the door. "Ready?" Brienne breathed, readying her foot. Podrick nodded. "Now." With a yell, Brienne kicked the door in, cheap wood tearing off its hinges and crashing to the floor. Rapidly they stormed into the cottage, swords at the ready - not that it mattered. The two Goldcloaks inside were too concentrated on their raping of the pair of farm women, mother and daughter, that they tripped on their yanked down pants before even reaching their weapons. Quick flashes of steel left two more piles of flesh and blood for cleanup.

Half an hour later, Tyrion hid his distaste by sipping at a skin of sour wine - creating new distaste. "I remember the days when the City Watch at least had some honor. Raping a woman…" He shook his head. "It isn't good unless she enjoys it too."

A Stark bannerman parked Bran by the fireplace. As he had insisted on coming along the fast march, he insisted on always being near the flames upon making camp. The young Stark child had a running contest with the Red Witch on who could disconcert Tyrion the most. "Quite," was the only response from the Three Eyed Raven.

Plopping down onto a chair - well, as easily as a dwarf could - Tyrion regarded the boy. "And how would you know about that," he chided, teasingly.

Bran looked over, a glint in his eye. "Only my legs are crippled, Lord Tyrion."

"A true Stark. Never kissing and telling." Tyrion smacked his hand on his thigh, chuckling. He caught Podrick out of the corner of his eye. "Ah, Podrick my friend. You should appreciate this conversation, considering how… skilled you are at pleasing a woman."

Trying not to send a deathglare at Tyrion, his former mentor not having any blame at the kidnapping of his now-lover, Podrick merely unfolded a map of King's Landing as Brienne, Tyene Martell, and Harry Strickland entered behind him. "So this was one of the seven sentryposts lining the southwestern approach to the city."

Tyrion sighed. His attempt at humor hadn't cheered up the young lad - he really must be in love with Sansa Stark. Sweet and noble, but it also could drive a man to foolish brashness. Tyrion would know. "Without my father in charge, they've grown lax. It doesn't surprise me that Joffrey is turned inward, rather than outward."

"We've taken all of the sentry posts," Tyene revealed flatly. "Not even a loss among our forces."

"They won't send replacements till tomorrow afternoon. Too lazy about it," Strickland stated. He was still viewed with suspicion, and fought to prove his loyalty and the loyalty of his men. "According to the plan, things in the city will already be in complete chaos by that time."

"'According to plan,' is the key phrase there." Tyrion downed his wine, sour as it was. "Battleplans survive contact with the enemy as a buggerer's erection survives a naked maiden. Can't count on it, Strickland."

"Oh, I know that." The lives of his men on the battlefield proved it to him.

Suddenly, the ground shook as a low growl filled the room. The dragons had landed, shaken out of their torpor at the loss of their mother to journey with the vanguard of the Imperial Army. Tyrion was sure the direwolves would be here, but news from Riverrun stated that one was expecting a litter, so were out of commission. 'Life goes on, I suppose,' he thought.

"Do not worry." All looked at Bran. "They are in position, I can see it. Joffrey's prophecy - the prophecy of the Golden One - will come to fruition tomorrow." Podrick hoped his, hopefully, future brother in law was right. Only the Unsullied, Golden Company, and Northern Hoplites had advanced - six thousand in total. Not enough to storm a defended city, but plenty to lend help to a revolting one.

'Gods be with us all.'